AnTH ROPOS
Internationale Zeitschrift
für Völker- und Sprachenkunde
International Review of
Anthropology and Linguistics
Revue Internationale
d’Ethnologie et de Linguistique
ANTHROPOS INSTITUT
96.2001
ANTHROPOS is published twice a year totalling
ca. 700 pages.
MANUSCRIPTS and BOOKS to be reviewed should be
addressed to: Anthropos-Redaktion, Arnold-Janssen-Str. 20,
D-53754 Sankt Augustin, Germany.
SUBSCRIPTION rate per year: 180 sfr (postage not in-
cluded). Address all communication regarding subscrip-
tion and back issues to: Editions St-Paul, P.O. Box 176,
Pérolles 42, CH-1705 Fribourg, Switzerland.
One may subscribe to the ANTHROPOS directly through
its official distributor Editions St-Paul, through one of the
agencies listed below, or any bookseller.
Germany: O. Harrasowitz, Taunusstr. 5,
D-65019 Wiesbaden
Dokumente Verlag, Postfach 1340,
D-77654 Offenburg
England: Blackwell’s Periodical Division,
P.O. Box 40, Hythe Bridge Street,
Oxford, OX1 2ET
France: RoweCom France
Rue de la Prairie - Villebon sur Yvette
F-91763 Palaiseau Cedex
Netherlands: Swets Subscription Service,
P.O. Box 830, 2160 SZ Lisse
U.S.A.: EBSCO Industrials, P.O. Box 1943,
Birmingham, AL 35201-1943
DAWSON U.S. Subscriptions
The Faxon Co IL Service Center
1001 West Pines Rd
Oregon,IL 61061-9570
Copyright © 2001 by the Anthropos Institute. All rights reserved.
°° Printed on acid-free, archival-quality paper
Sponsored by the Society of the Divine Word (SVD)
Printed in Switzerland
Editor:
Anthropos Institut
Othmar Gächter (Editor-in-Chief)
Joachim Piepke
Anton Quack (Review Editor)
Editorial Office:
Anthropos-Redaktion
Arnold-Janssen-Str. 20
D-53754 Sankt Augustin
Germany
Tel: 02241-2371
Fax: 02241-205823
E-mail: anthropos@t-online.de
http://www.anthropos-journal.de
Publisher:
Editions St-Paul, P.O. Box 176,
Pérolles 42, CH-1705 Fribourg
Switzerland
Tel: 026-4264331
Fax: 026-4264330
E-mail: eduni@st-paul.ch
Payment:
Freiburger Kantonalbank
01.10/040.509-18
Mastercard
Visa
American Express
ISSN 0257-9774
Q.a.&i
Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS 96.2001/1
Artikel
Constantine Petridis: Chokwe Masks and Franciscan
Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948 . . .
Albert Titus Dalfovo: Religion among the Lugbara.
The Triadic Source of Its Meaning...................
Hermann Amborn: Soul and Personality As a Com-
munal Bond .........................................
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar: Tres dimensiones de
la máscara ritual chañé.............................
Marin Trenk: Religious Uses of Alcohol among the
Woodland Indians of North America...................
Christoph Brumann: Religious Consensus and Secular
Dissent. Two Alternative Paths to Survival for Utopian
Communes............................................
Dominik Bonatz: Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20.
Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien).......................
Corinna Erckenbrecht: Deszendenz, politische Macht
und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westka-
rolinen ............................................
Ilka Thiessen: The Social Construction of Gender.
Female Cannibalism in Papua New Guinea..............
Stephan Krines: Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der
Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines . . .
H. F. Bienfait and W. E. A. van Beek: Right and Left
As Political Categories. An Exercise in “Not-So-Prim-
itive” Classification ..............................
Sian Sullivan: Difference, Identity, and Access to Of-
ficial Discourses. Hai||om, “Bushmen,” and a Recent
Namibian Ethnography................................
Berichte und Kommentare
Quentin Gausset: Masks and Identity. The Signifi-
cance of Masquerades in the Symbolic Cycle Linking
the Living, the Dead, and the Bush Spirits among the
Wawa (Cameroon).............................
Patrick Claffey: The Place of the “imaginaire reli-
gieux” in Social Change and Political Recomposition
in Sub-Saharan Africa.......................
Jack Fellman: Ethiopian-Semitic. The Situation in
Gurage Land.................................
Friedrich Valjavec: Seßhafte Jäger, akkulturierte
Sammler. Zur Cambridge-Enzyklopädie zeitgenössi-
scher Wildbeuter............................
Thomas Helmig: Das Leid mit der “Abstammung” . .
Rezensionen
Abram, Simone, and Jacqueline Waldren (eds.):
Anthropological Perspectives on Local Development
(Peter Schröder).............................
Amit, Vered (ed.): Constructing the Field (Roland
Drubig)............................................... 321
Ammarell, Gene: Bugis Navigation (R. H. Barnes) . . 222
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witchcraft
and Magic in Europe. Ancient Greece and Rome (T. O.
Beidelman)............................................ 223
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witchcraft
and Magic in Europe. The Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Centuries (T. O. Beidelman)........................... 226
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witchcraft
and Magic in Europe. The Twentieth Century (T. O.
Beidelman)............................................ 227
Barendse, R. J.: The Arabian Seas, 1640-1700 (Wolf-
gang Marschall) ..................... 229
Beaujard, Philippe: Dictionnaire Malgache-Français
(Christine Paulsen)................................ 230
Beaujard, Philippe: Le parler secret arabico-malgache
du Sud-Est du Madagascar (Christine Paulsen)....... 230
Bickel, Balthasar, and Martin Gaenszle (eds.): Hima-
layan Space (Gregory G. Maskarinec) .................. 231
Boyd, Robert: The Coming of the Spirit of Pestilence
(Michael Harkin).................................. 233
Byer, Doris: Der Fall Hugo A. Bernatzik (Bernhard
Streck) .............................................. 234
Califano, Mario (coord.): Los indios Sirionó de Bolivia
Oriental (Diego Villar)........................... 235
Ceballos Gómez, Diana L.: Zauberei und Hexerei
(Godula Kosack)................................... 236
Dahl, Jens: Saqqaq. An Inuit Hunting Community in
the Modern World (C.H.W. Remie)................... 238
Drechsel, Paul, Bettina Schmidt und Bernhard
Gölz: Kultur im Zeitalter der Globalisierung (Bernhard
Streck) .............................................. 240
Dunbar, Robin, Chris Knight, and Camilla Power
(eds.): The Evolution of Culture (Franciszek M. Ro-
sifiski).......................................... 241
Edgar, Robert R., and Hilary Sapire: African Apoc-
alypse (T. O. Beidelman) ............................. 243
Ellis, Stephen: The Mask of Anarchy (Patrick Claffey) 244
Erb, Maribeth: The Manggaraians (Othmar Gächter) . 245
Fardon, Richard: Mary Douglas (Volker Gottowik) 247
Feest, Christian F. (Hrsg.): Sitting Bull - “der letzte
Indianer” (Dagmar Siebelt) ........................... 249
Fuglerud, 0ivind: Life» on the Outside (Martin Bau-
mann) ................................................ 250
Gade, Daniel W.: Nature and Culture in the Andes (Iris
Gareis)........................................... 251
García, Silvia P., y Diana S. Rolandi: Cuentos de las
tres abuelas (Lorena Isabel Córdoba).............. 252
Gingrich, Andre: Erkundungen (Ernest Brandewie) . . 253
Gottschalk, Burkhard: Bei den Wahrsagern im Land
der Lobi (Godula Kosack).......................... 255
Hampton, O.W. “Bud”: Culture of Stone (Anton
Ploeg)............................................ 256
Heady, Patrick: The Hard People (Christophe Gros) . 257
3
29
41
59
73
87
105
119
141
157
169
179
193
200
206
207
217
221
Heald, Suzette: Manhood and Morality (Susan Rey-
nolds Whyte)........................................
Heersink, Christiaan: Dependence on Green Gold
(Martin Rössler)....................................
Helmreich, Stefan: Silicon Second Nature (Hans
Voges) .............................................
Hoffmann, Giselher W.: Schattenjäger (Manfred
Loimeier)...........................................
Jansen, Maarten, Peter Kröfges, and Michel R.
Oudijk: The Shadow of Monte Alban (Ursula Thiemer-
Sachse) ............................................
Jiménez de Báez, Yvette (ed.): Voces y cantos de la
tradición (Piotr Nawrot)............................
Kasfir, Sidney Littlefield: Contemporary African Art
(Till Förster)......................................
Kavanagh, Thomas W.: The Comanches (Peter Bolz)
Knauft, Bruce M.: From Primitive to Postcolonial in
Melanesia and Anthropology (Franciszek M. Rosinski)
Krasberg, Ulrike: Religion und weibliche Identität
(Gabriele Herzog-Schröder)..........................
Kusimba, Chapurukha M.: The Rise and Fall of
Swahili States (Alamin Mazrui)......................
Lefebvre, Alain: Kinship, Honour, and Money in Rural
Pakistan (Klaus Hesse)..............................
Lisimba, Mukumbuta: Kongo Proverbs and the Ori-
gins of Bantu Wisdom (N.S. Kabuta)..................
McAnany, Patricia Ann: Living with the Ancestors
(Mary W. Helms) ....................................
Martinez, D.P. (ed.): The Worlds of Japanese Popular
Culture (Christoph Brumann).........................
Mason, Peter: Infelicities (Hilke Thode-Arora) . . . .
Meyer, Birgit: Translating the Devil (Stanislaw
Pilaszewicz) .......................................
Moore, Henrietta L. (ed.): Anthropological Theory
Today (Wing Sam Chow)...............................
Moore, Henrietta L., Todd Sanders, and Bwire
Kaare: Those Who Play with Fire (Rita Schäfer) . . .
Mulvaney, John, and Johan Kamminga: Prehistory of
Australia (Robert G. Bednarik)......................
Oppitz, Michael, and Elisabeth Hsu (eds.): Naxi and
Moso Ethnography (Koen Wellens).....................
Oswalt, Wendell H.: Eskimos and Explorers (Evelin
Haase) .............................................
Pérez lYidela y Buesco, Juan (comp.): Obras clásicas
para la historia de Iberoamérica (Agustín Seguí) . . . .
Pezeu-Massabuau, Jacques: Demeure mémoire (Hans
Peter Hahn).........................................
Platte, Editha: Frauen in Amt und Würden (Rita
Schäfer)......................................... 296
Rapport, Nigel: Transcendent Individual (Wojciech J.
Burszta)......................................... 297
Reimann, Ralf Ingo: Der Schamane sieht eine Hexe -
der Ethnologe sieht nichts (Birgitt Röttger-Rössler) . . 298
Richter, Sabine: Das Powwow-Fest bei den Blackfoot
(Dagmar Siebelt)................................. 300
Rowse, Tim: Obliged to Be Difficult (Will Sanders) . 301
Rubinstein, Raechelle, and Linda H. Connor (eds.):
Staying Local in the Global Village (Henk Schulte
Nordholt)........................................ 302
Russell, Catherine: Experimental Ethnography (Majan
Garlinski)....................................... 304
Schiffauer, Werner: Die Gottesmänner (Thomas Lem-
men) ................................................... 305
Schomburg-Scherff, Sylvia M., und Beatrix Heintze
(Hrsg.): Die offenen Grenzen der Ethnologie (Bettina
Schmidt)......................................... 306
Shima, Mutsuhiko, and Roger L. Janelli (eds.): The
Anthropology of Korea (Astrid Winterhaider)............. 308
Sieber, Roy, and Frank Herreman (eds.): Hair in
African Art and Culture (T. O. Beidelman)............... 310
Simoons, Frederick J.: Plants of Life, Plants of Death
(Alexandra Dittmar)..................................... 311
Sjprslev, Inger: Glaube und Besessenheit (Joachim G.
Piepke)................................................. 312
Suhrbier, Birgit M.: Die Macht der Gegenstände (Hans
Voges) ................................................. 314
Thornton, Russell (ed.): Studying Native America
(Peter Bolz)............................................ 316
Vajda, Laszlo: Ethnologica (Bertram Turner)............. 317
Willis, Roy: Some Spirits Heal, Others Only Dance
(Wyatt MacGaffey)....................................... 319
Wilmsen, Edwin N.: Journeys with Flies (Renée Syl-
vain) .................................................. 320
Wolcott, Harry F.: Ethnography (Roland Drubig) ... 321
Wood, John C.: When Men Are Women (T. O. Beidel-
man) ................................................... 323
Zahn, Heinrich: Mission and Music (Friedegard
Tomasetti) ............................................. 325
Neue Publikationen ................................. 327
Zeitschriftenschau ................................. 339
Miszellen .......................................... 338
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes .......................... 355
259
261
263
264
266
267
267
269
270
271
274
275
278
280
281
282
284
285
287
288
290
292
293
294
Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS 96.2001/2
Artikel
Thomas Widlok: Living on Ethnography and Compar-
ison. What Difference Do Hai||om “Bushmen Make to
Anthropology (and Vice Versa)?.......................
Ulrike Krasberg: Theateranthropologische Betrach-
tungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko ....
H. E. M. Braakhuis: The Way of All Flesh. Sexual
Implications of the Mayan Hunt....................... 391
Patricia Zuckerhut: Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den
Azteklnnen. Zwischen totaler Frauenunterdrückung und
Geschlechterparallelität.............................
David B. Kronenfeld: Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes,
and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Distinction ....
Christoph Antweiler: Interkulturalität und Kosmopo-
litismus in Indonesien? Ethnische Grenzen und ethnie-
übergreifende Identität in Makassar..................
Ulrich Demmer: Always an Argument. Persuasive
Tools in the Death Rituals of the Jénu Kurumba ....
Anthony Good: The Structure and Meaning of Daily
Worship in a South Indian Temple.....................
Burkhard Ganzer: Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsi-
stenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen casäyer-
Gesellschaft.........................................
Martin Sökefeld: Reconsidering Identity............
Robert G. Bednarik: Beads and Pendants of the Pleis-
tocene .............................................
Adams, Richard E. W., and Murdo J. MacLeod
(eds.): The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples
thp Americas; vol. 2: Mesoamerica; 2 parts (Hanns
359
379
411
423
433
475
491
Im Gewand von Herrschaft (Jörn
of the Americas
J. Prem)......
Alber, Erdmute:
Sommer)...................................
Arce, Alberto, and Norman Long (eds.): Anthropolo-
, Development, and Modernities (Peter Schroder) . .
----Haar and Am
605
606
607
gy
608
610
509
527
545
Berichte und Kommentare
Jacob Pandian: Symbolic Inversions. An Interpretation
oi Contrary Behavior in Ritual.....................
Pierre Bamony: Chasseurs aux mains nues et efficience
des pouvoirs infrasensibles dans l’art cynégétique.
L exemple d'une confrérie de chasse du kwala Bationo
de Koukoulkouala (Burkina Faso)....................
Roland Girtler: Franz Boas. Burschenschafter und
Schwiegersohn eines österreichischen Revolutionärs
von 1848 ..........................................
Erich Kasten: Franz Boas. The Early Years. A Review
Article .............
Anton Quack: Die vielen Gesichter des Islam........
Laurent S. Barry: Parenté, début de siècle.........
Rainer Voigt: Zum Rendille ........................
Dagmar Siebelt: Report on the Seventh North Ameri-
canist Conference .................................
557
563
572
577
583
586
590
598
¡veiopmeiii, auu --------
Assies, Willem, Gemma van der Haar, and Andre
J. Hoekema (eds.): The Challenge of Diversity (Lioba
Rossbach de Olmos)..................................
Barnard, Alan: History and Theory in Anthropology
(Albert Trouwborst).................................
Barnes, Teresa: “We Women Worked so Hard” (Rita
Schäfer)............................................ 610
Baroin, Catherine, et Jean Boutrais (éds.): L’homme
et l’animal dans le bassin du lac Tchad (Gabriele Sommer) 612
Beck, Ulrich (Hrsg.): Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft
(Thomas Hauschild).................................. 613
Beckwith, Carol, und Angela Fisher: Afrika. Kulte,
Feste, Rituale; 2 Bde. (Godula Kosack)..............
Beier, Ulli (ed.): A Dreaming Life (Kerstin Eckstein) .
Bernard, H. Russell (ed.): Handbook of Methods in
Cultural Anthropology (Franciszek M. Rosiñski) ....
Blanc, Ulrike: Musik und Tod bei den Bulsa (Nord-
ghana) (Michael Schlottner).........................
Brumann, Christoph: Die Kunst des Teilens (Elisabeth
Schwarzer)........................................
Cannell, Fenella: Power and Intimacy in the Christian
Philippines (Edwin Wieringa)........................ 621
Casajus, Dominique: Gens de parole (Annette Czeke-
lius)...............................................
Cordeu, Edgardo Jorge: Transfiguraciones simbólicas
(Federico Bossert and Diego Villar).................
Erny, Pierre: Enfants du ciel et de la terre (Jacek Jan
Pawlik) :.........................................
Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim, und Hans Werner Mohm:
Lebensbaum und Kalaschnikow (Johannes Wolff-Die-
penbrock)........................................... 626
Halpern, Joel M., David A. Kideckel (eds.):
614
615
616
618
620
621
623
625
Rezensionen
Adam, Barbara, Ulrich Beck, and Joost Van Loon
(eds.): The Risk Society and Beyond (Katarina Greifei )
nmpci ii, „„— —,
Neighbors at War (Andreas Hemming)................. 627
Hämmerle, Johannes Maria: Nias - eine eigene Welt
(Dominik Bonatz) ...................................628
Heinze, Ruth-Inge (ed.): The Nature and Function of
Rituals (Jacob Pandian)............................ 630
Karlsson, B. G.: Contested Belonging (Martin Sökefeld) 631
Kirch, Patrick Vinton: On the Road of the Winds (Eva
Ch. Raabe)....................................... 632
Kozak, David L., and David I. Lopez: Devil Sickness
and Devil Songs (Claudia Roch) .................... 634
Lee, Christina: Women’s Health (Katarina Greifeld) . 634
Linke, Uli: Blood and Nation (Aleksandar Boskovic) . 635
Mager, Anne Kelk: Gender and the Making of a South
African Bantustan (Rita Schäfer)................... 636
Marshall, Lorna J.: Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs and
Rites (Thomas Widlok) ................................ 637
Maud, Ralph: Transmission Difficulties (Michael Durr) 638
Miller, Daniel, and Don Slater: The Internet (Thomas
Hylland Eriksen)...................................... 639
Mir-Hosseini, Ziba: Islam and Gender (Wiebke Walther) 640
Pickering, W. S. F. (ed.): Durkheim and Representa-
tions (Friedrich Valjavec) ........................... 644
Pike, Sarah M.: Earthly Bodies, Magical Selves (T. O.
Beidelman)............................................ 646
Rapport, Nigel, and Joanna Overing: Social and Cul-
tural Anthropology (Albert Trouwborst) ............... 648
Rubinstein, Raechelle: Beyond the Realm of the
Senses (Edwin Wieringa) .............................. 649
Sillitoe, Paul: Social Change in Melanesia (Stanislaw
A. Wargacki).......................................... 650
Stott, Philip, and Sian Sullivan: Political Ecology
(Dan Brockington)..................................... 651
Strathern, Andrew, and Pamela J. Stewart: Arrow
Talk (Ernest Brandewie).............................. 652
Streck, Bernhard (Hrsg.): Wörterbuch der Ethnologie.
2. und erw. Aufl. (Pierre Erny)...................... 653
Trenk, Marin: Die Milch des weißen Mannes (Ulrich
van der Heyden)...................................... 653
Valeri, Valerio: The Forest of Taboos (David Hicks) . 654
Van Dijk, Rijk, Ria Reis, and Marja Spierenburg
(eds.): The Quest for Fruition through ngoma (Anita
Jacobson-Widding).................................... 655
Zimon, Henryk (ed.): Religia w swiecie wspölczesnym
(Zdzislaw Kupisinski)................................ 657
Neue Publikationen .............................. 659
Zeitschriftenschau .............................. 673
Miszellen ....................................... 672
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes ....................... 691
Index ........................................... 693
Anthropos 96.2001
#-\NTHROPOS
Internationale Zeitschrift
für Völker- und Sprachenkunde
International Review of
Anthropology and Linguistics
Revue Internationale
d'Ethnologie et de Linguistique
ANTHROPOS INSTITUT
96.2001/1
ANTHROPOS
ANTHROPOS is published twice a year totalling
ca. 700 pages.
MANUSCRIPTS and BOOKS to be reviewed should be
addressed to: Anthropos-Redaktion, Arnold-Janssen-Str. 20,
D-53754 Sankt Augustin, Germany.
SUBSCRIPTION rate per year: 180 sfr (postage not in-
cluded). Address all communication regarding subscrip-
tion and back issues to: Editions St-Paul, P.O. Box 176,
Perolles 42, CH-1705 Fribourg, Switzerland.
One may subscribe to the ANTHROPOS directly through
its official distributor Editions St-Paul, through one of the
agencies listed below, or any bookseller.
Germany: O. Harrasowitz, Taunusstr. 5,
D-65019 Wiesbaden
Dokumente Verlag, Postfach 1340,
D-77654 Offenburg
England: Blackwell’s Periodical Division,
P.O. Box 40, Hythe Bridge Street,
Oxford, OX1 2ET
France: RoweCom France
Rue de la Prairie - Villebon sur Yvette
F-91763 Palaiseau Cedex
Netherlands: Swets Subscription Service,
P.O. Box 830, 2160 SZ Lisse
U.S.A.: EBSCO Industrials, P.O. Box 1943,
Birmingham, AL 35201-1943
DAWSON U.S. Subscriptions
The Faxon Co IL Service Center
1001 West Pines Rd
Oregon, IL 61061-9570
Copyright © 2001 by the Anthropos Institute. All rights reserved.
°° Printed on acid-free, archival-quality paper
Sponsored by the Society of the Divine Word (SVD)
Printed in Switzerland
Editor:
Anthropos Institut
Othmar Gachter (Editor-in-Chief)
Joachim Piepke
Anton Quack (Review Editor)
Editorial Office:
Anthropos-Redaktion
Arnold-Janssen-Str. 20
D-53754 Sankt Augustin
Germany
Tel: 02241-2371
Fax: 02241-205823
E-mail: anthropos@t-online.de
http://www.anthropos-journal.de
Publisher:
Editions St-Paul, P.O. Box 176,
Perolles 42, CH-1705 Fribourg
Switzerland
Tel: 026-4264331
Fax: 026-4264330
E-mail: eduni@st-paul.ch
Payment:
Freiburger Kantonalbank
01.10/040.509-18
Mastercard
Visa
American Express
ISSN 0257-9774
Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 3-28
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries
in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
Constantine Petridis
Abstract. - It is not widely known that, in the first half of
tlle 20th century, Belgian missionaries of the Order of Saint
rancis gathered important data on Chokwe peoples, in what
Is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. This article
discusses a selection of mostly unpublished field photographs
Chokwe masks, made by Father Marchal in the village of
andoa, Katanga Province, in 1948. After a brief history of
ranciscan missionary activity in the former Belgian Congo, an
attempt is made to identify the different mask characters shown
In Marchal’s photographs. The central section of the article
famines a detailed report by Marchal’s fellow missionary
ather Borgonjon on a Chokwe initiation ritual for adolescent
°ys, which constitutes an important context for masking. The
conclusion addresses some methodological questions in relation
° {he use of missionary photographs as anthropological and
r! ^st°rical documents. [Democratic Republic of the Congo,
°kwe, masks, missionaries, photography]
Constantine Petridis, Ph. D. in art history (Ghent 1997), is
a P°stdoctoral fellow of the Fund for Scientific Research
landers, Belgium (F.W.O.-Vlaanderen), and a lecturer
Ghent University; he spent two academic years at the
etropolitan Museum of Art, New York, on fellowships
J°m the Jane and Morgan Whitney Fund (1997-98) and the
^ e gian American Educational Foundation (1998-99). - He
ds conducted library, archival, museum, and field research
n the art of the Luluwa and neighboring peoples of the
ernocratic Republic of the Congo; he is currently researching
e life and work of Frans M. Olbrechts and the history of
rican art studies. - His most recent publications include
lc es in African Arts, Baessler-Archiv, and Museum Studies.
Introduction
The art of the Chokwe, a matrilineal Bantu-
sPeaking people who live in a vast area throughout
northeastern Angola, northwestern Zambia, and
southern (Democratic Republic of the) Congo, is
often published in surveys of African art and is
well represented in museums and private collec-
tions.1 Belgian missionaries belonging to the Friars
Minor - or Minderbroeders, as they are called in
Dutch - of the Order of Saint Francis have provid-
ed us with important textual and visual documen-
tation on the art and culture of the Chokwe and
a number of related peoples in southern Congo.
Although the writings of the Fathers Ambroos
Delille and Johannes-Franciscus Borgonjon have
been referred to by such scholars as Hermann
Baumann, Merran McCulloch, and Victor Turner,
these sources remain largely unknown.1 2 *
1 As demonstrated here by the titles listed under the Re-
ferences Cited, the ethnonym Chokwe is spelled in many
ways. The same is true for the spelling of the name of
their language, which, in Katanga, is called Chichokwe.
Following the African phonetic alphabet, the ethnonym
should be spelled Cokwe, and the people refer to themselves
as Tucokwe (sing. Kacokwe). In this article the common
Anglicized spelling Chokwe is retained. However, in
accordance with the African phonetic alphabet, the sound
“ch” is transcribed as “c” in italicized vernacular terms.
2 Franciscan missionaries are perhaps better remembered
for their anthropological and linguistic work among the
southern Luba of Katanga. Among the best known of
these missionary anthropologists are Placied Tempels, au-
thor of the influential “La philosophie bantoue” (1948;
originally published in Dutch in 1946), Theodoor (Jacques)
Theuws, who also published a number of novels under the
pseudonym Antoon Bergeyck, and Servaas Peeraer, who
collected a significant number of Luba objects for both the
Musée Royal de l’Afrique Centrale in Tervuren and the
Ethnographic Collections of Ghent University.
4
Constantine Petridis
It is to Father Médard Marchai that we owe
an impressive set of unpublished photographs, a
selection of which is presented here. These images,
made in the village of Sandoa in Katanga Province
and dated September 21, 1948, are preserved in
the archives of the Instituut voor Franciscaanse
Geschiedenis (Institute for Franciscan History) in
Sint-Truiden, Belgium, along with an important
collection of documents on the Franciscan mis-
sions in southern Congo.3
Greatly admired by African art amateurs,
Chokwe art has been the subject of several mo-
nographic exhibitions in Europe and the United
States. In 1988 the Musée Dapper in Paris devoted
a beautiful show to the subject. The exhibition was
accompanied by a lavishly illustrated catalogue,
the main essay of which was written by the
late Marie-Louise Bastin (1918-2000), former
professor of art history at the Université Libre
de Bruxelles (Falgayrettes 1988). When Lisbon
held the title of cultural capital of Europe in 1994,
Bastin curated a major exhibition on Angolan arts
drawn from Portuguese collections for the Museu
de Etnología, in which the Chokwe occupied an
important place (Bastin 1994). Most recently, art
historian Manuel Jordán, curator at the Birming-
ham Museum of Art in Alabama, organized a
revealing exhibition on the art of the Chokwe
and related peoples. In the exhibition catalogue,
an introductory essay by Bastin is followed by
a number of articles by scholars who conducted
fieldwork among Chokwe-related peoples in Zam-
bia and the Congo in the early 1990s (Jordán [ed.]
1998).4
3 With the exception of six pictures reproduced in Centner
(1963: figs. 22, 25-26, 28-29, 31), the sixteen other
photographs by Marchai reproduced here have never been
published before. A related set of field photographs by
Father Marchai is today in the photographic archives of
the ethnography section at the Musée Royal de l’Afrique
Centrale in Tervuren; a selection has recently been publish-
ed in the exhibition catalogues “Treasures from the Africa-
Museum Tervuren” (Verswijver et al. 1995: 14, 17) and
“The Tervuren Museum Masterpieces from Central Africa”
(Verswijver et al. 1996: 6, 11). The Tervuren archives also
have a number of field photographs that G. de Witte
and E. Steppé made of Chokwe masqueraders in the same
region of Katanga in the 1930s (Falgayrettes 1988: 41, 44,
47).
4 Although the focus of the exhibition was the Chokwe and
their art, with the exception of Bastin, the contributors
to the catalogue worked mainly on the edges of the
Chokwe region and not among the Chokwe themselves.
Of the six essays in Jordán ([ed.] 1998), two are based on
field research in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
Manuela Palmeirim conducted research among the “Lunda
Although the study of Chokwe art has long
since been dominated by Marie-Louise Bastin,
earlier publications by Hermann Baumann and
José Redinha contain valuable information on
the subject. Especially relevant to the present
subject are Hermann Baumann’s article in the
journal Baessler-Archiv (1932) and Mesquitela
Lima’s “Os akixi (mascarados) do Nordeste de
Angola” (1967), both of which deal with the
Angolan Chokwe.5 Both Baumann and Redinha
assembled important collections of Chokwe art and
ethnographica for the museums in Berlin and in
Dundo (Angola), respectively.6
While these sources deal with the Chokwe in
Angola and more recent scholars have focused on
Chokwe peoples and their counterparts in Zambia,
few scholars have done research on masking or
other visual arts-related issues among the Chokwe
populations in the Congo. Leo Frobenius’s field
notes resulting from his 1905-06 collecting ex-
pedition through the southern Congo deal mainly
with the Chokwe of the Kasai region (Frobenius
1988). The writings of Hans Himmelheber, whose
field photographs of his 1938-39 Congo expedi-
tion have recently been published by the Rietberg
Museum in Zurich, refer to the Chokwe of present-
day Bandundu Province in southwestern Congo
(Himmelheber 1939, 1960, 1993). It is also in
Kasai and Bandundu that Albert Maesen collected
and researched during his expedition for the Musée
Royal de l’Afrique Centrale, Tervuren (Belgium),
in 1953—55 (Maesen 1960). Daniel Crowley con-
ducted the bulk of his Chokwe field research of
1960 and 1971 in southwestern Katanga Province
(Crowley 1971, 1972, 1973, 1982; see also Weston
of the Mwaant Yav,” or Aruwund, who live in the mixed
ethnic area in southwestern Congo where the Franciscan
missionary activity central to our present purpose took
place. Niangi Batulukisi focused her research on the art
of the little-studied Holo people.
5 Baumann’s article served as the basis for Marc Leo Felix’s
useful survey chapter of Chokwe masking (1998a). Lima’s
invaluable book on Chokwe masquerades of 1967 is also
explicitly acknowledged in Felix’s text, but, unfortunately,
does not appear in the accompanying bibliography. Lima
offers a large selection of field photographs and sketches
illustrating the contextual use of the different mask types,
which makes his report even more useful. Other facets
of Chokwe art are discussed in publications by Alfred
Hauenstein, Gerhard Kubik, Mesquitela Lima, and Manuel
Laranjeira Rodrigues de Areia. Publications by Joao Vi-
cente Martins, Antonio de Oliveira, and Eduardo dos Santos
contain important data on Chokwe religion, which is crucial
to an understanding of Chokwe art (see References Cited).
6 See Baumann 1935; Redinha 1955, 1956; and Diamang
1995.
Anthropos 96.2001
5
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 19
1985: figs. 60-61).7 It is in the same region in
Katanga that Belgian Franciscan missionaries were
active.
rowley also collected a number of objects during his field
research, which are primarily at the Lowie Museum, Uni-
versity of California, Berkeley. The objects that Frobenius
an Himmelheber collected are in both public and private
collections (Zwememann und Lohse 1985: fig. 167; Gardi
86. 111). Another noteworthy old collection of Angolan
hokwe material culture and art is that gathered by Alfred
Schachtzabel during a collecting expedition for the Museum
für Völkerkunde, Berlin, in 1913-14 (Schachtzabel 1923;
see also Heintze 1995). In 1932-33 Théodore Delachaux
assembled a Chokwe collection in Angola for the Musée
d’ethnographie, Neuchâtel (Delachaux et Thiébaud 1934;
Kaehr 1992; see also Falgayrettes 1988:25, 32). A couple
of masks collected by Delachaux were acquired by the
Museum der Kulturen, Basel, in 1934 (Gardi 1986: 106 f.,
109).
Franciscan Missionaries among the Chokwe in
Katanga
The Chokwe heartland is in northeastern Angola
between the Kwango and Kasai Rivers. Chokwe
history goes back to the 16th or the 15th century,
when Lunda chiefs invaded present-day Angola
and conquered the local people. The Chokwe grad-
ually developed their own culture. It is believed
that Chokwe art reached its peak when great
chiefdoms with a centralized political authority
developed in Angola during the 18th and 19th cen-
turies. This political evolution was accompanied
by the birth of a court style aimed at exalting the
sovereign. In the second half of the 19th century,
the Chokwe population grew enormously, and at
the end of that century they had expanded into
the Bandundu, Kasai, and Katanga Provinces in
present-day Democratic Republic of the Congo.
In the first decades of the 20th century, part of the
Anthropos 96.2001
6
Constantine Petridis
population relocated to northwestern Zambia
(Miller 1970: 181-201; Bastin 1978: 30-41; 1982:
31-35; 1984:40).
Franciscan activity in Katanga Province took
root in 1920, with the creation of five missionary
units (Anonymous 1944). One of these, the Lulua,
was named after the former Lulua District in
southwestern Katanga (Map). The population con-
sisted mainly of Lunda and Chokwe peoples. San-
doa, the first missionary station founded in the
region, was established in 1922 by the Fathers
Valentijn Stappers, Ernest Van Avermaet - known
for his Luba dictionary (Van Avermaet et Mbuya
1954) - and Flor De Smedt. Other posts would be
created subsequently: Dilolo (Poste) in 1927 (or
1928), Kafakumba in 1928 (or 1927), Kapanga and
Luashi in 1929, Kasaji in 1941, Dilolo (Gare) in
1946, Mutshatsha in 1951, and Kisenge in 1955.
Sandoa was once the starting point from which
the other missions in the area were established.
In the 1920s it was also the seat of the Belgian
colonial administration. As a result of lack of
personnel and the general reorganization of the
missions, however, the missionary station and its
school were turned over to the order of the Fathers
Salvatorians in 1968.
Father Médard (baptized Pascal) Marchai, also
known as Father Medardus, was born in Stevoort,
Belgium, on June 4, 1909. He was ordained a
priest on August 18, 1935, and was sent to the
Congo in 1937. In 1975 he returned to Belgium
where, before his retirement, he served for many
years as a pastor in several villages in the province
of Limburg. Although he published a number of
popular stories during his stay in the Congo in
the Franciscan newsletter of the time De Stem
van St. Antonias (The Voice of Saint Anthony),
Father Marchai is especially remembered as a
keen photographer. Fortunately, his photographs
of Chokwe masquerades are accompanied by brief
annotations. It is possible to expand these anno-
tations by comparing them to published reports
by contemporaneous missionaries. Of particular
interest are two articles on the mukanda boys’
puberty ritual in the Congolese journal Aequatoria
[Mbandaka] - one by Ambroos Delille (1944), the
other by Johannes-Franciscus Borgonjon (1945; a
French translation of this article was published
in another Congolese journal, Problèmes Sociaux
Congolais [Lubumbashil, in 1962).
Father Ambroos (baptized Georges Alfons) De-
lille, or Father Ambrosius, was bom in Boorsem,
Belgium, on April 27, 1892, and died in Kamina,
Congo, on November 22, 1969. He was ordained
on August 4, 1918 and in 1926 began his long
career as a missionary in the Congo in Kanzenze.
His first publication is a most interesting report
in Anthropos on the mukanda puberty ritual as
practiced among the Lunda and Lwena (Delille
1930). Among the photographs illustrating his text
is a picture of a mask type that more recent
research has generally identified as Katotola (see
below). From 1935 to 1945 Delille was a scien-
tific collaborator on the journal Kongo-Overzee
(Antwerp, Belgium), founded by Amaat Burs-
sens, a former professor of African languages and
linguistics at Ghent University (Delille en Burs-
sens 1935). Aside from a number of short texts in
De Stem van St. Antonius and a catechism in Chi-
chokwe, Delille also wrote a Chokwe grammar and
a Dutch-Chichokwe vocabulary. An unpublished
fifteen-page typescript entitled “De krachtenleer
bij de Tshokken” (or “Itumbo bij de Tshokwe”), on
Chokwe ideas about the life-force, is kept in the
Franciscan archives in Sint-Truiden. Other articles
of his were published in the journals Congo and
Aequatoria.
Father Johannes-Franciscus (baptized Auguste
Willem Antoon) Borgonjon was born in Malde-
gem, Belgium, on April 4, 1905. He was ordain-
ed on August 13, 1931, and embarked for the
Congo from Antwerp on November 3, 1933. He
returned to Belgium on May 8, 1967, and died
in Mechelen on November 16, 1992. On July 6,
1949, Borgonjon received the Golden Medal of
the Royal Order of the Lion from Prince Charles
in recognition of his merit, and on April 20,
1959, King Baudouin accorded him the honorary
title of Knight in the Order of Leopold II. In
addition to a Chokwe grammar, vocabularies, and
a booklet with Chokwe proverbs, the archives in
Sint-Truiden also contain unpublished typescripts
by Borgonjon on such subjects as divination, pray-
ers, mahamba, and sorcery, written in Dutch and in
Chichokwe. The variety of hand-copied poems of
Willem Kloos, Alfred de Musset, Friedrich Schil-
ler, Paul Verlaine, Joost van den Vondel, and many
others in one of Borgonjon’s many notebooks testi-
fies to his interest in poetry. In the early 1930s he
published a number of his own poems in the news-
letter De Bode van den H. Franciscus (The Mes-
senger of Saint Francis). One of his last unpub-
lished texts, which is signed and dated Musumba
1968, deals with the crowning of a Lunda chief.
Chokwe Mask Categories
Marchal’s succinct notes accompanying his photo-
graphs of Sandoa begin by explaining the meaning
Anthropos 96.2001
7
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo,
of the term mukishi (pi. mikishi', the ngoan
Chokwe say akishi), as the Chokwe denote t eir
masks.8 According to him, it refers to t e ea
who returned from their graves. Bastin ( •
writes that the Chokwe “use the word mukis i (P •
akishi) to refer to an ancestral or nature spirit that
is incarnated by a mask.” She adds that the mu is i
“is generally believed to be a person returned rom
the dead who rises from the earth in an area
of the bush.” Elsewhere, the author reports that
the akishi, who make themselves known through
masks, are “ancestors, abstract beings, or orces
of nature that are honored and respected quite as
much as they are feared” (Bastin 1993. 79).
More recently, Jordán (1998a: 67) points ou
that among the Lunda and Luvale of northwestern
Zambia makishi (sing, likishi) “represent the spirits
of deceased individuals (áfu) that return to t e
world of the living to guide, assist, protect, an
even educate members of a community on im
portant occasions ... Makishi performances evo e
the cosmological precepts of Chokwe and re ate
peoples. Principles of social and political organi-
zation, history, philosophy, religion, and mora lty
are presented publicly through makishi masquer
ades.” Finally, according to Cameron (1995. )»
“makishi are integral in establishing, maintaining,
and negotiating women’s gender roles.
Marchal makes a distinction between two asic
mask categories, both of which are represente m
his field photographs: professional dance mas s
and non-dance masks. Referring to his fiel re
search of 1939, Himmelheber (1960: 339) also
writes: “Außerhalb des Buschlagers gibt es ei
den Tshokwe auch Tanzmasken.” In the same vein,
Crowley (1982: 214) distinguishes between dance
masks (mikishi wa kuhangana) and circumcision
masks (mikishi wa ku mukanda). He remarks, how
ever, that the “Western [religious-secular] die o
tomy is unreal in this culture, and mukanda mikis i
can and do appear on social occasions.
In her discussion of masking in Kabompo
District in northwestern Zambia, a mixed ethnic
area, Cameron (1998:55 f.) notes that women
categorize masks into those that dance (kuhan-
gana) and those that chase (kuhanga). The first
category includes female characters, while the
second comprises male or animal characters. The
masks that chase are meant to control women and
to illustrate male power, while the dance masks’
goal is to entertain the women (see also Cameron
1995: 193-201).
In fact, the category of dance masks comprises
male and female characters, though both are per-
formed by men. These dance masks travel from
village to village and dance upon the invitation of
village chiefs. In exchange for their entertainment
they collect money from the onlookers. Frobenius
(1988:77) reported that the masquerader “bettelt
und entlockt mit komischen Gesten und mit er-
heiternden Drohungen den Zuschauern einige Per-
len.” Most of these dance masks have headpieces
made of wood. The category of non-dance masks
consists of the characters related to the mukanda
boys’ puberty ritual. As a rule, these masks serve
to chase away women and children from the camp
where the boys remain in seclusion during their
training. To this end, they are equipped with knives
or whips, though they never actually beat anyone.
Except for keeping the women away, these masks
control the mukanda and fetch food prepared by
the initiates’ mothers from the village (Bastin
1984:41).
According to Bastin (1993:82), among the
Angolan Chokwe a third category is made up
of Cikungu, the mask of the Ruler of the Land
(mwanangana), which represents the malemba
family ancestors (see also Bastin 1984:42-43,
1988b: 36-41). Cikungu is worn only by the chief
himself and on unusual occasions, such as during
his own enthronement or when special rituals need
to be performed to put an end to threats to the
chief or his subjects. Otherwise, it is secretly
kept in a small hut hidden in the bush, guarded
by an appointed dignitary. Consequently, such
masks are extremely rare in public collections
(Bastin 1961b: 370 f. and figs. 231-232; and Lima
1967: 208 f., 210 f., 212 f.). The Cikungu mask is,
however, related both formally and functionally
to the dance mask character Cihongo. Just like
Cikuza, Pwo, and Cihongo, the Cikungu mask is
sometimes also used as the object of a cult (Bastin
1984:42; 1993: 92-94).9
8 The term mukishi (pi. mikishi, akishi, or bakishi), which
is usually translated as “ancestral spirit,” for “mask is
shared by a great number of peoples in Central Africa.
For an extensive discussion of this term, see Kubik (1993.
chap. 2) and Cameron (1995: 180-193). Baumann (1932)
gives a useful overview of ethnic groups that employ a
variant of the term mukishi in relation to masks and their
use in circumcision or puberty rituals.
An interesting analysis of the Cikungu mask’s symbolism
is proposed in de Fleusch (1988). Bastin (1961a) compares
this chiefly mask with a number of masks of neighboring
peoples, including Katotola of the Lwena/Luvale, Kipoko
of the Eastern Pende, and Ngongo Munene of the Kongo-
Dinga. The Eastern Pende also distinguish between two
basic mask categories: “masks of the village” (mbuya
jia kifutshi), on the one hand, and “masks of the men’s
fraternity” (mbuya jia mukanda), on the other (Strother
Anthropos 96:2001
8
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 1: (Mwana Pwo), a mask which symbolizes
the female ancestor, belongs to the category
of dance masks, mikishi wa kuhangana. (All
the photographs in this article - which are
kept at the Institute for Franciscan History in
Sint-Truiden, Belgium - were made by Father
Medard Marchal in the village of Sandoa in
1948.)
Chokwe Dance Masks: mikishi wa kuhangana
The first eight photographs (Figs. 1 to 8) show a
variety of female masqueraders wearing wooden
headpieces of the Mwana Pwo or Pwo type, which
belongs to the category of dance masks. Bastin
(1982: 89) writes that this mask symbolizes the
female ancestor.10 Borgonjon (1945: 66 f.) reports
that it is a female masker who speaks with a
high-pitched voice in an imitation of a woman’s
way of speaking. It usually has a finely sculp-
ted wooden face piece, but there also exist a
few resin masks of this type. Marchai’s pictures
1998: 17 f.); the Kipoko character belongs to the first
category. Judging from the extensive field research of Rik
Ceyssens (1993a, b), however, Bastin’s limited data on the
Kongo-Dinga mask need to be revised.
10 Bastin (1982: 89) informs us that the dancer sometimes
gives his mask a personal name, such as Nakunduna or
Mwafima. According to some sources, however, the names
Pwo and Mwana Po refer to different characters and,
consequently, cannot be treated as synonymous. Jordán
(1998c: 129-173) writes that Pwo is known as Pwevo and
Mubanda among the Chokwe’s neighbors, while Mwana
Pwo is called Mwana Pwevo and Nalindele. Elsewhere, the
author distinguishes between “fulfilled” woman and youn-
ger, “potential” woman (Jordán 1998a: 68; 1998b: 112).
testify to the stylistic variety of Chokwe wood
sculpture, but a lack of relevant information makes
it impossible to determine whether these masks
were made in different villages or were the work
of different carvers of the same village. Such
sculptures are often adorned with an intricate
headdress of woven fibers, scarifications, jewelry,
and other attached paraphernalia. While it may be
assumed that Marchai’s Pwo dancers had wooden
breasts attached to their bodysuits, as can be seen
on many field photographs of such masqueraders,
their upper body is entirely wrapped in a piece
of cloth. It is not clear if this peculiarity is
the result of diffusion of Catholic morale by
the missionaries in the area. The same covering
can, however, be seen in Himmelheber’s 1939
photographs of different Pwo mask characters
(Himmelheber 1993: figs. 98-103).
The most striking images including female
masqueraders are undoubtedly the ones in which
two Pwo dancers accompany a character wearing
a roughly made headpiece whose anti-aesthetic
features identify it as the representation of the
village fool, Cihewu (Figs. 6 to 8). It seems that
Cihewiï s headpiece is made of a resin-coated
framework of twigs rather than carved in wood.
Anthropos 96.2001
9
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in
Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
Fig. 2: Although the names Pwo and Mwana
Pwo are usually treated as synonymous, some
sources relate them to “fulfilled” woman and
“potential” woman, respectively.
Baumann (1932:31) also mentions a wooden
version of Cihewu. Borgonjon (1945: 66) writes
that Cihewu is a hideous mask that causes great
laughter. It shows teeth like a keyboard, distorted
cheeks, and a crooked nose. The masquerader
dances like an old woman and fools around,
engaging in conversations on vulgar and indecent
topics with the women and wearing a huge wooden
penis that he constantly uncovers while making
obscene gestures (see also Baumann 1932. figs.
27, 29a; Centner 1963: fig. 24 opp. p. 108). Crow-
ley (1971:319, 321), who ranks this character
among the mukanda masks, describes Cihewu as
“impotent man with bald head and sometimes with
enormous wooden phallus,” while he identifies
yet another character, called Katoyo, whose head-
piece is generally made in resin, as “an idiot-like
clown.” This character sometimes wears a woo-
den mask (Bastin 1982:92; Jordán 1998b: 117 f.;
Jordán [ed.] 1998: cat. nos. 76, 78-80).
Anthropos 96.2001
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 3: Through their mask
face, coiffure, costume, ac-
cessories, and performance,
(.Mwana) Pwo mask dancers
incarnate the Chokwe ideal
of female beauty.
Fig. 4: It cannot be deter-
mined whether the three ex-
amples of wooden {Mwana)
Pwo masks in this photo-
graph were made in different
villages or by different carv-
ers of the same village.
Anthropos 96.2001
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
11
Fig. 5: Although their upper body is
wrapped in a piece of cloth, it may
be assumed that these (Mwana) Pwo
mask dancers had wooden breasts
attached to their bodysuits.
Fig. 6: The anti-aesthetic features of
the roughly made headpiece of the
mask dancer accompanying these
two (Mwana) Pwo dancers identify
it as the representation of the village
fool, Cihewu.
Anthropos 96.2001
12
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 7 : The Cihewu masquerader
dances like an old woman and fools
around, engaging in obscene conver-
sations with the women and con-
stantly uncovering a huge wooden
penis.
Fig. 8 : Cihewu’s headpiece with its
distorted cheeks and crooked nose
causes great laughter among the
audience.
It seems that in Zambia, Cihewu generally
bears the name Ndondo (Jordán 1998a: 73; 1998b:
fig. IV/22). Jordán (1998c: 288 f.), however, writes
that the name “Chiheu“ (derived from Baumann’s
transcription of the name Cihewu as “tsiheu“) is
the Lunda synonym for Cileya, “a character related
to Chisaluke who plays a very active role in
mukandaC The name Cileya is mentioned by Bau-
mann (1932: 28) under the heading “Masken aus
Fell gearbeitet,” and identified as “der Schwätzer.”
More recently, Kubik (1993: fig. 11), who provides
a field photograph of this mask character among
Anthropos 96.2001
13
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
the Nkhangala, identified Cileya, one of the most
popular masks in Eastern Angola, as “der Narr,
Hofnarr.” Still, according to Jordán, Cihewu was
previously also associated with funerary rites and
“may have participated in mwali female initiation
events” (see also Lima 1967:180 f.; Cameron
1995: 230-236).11
A formally similar mask is illustrated by Cent-
ner (1963: fig. 27 opp. p. 109) and identified as
“le fou,” but here it is said to be called Cisaluko.
Elsewhere, this mask name is spelled as Cizaluke,
Cisaluke, or Cisaluki (Jordán 1998a: 68; 1998b.
113-116). Judging from other visual sources,
however, this character usually wears a very
different headpiece.11 12 Again, according to Crowley
(1971:318-321; 1982:213), it belongs to the
mukanda category. Jordán (1998a: 72) writes that
while “several authors have interpreted Chisaluke
as a ‘crazy person’ because of his seemingly
capricious behavior,” he is in fact a complex
character who changes his personality and moods
according to the specific roles he plays in mukanda
events.” Kubik (1993: 120) notes that the name
Cisaluke, which means “der Verrückte, prevails
among the Lwena/Luvale in northeastern Angola
but is replaced in Zambia by Mpumpu among
the Vambwela (Mbwela) and the Vankhangala
(Ngangela) and by Lipumpu among the Luchazi.
The next five images (Figs. 9 to 13) repre-
sent two examples of the male Cihongo masquer-
ader that may be considered the counterpart o
the female Pwo (Felix 1998b: 341-350; Jordán
1998b: 112). Bastin (1982:86) characterizes this
mask as a symbol of power and wealth, and Jordán
(1998a: 71) was told by Zambian Chokwe infor-
mants that Cihongo is a royal or chiefly character
who “symbolically represents male principles o
power and social stature that are complementary
to Pxvevo as a model for female beauty, accom-
plishment, and strength.” At the time that Bor-
11 Elisabeth Cameron (personal communication, November
22, 1999) noted that Victor Turner was actually the first
to record the appearance of Cileya in the girls initiation
among the Lunda-Ndembu of the village of Mwim unga
(Turner 1953:23; 1967:243). Cameron (1998:50-52) dis-
cusses the girls’ initiation as it is practiced in Kabompo
District, Zambia. A comparison between the boys and t e
girls’ initiations reveals many parallels. At first sight, t e
presence of masked figures distinguishes male from fema e
initiation. However, a redefinition of the terms mask an
“masquerade” makes it clear that women do transform
themselves into makishi, albeit without using a woo en
headpiece and full knit costume to cover their face an
body and hide their identity (Cameron 1998: 56-60).
12 Baumann 1932: figs. 25, 29c; Kubik 1993: figs. 37-44, an
Jordán 1998a: fig. 7; 1998b: figs. IV/10, IV/25, IV/26.
gonjon published his article, in 1945, he recorded
the names of masks called Cihongo and Cikalin-
gata but had not actually seen them. Although
Cihongo is sometimes carved in wood, the masks
shown here are made of a twig frame covered
with colorfully painted fabric. They typically bear
a fanlike feather crown and wear a thick fiber
skirt. Although some of Himmelheber’s recently
published field photographs of 1939 are said to
depict a Cihongo mask character, these pictures
seem to refer to the context of the mukanda
initiation in which Cihongo does not normally
appear (Himmelheber 1993: figs. 90-97). Accor-
ding to Crowley (1982:213), however, this cha-
racter does belong to the mukanda category and
also appears at the investiture of chiefs. More-
over, he points out that “in several camps a
Chihongo was placed on a fence post to ‘observe’
a dance by the mukanda boys” (Crowley 1982:
214).
The mukanda Boys’ Puberty Ritual
The remaining masks in Marchai’s photographs
are related to the mukanda boys’ puberty rit-
ual.13 Borgonjon’s detailed description of the initi-
ation process according to forty-three steps offers a
valuable complement to more recent writings, such
as Nange Kudita wa Sesemba (1974) and Bastin
(1990). Since Borgonjon also refers to the role
masks play in this crucial life cycle ritual, his data
help to contextualize Marchai’s contemporaneous
photographs. Crowley (1982: 210) defines the mu-
kanda as “an initiation rite combining isolation of
the boys from village life for a period of months,
a painful circumcision followed by a period of
living in a rude ‘lodge’ of leaves and sticks,
eating poor food, suffering taunts, beatings, and
hazing, receiving formalized education in dance,
13 Baumann’s 1932 article, based on his collecting expedition
of 1930, remains one of the most extensive and nuanced
writings on the Chokwe mukanda. Attention should also
be drawn to a little-known article in the 1927 issue of
the journal American Anthropologist by Holdredge and
Young, which is based mainly on Claire Parker Holdredge’s
research in Angola between 1923 and 1925. In his book of
1962, Santos also discusses masquerading in the context of
the boys’ mukanda puberty ritual and presents an interesting
group of field photographs. Aside from the Chokwe and
related peoples, the Yaka puberty ritual has been studied
extensively as well; Anthropos published an important
article on this subject by Désiré van Gool (1953). In
1932 this journal also published an article on mukanda-
related masks among the Luba of southern Katanga by the
Franciscan missionary Servaas Peeraer.
Anthropos 96.2001
14
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 9 : The male Cihongo mask,
which symbolizes wealth and power,
may be considered the counterpart of
the female (Mwana) Pwo.
Fig. 10: Zambian Chokwe infor-
mants interviewed by art historian
Manuel Jordán in the early 1990s
reported that Cihongo is a royal or
chiefly character.
singing, instrument-making and -playing, mask-
making, and training in traditional lore and be-
liefs.” The mukanda ritual does, however, change
slightly from area to area and the details of the
initiation process may vary considerably in space
and in time.
Borgonjon (1945: 15) relates that one of the
first activities in relation to the mukanda ritual
Anthropos 96.2001
Chokwe
Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
15
Si 1V ,Both the wooden and the resin vc
n" 0f tbe Cih°ngo mask type bear an ii
the S1Ve cr°wn made of feathers
thn , blue turaco or Plantain-eater (Cor
tnaeola cristata)
w ' , ' Although it is sometimes carved i
often’ e, headPiece of Cihongo is mor
colnrf rjlade of a twig frame covered wit
colorfully painted fabric.
Anthropos 96.2001
16
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 13: A Cihongo headpiece was some-
times placed on a fence post in the mukanda
camp to “observe” a dance by the boys.
consists of making the costume of knotted fibers
worn by the maskers. The village elders gather
bark in the forest that will be used to make the
mukishi costume. Women are made to believe that
the masks are returning dead, and they are told
that the gathered tree bark will be used for the
fabrication of traps. The only two women who
know that the masks are danced by real men are
the wife of the nganga mukanda (the circumciser
and leader of the ritual) and the nacifwa (a
woman past menopause who prepares the manioc
meal for the initiates).14 * Also, it is the nganga
mukanda's spouse who makes the first rope of
the mukishi's costume. The woman’s intervention
gives strength to the mukishi and assures that its
subsequent performances will always please the
female population. When the men have completed
her work and the costume is finished, they will
tell the women that they need a jar of oil, a white
14 Cameron (1995: 188 f.) informs us that, in fact, the women
she interviewed knew that there was a man inside the
costume and usually also knew the identity of the dancer.
However, in public, conforming to gender roles set by
the society, women will pretend not to know anything
about makishi. Moreover, scholars who did research on
masquerading in this area mainly relied on male informants
and usually did not record women’s beliefs.
chicken, and white earth to make the dead rise
from their graves. They also inform them that the
mukishi is the father of the mukanda and that he
organizes the entire ritual. Among the many types
or characters of mikishi, Mulimbula and Ngondo
are the ones most prominently connected with the
mukanda}5
When the mukishi costume is ready, someone
announces that the next day it will come to the
village to bring corn to soak in a brook. In the
evening, the women perform an “obscene” dance
called cisela (see also Bastin 1990:317). The
following morning the mukishi and the nganga
mukanda go to the village. The mukishi first
flirts with the women but then harasses them
and chases them away. Afterward, he enters the
house of the nganga mukanda. Helped by the
latter’s wife, he pours corn into a hollowed trunk
that is then carried to the brook in order to
15 Bastin (1990: 316) notes that the two most important akishi,
which never fail at a mukanda ritual, are Kalelwa and
Cikuza. The latter, who bears a positive influence on fertility
and on the hunt, is even identified as the “Lord of the
mukanda.” Among the Luvale in Zambia, however, it is
the character Mupala, “a protective spirit with extroardinary
supernatural abilities,” who bears this honorary title (Jordán
1998a: fig. 8).
Anthropos 96.2001
17
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, B g
germinate. From that moment on, the 'von|^
may dance the cisela every night. The ay
beer is put to soak, the nganga mukanda cans
the initiates in order to repeat a ceremony
was first performed during their seclusion in
camp. Upon addressing the ancestors w o a
introduced the mukanda, the nganga mu an
places on their heads the small calabas es or
baskets that contain the circumcision accessories^
Meanwhile, the mukishi dances frenetical y aroun
them. The following day, some of the corn is
taken out of the brook. Accompanied by chan
performed by the men, the mukishi and the
mukanda stamp the corn in the mortar.
nganga mukanda lives in a distant vi age, 1
the nacifwa who assists the mukishi in is a 0 •
Again, the mukishi will go to the village to i
with the women, an activity that he wi repe
often. ,
The actual circumcision of the boys ta^ es
place at a cleared space outside the village ca e
fwilo. Crowley (1982:210) translates this name
as “dying place.”16 This space is chosen by the
men of the village, the nganga mukanda, anü
the mukishi. Once the fwilo is ready, they return
to the village to gather the boys to be initiate
The mukishi runs ahead in order to chase away
the mothers and prevent them from objecting.
Meanwhile, the nganga mukanda prepares is
yitumbo (protective medicines) in a winnow, e
brings it to the village, where the tundandji
are waiting. Improvised songs are sung an e
nganga mukanda sprinkles yitumbo on their ea s.
Every boy has his own assistant or surveyor ca e
cilombola (pi. yilombola). At this point, his tas is
to carry his kandandji on his shoulder or hip to is
designated fwilo. Before reaching the/Wi/o, every
boy is undressed. The mukishi must assure t at e
women remain in the village and do not attemp
to go and see their sons in th& fwilo.
After the boys are circumcised according o
a well-determined procedure, they remain in t e
fwilo before their seclusion in the mukanda camp.
One of the activities in which they must engage
during their stay at the fwilo consists of cate mg
the mukishi.” The tundandji are encourage y e
yilombola to try to take off the masker s hea piece,
16 Bastin (1990: 318) calls this space fwiyo (pi. nafwiyo). She
writes that the children are being carried auf den c ^
ihrer Paten yikolokolo auf dem Pfad des nganga niu an
zu den vorbereiteten Plätzen mafwiyo (sing. fwiy°),an
Rückseite der Einfriedung mukandaIn Kabompo js ^
in North-Western Province in Zambia, the dying p ac®’
where the circumcision occurs, is called ifwila an usua
consists of a termite mound (Cameron 1998: 53).
Congo, ca. 1948
which will reveal that a human being is actually
wearing it.17 Usually, the mask involved is either
a Kalelwa or a Cikuza mask, both known for their
aggressive and hostile character, which will jump
wildly and threaten the bystanders with a knife or
machete (Figs. 18 and 19).
An important ritual that the tundandji have to
undergo before leaving the circumcision camp and
reentering the village is the kushinga tundandji,
the swearing of the tundandji. In the forest, the
yilombola cut little twigs from three kinds of trees
- mukula, muli, and muhongo. They put some
shima manioc brew on each of these twigs, which
they then place on the forehead of the Ngondo
mask. One by one, the tundandji approach the
mask and eat the shima from the mask’s head.
Thereafter, they are told by the yilombola not to
reveal the secret of the mukishi to the women or
to the uncircumcised boys. Those who are unable
to keep this secret will go mad and eventually die.
The yilombola then break a stick above the mask
and mourn as one would for a deceased human.
The mask will never be used or worn again.18
Upon their reintegration into the village, the
newly initiated will take up their lives as fully
adult men and will continue to respect the rules
and prohibitions. For instance, at the risk of
becoming infertile, they are forbidden to wear a
mask costume up to one year after the closure of
their initiation.
Chokwe mukanda Masks: mikishi wa ku
mukanda
Borgonjon (1945:65 f.) enumerates more than
ten different mask characters but notes that in
the context of the mukanda, their number as a
rule does not exceed two. According to Bastin
(1982: 83), all mukanda masks, with the exception
of Cikuza, evoke nature spirits or elements and
can be distinguished only on the basis of symbolic
details in their coiffure. Since most of these masks
are made of resin and other fragile materials and
are destroyed after the closure of the puberty
17 Strother (1996) discusses a similar event among the Eastern
Pende, where the mask character involved bears the name
Ngolo.
18 The same ritual is described by Bastin (1990: 321), though
she does not mention the term kushinga tundandji. The
Eastern Pende practice a similar ritual in which the Kipoko
helmet mask takes up the role of the Chokwe Ngondo
(Malutshi Mudiji-Sel[e]nge 1981: 229 f.; Zoë Strother, per-
sonal communication, July 29, 1999).
Anthropos 96.2001
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 14: Since masks related to the mukanda
boys’ puberty ritual are generally destroyed after
the end of the ritual, they are rare in Western
collections.
Fig. 15: The Kalelwa masquerader stands in
front of a mwima stick - an important protective
device of the mukanda ritual and a symbol of the
ancestors.
Anthropos 96.2001
..................
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
19
IT'»
c'g- The Ngondo masquerader’s main role
in k tS Airiing with the women and perform-
® 1 e women’s mwali dance.
ritual, only a small number have been preserved
in Western collections (Bastin 1982: 84; Jordán
1998a: n. 13). Bastin (1990:316) writes that the
Purpose of the akishi a ku mukanda is “auf den
Siegelten Ablauf des Übergangsrituals zu ach-
ten und es mit der übernatürlichen Welt zu ver-
binden.”
Figures 14 and 15 show a Kalelwa masquerader
near a house in front of which a mwima stick is
Planted.19 Bastin published a field photograph of
a Kalelwa masquerader from the archives of the
l^iuseu do Dundo in Angola (1982: fig. 24) and two
Samples of this mask type in the Museu Nacional
19 The mwima stick, an important feature of the mufcan
puberty ritual, is made of a branch from the musa ia
According to Bastin (1990: 316 f.), who identifies the tree
as the mwehe (Hymenocardia acida), the mwima ^erv
a protective hamba and symbol of the ancestors, wi
planted when the nganga mukanda calls the can i a e
their circumcision. It is at this mwima stick that the n8ang
mukanda and the tundandji gather on the eve prior °
actual circumcision. The nganga mukanda wil t en a
the ancestors in a prayer called kukombelela.
Anthropos 96.2001
de Etnologia in Lisbon (1994: cat. nos. 159—
160). Baumann (1932: figs. 25, 28a-b) translates
this mask’s name as “little cloud” and connects
it to rainmaking. Curiously enough, Borgonjon
(1945:66) considers the name Kalelwa to be a
synonym for Cikuza. His description of a long
projection on the mask’s head that imitates the
horns of the tengu antelope clearly refers to the
Cikuza or Cikunza mask.20 According to Kubik
(1993: figs. 31-33, 35-36), Kalelwa is an adjunct
of Cikuza. This relationship between Cikuza and
Kalelwa is confirmed by Jordán (1998b: 122 f.).
Cikuza symbolizes the spirit of fertility and the
hunt, and its name is that of a species of grasshop-
per (Bastin 1982: 83). Borgonjon states that this
is a very malevolent mukishi and that, in former
times, it would even wound or kill someone. The
masquerader utters terrifying sounds that make
everyone shiver. As soon as he appears, all those
present, except the chief, flee. The chief attempts
20 Cf. Falgayrettes 1988: 32, 43, 47; Jordán 1998c: 297-301
and Jordán (ed.) 1998: cat. nos. 93-94.
Constantine Petridis
Fig. 17: Like Kalelwa, a mask character
known as Mulimbula is in charge of the
protection of the camp where the boys
undergoing circumcision and initiation are
secluded.
Fig. 18: In an activity known as the catching
of the mukishi“ the initiates must try to take
off a Kalelwa or Cikuza mask’s headpiece in
order to reveal that it is actually a human
being who is wearing it.
Anthropos 96.2001
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
21
Fig. 19; Kalelwa and other mukanda-related
j^squeraders jump wildly and threaten the
ystanders with a knife, machete, or stick.
to appease him by offering him a sheep or a goat,
which he promptly kills.
. ^n°ther circumcision mask that is easily iden-
ifiable is Ngondo (Fig. 16), which has large eyes
!?ade from calabashes (cf. Baumann 1932: figs.
"32a/c). This mask is used in the above-
mentioned kushinga tundandji ritual before the
newly initiated reenter the village. According to
0rgonjon (1945: 65 f.), who considers it to repre-
ofAi a*1 aPe’ mas9uerader’s main role consists
? ^i^ing with the women and dancing the mwali
.r YnVi>adi, the dance that is also performed at the
puberty ritual). He always holds two sticks
to h he threatens the women. He is reputed
e a master thief and is hence sometimes called
^ s^mhar Ngondo mask photographed in
jçf Chokwe village of Samutoma in Katanga in
^ 2 by the Belgian musicologist Jos Gansemans
s once published as a postcard by the Musée
l’Afrique Centrale in Tervuren (see also
lssi°n au Kasai 1973). In more recent sources
Anth;
roPos 96.2001
dealing with Angolan and Zambian Chokwe, the
name Ngondo does not appear. However, Bor-
gonjon’s description and Marchal’s photograph of
this mask character clearly refer to the Lunda
version of a mask called Katotola, which Jordán
photographed near Ntambu village in 1992 (Jordán
1998b: fig. IV/29). Baumann (1932:27) actually
confirms that the names Katotola and Ngondo are
synonymous.21
Although the other masks photographed by
Marchal seem to be in charge of the protection
of the camp and are perhaps yet other variants
on the Kalelwa type, their exact identification
21 Father Delille photographed such a Katotola mask, for
which he recorded the name Katotoji, among the Lunda or
Lwena in the village of Katota in the 1920s (Delille 1930:
fig. II). The name Katotoji is also used among the Lunda-
Ndembu of Mwinilunga in Zambia (Turner 1967:240-
243). Crowley (1971: 320; 1972: fig. 2.5) recorded the name
Linya Pwa for the same mask type among the Katangese
Lwena.
Constantine Petndis
Fig. 20: The masquerader seen in this photo-
graph in the company of a Kalelwa-like char-
acter can perhaps be identified as an example of
a Cikungu chief’s mask.
Anthropos 96.2001
Fig. 21: Among the Congolese Chokwe the
Cikungu mask character appears both at the
boys’ puberty ritual and the investiture of chiefs.
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
23
Fig. 22: As a rule, the Cikungu mask would
aPpear only exceptionally to perform an animal
sacrifice in order to end an epidemic or other
rnisfortune.
^ernains uncertain (Figs. 17 to 19). In Centner
11963: fig. 3i)? the mask that is reproduced here
as Figure 17 is identified as representing a char-
acter called Mulimbula. Centner’s identifications
of the masks she illustrates, including some of the
/larchal photographs, are apparently based on both
uer own investigations and on data she obtained
r°m Borgonjon. However, the name Mulimbula
!s mentioned only briefly by Borgonjon and is not
1 lustrated. Moreover, Centner (1963: fig. 30) gives
same name to a mask that is clearly of the
a 0ve-mentioned Ngondo or Katotola type.
. The intriguing mask seen in Figures 20 to 22,
, lta its impressive feather crown, may perhaps
e identified as an example of a Cikungu chiefs
iijask (Cf. Bastin 1982: fig. 21; 1984: fig. 3; Lima
67: 204-213). This character would appear only
exceptional circumstances to perform a sacrifice
a goat or a sheep and does not normally
P.erform °n the occasion of the boys’ puberty
ritual (see also note 9). However, upon the re-
c°mmendation of a diviner, Cikungu sometimes
F idorms in the event of special problems during
Anthropos 96.2001
the mukanda initiation (Bastin 1961b: 370, fig.
231). It is significant that this mask name does
not occur in Baumann’s 1932 article and that
there is no mention of it by Borgonjon. Curiously
enough, Crowley (1982: 213) writes that the names
Cihongo, Cirongo, and Cikungu are synonymous
and that this character appears both at the mukanda
and the investiture of chiefs.
Borgonjon (1945:66) writes of yet another
mask, called Ngaji, which is decorated with a
painted pattern of multicolored stripes. A field
photograph showing two Ngaji masqueraders is re-
produced on the cover of volume 58 of the journal
Problèmes Sociaux Congolais, in which Borgonjon
published a French translation of his article on cir-
cumcision (1962). The character is also described
and illustrated in Lima (1967: 198 f.) and Jordán
(1998b: fig. IV/9; 1998c: 303-305; [ed.] 1998: cat.
no. 88) and is mentioned by Baumann (1932: 28)
under the heading “Masken, bei denen auch das
KopfstUck aus gewirktem Netzwerk besteht.”
Unfortunately, Borgonjon does not illustrate
the other mukanda mask characters he mentions
24
Constantine Petridis
in his article of 1945. Katwa is said to hold
a stick in each hand with which he pursues
women. Crowley (1982:214) notes that this
mask dancer is responsible for bringing food to
the initiates. An illustration of this character
is reproduced in Bastin (1961b: 375, fig. 240/2)
and Lima (1967:218 f.). Nakajimo is said to
portray a pregnant woman, though it strongly
resembles Katwa. The masquerader wears old dirty
clothes and carries yitumbo packets and horns, just
as do pregnant women. He also flirts with the
female population. Both mask names, Katwa and
Nakajimo, are mentioned by Baumann (1932: 28)
but under the heading “Masken, bei denen auch
das Kopfstiick aus gewirktem Netzwerk besteht”
(see also Felix 1998a: 60-62).
Cinwa Walwa and Citelela are masqueraders
that perform fantastic acts and possess superhu-
man physical power. They once were owned by
powerful chiefs but had already become rare by
Borgonjon’s time. The first one is believed to be
capable of swallowing five or six jars of beer in
a row. The second, Citelela, is told to fly through
the air. This mask character is illustrated in Ba-
stin (1961b: 376, fig. 241) and Lima (1967: 238-
241). Finally, Mungenda, Samukoko, Kumbu-
kumbu, and Zanda are considered the chiefs of
the mikishi. They walk in a feminine and affected
way, swinging their hips, just like important chiefs.
According to Jordán (1998c: 240 f.), Mungenda
is morphologically related to Cihongo (see also
Bastin 1961b: 378, fig. 245; 1988b: fig. 22; Lima
1967: 188-197). Jordán writes that Mungenda is
also called Katala, Cilomwena, or Mbwesu, but
Lima (1967: 242 f.) reserves the name Mbwesu for
a different mask, which he ranks with the so-
called minor circumcision masks (see also Bastin
1988b: 38).
Conclusion
As in many other parts of the Democratic Republic
of the Congo, missionary presence should be
taken into consideration in any discussion of
Chokwe culture and art. In her analysis of the field
photographs that Reverend William Burton made
among the Luba of Katanga between 1930 and
1940, Becker (1992:28) writes that missionaries
“had certain kinds of experiences and personal
involvements with the people among whom they
lived.” Since they often mastered the language of
the local people and most of them spent many
more years in the field than anthropologists, the
author continues that “many missionary accounts
provide key records of particular people at a
particular time.”
However, the use of historical photographs
as anthropological documents requires critical
reading and interpretation. Following Scherer
(1992: 32), photographs, as cultural artifacts rather
than mere replications of reality, need to be
contextualized through an analysis of the relation-
ship between photographer, subject, and viewer.
Scherer (1992: 35) emphasizes that photographers
always had an audience in mind and that even
seemingly documentarían images reflect the ideol-
ogies and agendas of their photographers. More-
over, it has become clear that missionary activity
in the former Belgian Congo cannot be viewed
independently from the colonial enterprise (see
Fabian 1983 and Geary 1991). Godby (1993: 12-
14) has convincingly argued that even Reverend
Burton’s important anthropological and linguistic
work among the Luba was in essence related to
the colonial project and ultimately served the same
purposes of control and exploitation. As a mis-
sionary, Burton almost simultaneously destroyed
the practices and artifacts he was studying as an
anthropologist. In fact, his anthropological interest
was basically driven by his concern for “civilizing”
the people among whom he lived.
It is from this perspective that Father De-
lille’s rather ambiguous remarks about the ap-
propriateness of mukanda should be interpreted.
While he first contends that young converts should
not attend mukanda because of its roots in the
centuries-old “fetishist worldview” of the hea-
thens, he further suggests that the ritual could
perhaps be positively modernized and adapted to
the newly established Christian society. Among
the customs he believes should be abolished are
all the practices, words, and songs that are in
conflict with Christian belief and European morals,
such as the nakedness of the novices during their
seclusion in the mukanda camp. According to
Delille (1944: 52 f.), a first step toward achieving
this goal would be the appointment of a “confirmed
believer” in Christianity as circumciser and leader
of the mukanda.
Interestingly, referring to his first field re-
search of 1960, Crowley (1982:210) writes that
“both Catholic and Protestant missionaries seem
to have recognized the value in mukanda, and
in recent times usually permit if not encourage
their members to attend.” He notes that “in one
case in western Shaba [present-day Katanga], a
mukanda camp was operating at the edge of a
mission station as the result of an arrangement
between the missionaries and the parents, so that
Anthropos 96.2001
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948
25
the boys would not have to miss school.” In order
to attend mukanda, urban Christians would even
send their sons from the cities of Lubumbashi or
Kolwezi back to their ancestral villages. In 1960
at least ten mukanda camps were observed within
an eighteen-mile radius from the mission station
°f Dilolo Gare.
According to Godby (1993:21 f.), Burton’s
numerous field photographs also testify to his
imperialist, and sometimes even racist, attitude.
In contrast, Father Marchal’s field photographs
reproduced in this article and his accompany-
mg notes can be seen as straightforward, ob-
jective records and constitute valuable primary
sources on Chokwe masks and masquerading.
Geary (1991:48) states that “private photographs
ln the possession of the families of missionaries
frequently turn out to be excellent and rich sources
°f information about both producer and subject”
(see also Wagner 1990:466 f.). Although some
°f Father Marchal’s photographs were ultimately
Published by Centner (1963), they were originally
not intended for a larger audience.22 They clearly
differ from propagandistic missionary photography
because they were not created with an official
0r “public” function in mind. Rather, they reflect
^larchal’s genuine interest in native customs and
fraditions and his curiosity about the people among
whom he lived.
In
sum, there is no doubt that the field pho-
tographs that Father Marchal made in Sandoa in
along with the rare contemporary writings of
ms fellow missionaries Delille and Borgonjon, add
considerably to our knowledge of the Congolese
Chokwe of southwestern Katanga Province, who
j*re much less studied than their Angolan and
Gambian counterparts. It is hoped that this article
wdl encourage the present generation of scholars
°f the Chokwe and related peoples to reconsider
ue work of some of their forgotten predecessors.
n the Franciscan archives in Sint-Truiden, Marchal’s
Photographs are merely stored as part of a photographic
album that contains a varied collection of photographs by
^ar'ous authors. The fact that Marchal’s are accompanied
y the photographer’s typewritten notes and signature sets
hem apart from the other images in the album. It cannot
e determined whether this album was in the private
Possession of an individual missionary before it entered
1 e archives or whether it was the collective property of
a Particular mission station in the Congo. Unfortunately,
Ue to his poor health, I have not been able to discuss
. ts with Father Marchal himself. For the same reason, the
"formation about his background and life provided above
ls rather limited.
Anth
I wrote part of this article while a postdoctoral fellow
of the Belgian American Educational Foundation at
the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (1998—
99). I am indebted to Elisabeth Cameron, curator at
the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, who
read an earlier draft of this article, for her criticisms
and suggestions. I also wish to express my gratitude
to Father Alex Coenen, archivist of the Instituut voor
Franciscaanse Geschiedenis in Sint-Truiden, Belgium,
who assisted me in my research on the history of
Franciscan missions in the former Belgian Congo and
granted me permission to reproduce Father Marchal’s
field photographs.
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 29-40
Religion among the Lugbara
The Triadic Source of Its Meaning
Albert Titus Dalfovo
Abstract. - The Lugbara people of Uganda use the word
re|igion” when speaking English, their national language. In
lheir own language, they use the word dini which is originally
a Kiswahili word. But the Lugbara language has actually the
w°rd ori expressing much of what both “religion” and dini
refer to. The terms ori, dini, and “religion” reveal a concept of
r^igion that draws from the triadic source indicated by these
hree words and that has developed during the last century in
a complex relationship of rich meanings. This present article
hies to analyse such development and the present stand. It
c°ncludes on a note of caution when trying to order the ideas
rclated to religion in Lugbara thinking. While there is a need
systematisation as demanded by scientific inquiry, there is
tQS° a limit to such exercise. This limit is given by the need
respect “otherness,” particularly when tempted to reduce
^°mPlex pluralism to simpler monism. [Uganda, Lugbara,
Suistics, concept of religion, ori, dini]
Aibert Titus Dalfovo, Ph. D. in Philosophy (Makerere Univer-
suy> Kampala, Uganda), Ph. D. in Sociology (Brunei Univer-
y> Uxbridge, England); Comboni Missionary Priest. - Pro-
atSsor °f Philosophy at Makerere University; Visiting Professor
rhe universities of Bergen (Norway), Padua, Brescia, and
logna (Italy). Publications include various books on the
gbara, articles in Nigrizia, Anthropos, Afer, Journal of Af-
jo art Religion and Philosophy, Settimana, African Philosophy,
Ul~nal of Religion in Africa, Leadership, and chapters in edited
°°ks (see also References Cited).
Th'
. ms article focuses on the meaning of religion
|n lugbara thought.1 Over the last 80 years, the
gbara people have changed from traditional re-
1^l0n to Christianity and Islam.1 2 In the light of that
^Aperience, it may be asked whether their concept
reHgion has also changed and what such concept
ofnow- The ideas constituting the present meaning
rebgion may not be all or always clearly present
in the mind of the people. However, such ideas
are, or they are assumed to be, in the cultural
stock of the people. They are drawn from it and
their meaning is clarified to consciousness as such
need arises. The following study tries to analyse
this set of concepts, their genesis, and their mutual
relationship.
1. Approach and Definition
Religion is an elusive topic and the point of
departure for any study of it is itself problematic.
Such a study requires the clarification not only of
one’s approach to it but also of religion; namely
it needs a definition of religion. The issue is
not that of devising an original approach or that
of providing a new definition. The science of
religion offers such a variety of approaches to
and definitions of religion that it may not even
be possible to add anything substantially different
in this respect. The issue is rather that of simply
clarifying which approach and meaning one is
selecting in considering the multifaceted reality
of religion. The originality, if any, will instead
ensue from the actual field of study, namely from
the specific religion considered within its cultural
context.
1 The Lugbara live astride the Nile-Congo divide in northwest
Uganda, numbering about one million.
2 The Lugbara are estimated to be now 76 % Christians and
22 % Muslims.
30
Albert Titus Dalfovo
The study of religion among the Lugbara has
been carried out quite extensively.3 The most
outstanding research on it has been that by the
anthropologist John Middleton (I960).4 He fol-
lowed a functionalist approach that has influenced
subsequent considerations of Lugbara religion,
tending to focus on what religion meant, mainly in
terms of usefulness, to the community and to the
individuals. That approach was thus sociological
and psychological, bearing on the function and
role of religion and on the religious feelings and
experiences of individuals. Within such vision, the
understanding of religion was interpretative and it
inclined to be prescriptive or programmatic in the
sense of revealing the mind of the researcher rather
than the actual religion being searched into. That
approach attempted to systematise the religion be-
ing examined into a given paradigm and to proceed
from there to compare the concrete occurrences
in that religion vis-à-vis the established paradigm
in order to see whether they were correct or not.
Although the functionalist approach had the ad-
vantage of considering a religion within its context
thus relating it to the culture to which it belonged,
it was nevertheless remarkably subjective and it
even passed judgement on the religion it studied.
Its final results often carried normative implica-
tions. Such methodology could be dangerous in
scholarly research particularly when the analysed
religion belonged to a different culture. One’s
“givens” of the past or one’s “expectations” for
the future could curtail an objective vision of the
present.
Subjectivism cannot be altogether avoided as
every approach to and definition of religion reflects
the worldview of the person who formulates them.
A person needs to reckon with the inevitability
of the egocentric predicament that is pivotal in
any epistemological exercise. At the same time, a
scholarly work needs some degree of objectivity
to guarantee its credibility. Such need can be
attended to and it has been helped by strictly
adhering to contextuality through an approach that
can generally be described as phenomenological.
This approach is descriptive of specific religions,
to become later comparative of them. It goes to
the facts of life portraying what they are and to
the concrete reality one experiences. It then tries to
3 See Dalfovo 1988; this bibliography lists 290 studies of
which 36 are on traditional religion.
4 J. Middleton spent altogether about two years and seven
months in fieldwork among the Lugbara, from December
1949 to September 1953.
establish what is common in the various religious
elements that have been described, like their tran-
scendent nature, their influence on behaviour, the
faith they require and the existence of superior be-
ings or powers they assert. The science of religion
has actually such comparative origin, its principle
being that one does not know religion by knowing
only one religion. It should be noted, however,
that the listing of these common elements does
not aim at establishing the “fundamental truths”
of all religions; this could take researchers back to
their subjective judgements.
As mentioned above, selecting an approach to
the study of religion implies proposing a specific
understanding or definition of religion. In trying
to provide such definition vis-à-vis the phenom-
enological approach just explained, one faces a
multiplicity of religious elements provided by such
an approach which are difficult to combine into
a single definition. Such multiplicity could, how-
ever, be moulded into a kind of definition by
reference to the idea of “family resemblances”
proposed by Ludwig Wittgenstein.5 According to
this idea, “religion” should not be considered
to reflect a single phenomenon but to refer to
a variety of them related among themselves in
a kind of “family resemblances.” There is not
just one characteristic of religion but rather a
set of them or a set of “family resemblances.”
As a result of this, one definition of religion
shares some features with another definition and
this in turn has some features in common with
a third one, and so on. Hence, a definition of
religion does not comprise every possible religious
element; it simply participates in a network of
similarities. This allows for definitions that may be
very far apart (Hick 1983: 2f.). Hence, a religion
would be a set of beliefs and practices having
a family resemblance to another set and with
no sharp boundaries between them (Pyle 1984:
270).
The initial term of reference around which to
gather a set of family resemblances for a religion
could be the very word “religion” and its cor-
responding terms in the language of the religion
being studied. In fact, when undertaking a study
of religion, one has the very term “religion” to start
from, a sort of sign-post pointing to the direction of
5 L. Wittgenstein (1958) exemplified by using the word
“game.” Games differ among themselves; at the same time,
some of them overlap with others such that a network
of similarities or “family resemblances” is established,
justifying the use of one word for all of them.
Anthropos 96.2001
Religion among the Lugbara
31
inquiry.6 Hence the point of departure is linguistic.
In this connection, Reuben Abel (1976:213) has
some revealing references to the close relationship
between language and mind. “Ontology recapitu-
lates philology” (J.G. Miller); “Existence is itself
essentially linguistic” (Heidegger); Aristotle called
spoken words “the symbols of mental experience,”
and Heraclitus said, “The Logos is revealed in
speech.” In the case of the Lugbara, this linguistic
Point of departure is not just one word but three of
them, namely, the Lugbara ori, the Kiswahili dini,
and the English “religion.” Each of them and their
Riutual relationship provide the ideas that convey
an understanding of religion in Lugbara thought.
The term “religion” and corresponding ones
*n other languages are not points of arrival but
°f departure; they are not ends in themselves
but merely instrumental to the study of specific
religious phenomena. Through these terms, one
§oes to a set of various phenomena in Lugbara
culture that have no clear boundaries among them-
selves but that have certain family resemblances
qualifying them as religious in the understanding
°f peoples in general. Such resemblances have a
c°re that justifies them being called religious.
The linguistic starting point takes one into the
context of religion. Such contextual foundation
should avoid the fallacy of hypostatisation com-
muted when abstract concepts like religion are
Seated as if they designated specific and concrete
eutities. What actually exists is not a religion but
Persons acting and thinking religiously. “Definers
°f religion are prone to the error of reification
(misplaced concreteness). It is well to remember
that to be religious pertains to persons” (Pyle
iy84: 270). Not to single persons though, but to
a community of them, as religion is social.
The term “religion” abstracts a variety of expe-
riences lived by different peoples, and this abstrac-
h°n is then applied universally to all peoples. But
11 should be remembered that the origin of such
Dstraction remains a concrete culture and specific
Peoples or persons. The application of “religion” to
^ universal set of experiences does not imply that
. word abstracts a single set of experiences that
ls universally identical. The application indicates
smiply that there are certain resemblances among
ese experiences, which, however, remain essen-
This resembles the case of ethics. The definition of ethics
can °nly come at the end of one’s investigations on the
Subject. However, to avoid undertaking an inquiry on
arbitrary grounds, one can and must be able to offer a
Preliminary indication, “a sign-post pointing in the direction
°f the thing we are going to investigate” (Field 1952: 98).
Anth;
roPos 96.2001
tially contextual. This consideration is particularly
pertinent in the case of African traditional religion.
The term “religion” is used here in the singular,
a form that highlights resemblances of African
traditional religions among themselves. Here too,
the origin of the abstracted “religion” is found in
single peoples and cultures. As Adrian Hastings
remarks, “there are as many African religions as
peoples ..., that is, many hundreds.” He continues,
“a crucial factor in the differentiation between
African religions is the deep diversity of African
social and political systems. Religious belief and
ritual both reflect and mould structure and would
be largely incomprehensible apart from the lat-
ter... African religions do not exist in a vacuum”
(1984: 22 f.). This is the reason why “some schol-
ars advocate that the use of proper names for the
so-called religions (a practice uncommon before
the 19th century) be replaced by the terminology
‘the religion of (a people or cultural area)” (Pyle
1984:270; Cantwell Smith 1964: 111).
An approach to the meaning of religion, guided
by language into the religious contextuality, ought
to provide a stock of ideas by which to understand
religion in Lugbara culture.
2. Dini as a New Identity
The word for “religion” now widely used in the
Lugbara language is dini, a Kiswahili term intro-
duced by Islam during the second half of the 19th
century. The term was subsequently adopted by
Christianity in the early part of the 20th century.
The term dini can no longer be considered alto-
gether foreign to Lugbara thought and life due to
the adequately long acculturating process it has
been involved in. At the same time the term does
not include every aspect of Lugbara traditional
religion, but it does not even tally with the English
term “religion.”
Initially, dini referred exclusively to Christiani-
ty and Islam, the religions with which the term had
been introduced in Lugbara society. That exclusive
significance lasted up to recent times and there
are still traces of it in the language and in the
thought of people. In fact, few persons extend
spontaneously the word dini to include Lugbara
traditional religion. There are people who do not
actually agree to such inclusion, reasserting that
only the Christian and the Moslem religions are
dini.
That element of exclusiveness in the meaning
of dini may be traced to the etymological root
of the word. The Kiswahili term dini originates
32
Albert Titus Dalfovo
from the Arabic din. The prime meaning of din is
“custom” and “usage” and it is applied exclusively
to Islam. Islam is the din understood as the code of
life that challenges other religions (Parwez 1968,
quoted in Parrinder 1974: 54). If that meaning of
exclusiveness attached to the term and reserved
for Islam entered Lugbaraland at all, it did not
keep it. In fact, the term dini was used to describe
other imported religions, particularly Christianity.
However, a degree of discriminatory significance
remained attached to the term in the sense that
it applied to imported religions vis-à-vis Lugbara
traditional religion and as a challenge to the latter.
When in the past it was necessary to inquire wheth-
er a person was a Christian or a “pagan,” the ques-
tion was: “Have you dinii Do you belong to diniV
When people were described as having no dini, the
meaning was that they were neither Christians nor
Moslems but “pagans.” The assumption in such
expressions was that the followers of traditional
religion had actually no religion. There were also
cases when dini was reserved for the specific
religious denomination to which one belonged to
the exclusion of others. Thus, a Christian would
say that Islam was not a dini and a Catholic would
assert that the members of the Church of Uganda
had no dini. But similar assertions were rare and
today they are hardly heard. They are nevertheless
indicative of the exclusiveness that pervaded the
meaning of dini.
Today an increasing number of people extend
dini to every religion, including the traditional
one. The extension of meaning has been helped
by the fact that dini translates the English term
“religion.”7 DinV s exclusive significance gradually
gave way to the ampler acceptance implied in the
English word “religion,” such that the understand-
ing of dini as tallying with “religion,” steadily
asserted itself. Moreover the general revival of
traditional culture has led to equate traditional
religion to any other religion and consequently to
associate it to dini.
The gradual shift of dini from an exclusive to an
inclusive meaning indicated not only an influence
of the term “religion” or a reappraisal of traditional
culture, or a general widening of religious under-
standing and tolerance. That passage from specific
exclusiveness to general inclusiveness reflected the
formation and the growth of a new identity. The
term dini initially helped the birth of that identity
and subsequently sustained its development until
7 English is the official language of Uganda and it is well
known among the Lugbara.
today. Such identity can stand without the actual
term to support it. The persons who initially left
traditional religion to embrace dini vested their
new identity in what the new term signified. Dini
meant their identity. The initial exclusiveness of
the term helped the specificity of such identity;
the latter, in turn, supported the former.
For the first Lugbara who embraced, for in-
stance, Christianity, dini was the “new way” that
differentiated them from the “old way” of tra-
ditional religion. Dini was the “new way” that
qualified their “new identity,” just as it happened
at the inception of Christianity, when the very
term “new way” became known even before its
followers were called Christians and their religion
Christianity. Initially one’s true identity demanded
that one’s dini be asserted as “true” vis-à-vis the
others which were discarded as “false” and thus
unqualified to be called dini.
But as time passed and more adherents joined
the new way or dini, and as their group grew
to become eventually the majority in society, the
word dini lost its paramount function as a cat-
alyst for their identity. The size of their group
became gradually enough to assert the identity of
its members. But at the same time, as the mem-
bers of other dini increased, it became eventually
unrealistic for one group to keep the term dini to
itself denying other dini. The inflexible position
“true-false” could become an incentive to religious
conflicts, contradicting dini itself and denying the
conciliatory common sense of the people.
Within dini new terms emerged to identify
the various denominations that were developing
such as Catholic, Protestant, and Moslem. Dini
gradually gained a general significance while the
specific terms “Christian, Catholic, Protestant, and
Moslem” were founding the identity of the follow-
ers of each dini. This extension of the meaning
of dini continued until it came to include the last
arrival, namely Lugbara traditional religion.8
8 Also Rembe and his followers adopted the term dini when
they began to spread their new cult among the Lugbara
at the end of the 19th century. Rembe, a Kakwa, was
associated with a cult centered on the distribution of a
miraculous water from which the name “Allah Water Cult”
originated. His activity in Lugbaraland was particularly
intense from about 1914 to 1920. They used to plant a
pole as a symbolic reference of their religious activities,
performing around it the rites of their new cult called
“Yakani” or “Allah Water Cult.” That pole was called dini
and here, too, the name stood as indicative of novelty
and identity within this religious movement (Middleton
1963: 89, 96).
Anthropos 96.2001
Religion among the Lugbara
3. Dini as Religion
Dini began by establishing a new religious identity
and it ended by indicating a specific institution
°r a religion. In order to know the nature of
such institution or what it meant to the people,
an intensive research was undertaken, requesting
the people to tell what they thought were the most
significant elements of dini today. The answers
given highlighted three elements, namely, God,
teaching, and organisation as characteristics of
dini.
Almost all answers emphasised God, the re-
lations with and the prayers to him. The God
Rientioned here was the one announced with the
advent of the new dini. He was, to a considerable
e*tent, a new God, a novelty underlined also by the
new name used to refer to him, namely, Mungu,
lhe Kiswahili word for God. The corresponding
term in Lugbara would have been Adro or Adroa/
Adronga, depending on the dialectal variations of
the language. But these original names conveyed
the idea of a God both transcendently remote
and immanently human, a dualism that remained
unreconciled in the understanding of the people
and that was left to the confines of mystery. The
new dini bypassed this dilemma by identifying
the divinity with Mungu, thus starting from a
new concept described by a new term. The new
term could not obviously solve the enigma related
t° the divine nature but it contributed a clearer
understanding of the divinity and a simpler grasp
°f his attributes.
Although Mungu was proclaimed as the su-
preme reality in dini, that was not effected in op-
position to Adro in such a way that Mungu would
have appeared as an antagonist to the traditional
c°ncept of the divinity. This latter concept was
nGther outrightly rejected nor explicitly accepted.
1 Was just left aside. Starting from about the
year 1950, when the need to root the idea of
lni into one’s culture began to assert itself, the
traditional concept of the divinity expressed by
he name Adro reemerged. But the traditional
Concept had been by then influenced by that of
^ungu. The traditional divinity had been, so to
sPeak, Christianised or Islamised in his nature and
tributes. Hence the return to the term Adro did
n°t resurrect the ancient difficulty related to the
conflicting attributes in the traditional concept of
e divinity. It was a return to an idea of the
lvmity that had been gradually elucidated by the
c°ncept of Mungu.
The proclamation of the absolute primacy of
ungu within dini was not effected against Adro,
Anthropos 96.2001
33
as explained. But it was nevertheless asserted with
regard to all other spirits including the ancestral
ones. This stand against the spirit of the ancestors
emerged as the fundamental difference between
the new dini and the traditional religion, as it is
going to be explained below.
The second substantial group of answers related
dini to organised teaching, namely, to the teaching
activity and to what was formally taught, partic-
ularly the instructions related to doctrine, morals,
and school subjects. Considering that 78 per cent
of the Lugbara population is Christian, it may
be inferred that the majority of those who gave
this answer had Christianity in mind, confirming
what Gaebelein (1974: 330) writes: “Christianity
is a teaching religion. Its Founder is by com-
mon consent acknowledged as the greatest of all
teachers. In His Ministry, teaching occupies a
place second only to His work of redemption. His
great commission (Mt 28: 18-20) obligates His
followers to ‘teach all nations’.”
The same author concludes that the story of
the growth of Christianity is largely an educational
one. This is true among the Lugbara. Religion and
formal education grew hand in hand, particularly
in their early time. Schools and churches were
erected together and they were often in the same
building, particularly at their inception.9 * Hence,
the concept of dini combined into one the sacred
and the secular buildings and the concepts they
stood for.
Finally, a group of answers gave various other
elements as typical of dini and that could be
collectively described as organisation. Such ele-
ments comprised specific uses, public and private
procedures, established religious and administra-
tive gatherings, precise leadership roles at vari-
ous levels, and a fixed calendar of events. Dini
clearly defined who was supposed to do what in
every situation. These typical elements were the
most evident and, in a way, the most gratify-
ing. The clarity and precision that derived from
them supplied the paradigm by which to know
what one was expected to do and when one had
correctly fulfilled the required religious duties. In
the opinion of several scholars, the essence of
religion, particularly ancient ones, is sought more
in behaviour like ceremonies and observances than
in faith or doctrine. Also traditional religion had
9 Among the Lugbara, as in the rest of Uganda, formal
education was almost entirely managed by Christian de-
nominations up to 1925, when the government came in with
its supervision and financial help. In 1963 the government
took over the control of the education in the country.
34
Albert Titus Dalfovo
its organisation. Middleton’s “Lugbara Religion”
(1960) shows its complexity. But it was not so
clear and firm. It had the fluidity of oral culture,
with rules and roles that could comply more easily
to the changing circumstances.
4. Traditional Religion
When Christianity and Islam encountered tradi-
tional religion, they identified themselves with
dirti which meant that traditional religion was a
non-dirti. The common name applied to traditional
religion by Christianity and Islam was the some-
what derogatory kafiri, a Kiswahili word meaning
“pagan.” That designation identified those who
adhered to traditional religion rather than their
religion. Traditional religion came to be collec-
tively described as “the things of kafiri.” Another
identification for traditional religion related it to
Satan or to Yakani, this latter identified with the
former. Thus the “things of Satan” or the “things
of Yakani” or just simply Satan and Yakani meant
traditional religion.10
Traditionally, the concept of religion as des-
ignated by a single term like dini or “religion”
did not seem to exist. The various elements of
traditional religion were not clearly differentiated
from the rest of life. There was no felt need to
designate them with a special word and to specify
their distinct identity. That need arose later with
the confrontation imposed by the novelty of dini,
a term that, initially at least, did not refer to
traditional religion. Traditional religion was iden-
tified vis-à-vis the new religions by a descriptive
reference to various elements, not by a single word
pointing to one whole. It was called, as already
said, “the things of pagans, of Satan, of Yaka-
ni.” Such negative description came mainly from
“outsiders” of traditional religion and generally
unsympathetic to it. Its adherents described their
religion as “the things of the past, of history, of
ancestors.” These positive characteristics differen-
tiated traditional religion vis-à-vis the foreign and
the new aspects of dini. All these descriptions of
traditional religion, whether positive or negative,
conveyed a sense of plurality and of indefiniteness
in it.
The plurality was given by the variety of char-
acteristics referred to, like pagans, Satan, Yakani,
10 Yakani was a spirit taking possession of a person and
causing disease. It was later equated to Satan and closely
associated to traditional religion.
past, history, and ancestors. Such plurality mani-
fested the complexity of traditional religion. Tra-
ditional religion was not a simple affair either to
practice or to explain. People grew into it acquiring
a participated knowledge of it and trying to fulfil
it experientially. Such practical religious knowl-
edge was not the result of a formal teaching.11 A
Lugbara came to know about traditional religion in
an informal way, together with knowledge about
various other aspects of life and society. Religious
knowledge was not divorced from the rest of
one’s life, particularly in its ethical dimension.11 12
Expertise in traditional religion was thus obtained
from long observation, from listening, and from
experience. Time graduated a person in this art,
which meant that only elders could reach this
stage. A young religious leader or teacher in
traditional religion was quite unthinkable. Living
one’s traditional religion did not mean that one
necessarily understood it or could transmit one’s
knowledge of it competently to others. The various
elements of traditional religion were part of a
person and community life. Traditional religion
was an undistinguished part of life and an un-
differentiated component of society. There was no
need for a particular word to differentiate religious
elements as such and to denote them as a whole,
distinct from the rest of individual life and social
existence. It was actually difficult to isolate such
elements from life and to combine them within the
meaning of one word. Moreover, there had been no
need or no challenge to prompt a systematisation
of traditional religion.13 That need and challenge
and the consequent systematisation came with dini.
The indefiniteness of traditional religion re-
ferred to its vague boundaries within which to
identify clear elements for its definition. “The
things of pagans” indicated that such things had
no clear boundaries by which to identify them
and to distinguish them from other elements. The
11 Lugbara traditional society had no initiation ceremonies
characteristic of other African societies.
12 An informant significantly explained, “What we were
taught about the demands of the new religion was not new.
We knew about these things already. We knew that we were
not supposed to kill or to poison people, to steal, to quarrel,
to break marriage pacts, and the like. We knew that it was
better to be with peaceful heart. We knew about all this.
What struck us about the teaching of those men was that
they were practicing what they were saying. And also the
children taught by them, were practicing those things. Our
children became good, respectful, obedient. Those people
knew really how to teach.”
13 A system implies a plurality of elements and an orderly
relationship among them.
Anthropos 96.2001
Religion among the Lugbara
35
most crucial boundaries to establish were those be-
tween sacred and profane that would have helped
define traditional religion. In fact, some scholars
are reluctant to divide sacred and profane in the
African traditional religions. According to Evans-
Pritchard (1965: 65), no evidence can be gathered
to distinguish the two. Such distinction appears
to have been suggested by Western paradigms of
analysis and evaluation. The undesirability of such
distinction is derived from the fact that religious
elements permeated every aspect of individual
and social life. Some suggest even that traditional
religion provided the overall supreme reference for
the entire social and human behaviour. Bastide
(1968: 99 f.) for instance writes: “With regard to
culture, religion provides a mythical model on
which the behaviour of the people belonging to
dte same ethnic unit, the way to till the soil,
the architecture of buildings, dance steps, kinship
system, the political organisation, the gestures of
the sexual embrace has to be fashioned.” Maconi
(1972: 33) adds that the source of culture in tradi-
tional societies is not human activity but religion.
It needs, however, to be specified that the Lug-
°ara context does not seem to prove the existence
°f such pervading religiosity or of a religiosity
that be a supreme term of reference for behaviour
culture. Religious elements in Lugbara culture
° not appear so ubiquitous and conditioning as
nc above quotation from Bastide implies. Never-
Rdess traditional religion is coextensive with life
Peaking of its indefiniteness.
The plurality and indefiniteness conveyed by
mditional religion were eventually challenged by
lni• An inquiry as to the response that such chal-
enge provided concerning a possible definition of
. achtional religion resulted initially in the plural-
lsUc and indefinite descriptions of religion given
0ve. Until at a certain point, almost casually,
persons mentioned the word ori as pointing
0 the core of traditional religion and that could be
,Ken to refer to it. Further enquiries confirmed
e qualifying reference of ori with regard to
traditional religion.
®ri as Religion
Ori
the reca^ec* hhe ancestral spirits together with
e shrines erected to signify the presence of the
aii^estors- It also indicated the special ceremonies
rifi ntes Perf°rmcd around these shrines, the sac-
ces and offerings effected there. Moreover, ori
cribed the gatherings that took place on the
°ccasi
ton of these ceremonies and rites.
^nthropos 96.2001
The relation of ori to traditional religion emer-
ged, first of all, from the linguistic expressions
used in connection with ori, like “I offer to the
on“ ([ma ori owi), “I sacrifice to the ori“ (ma
ori li), “I smear food on the ori“ (ma ori bi),
and “I eat at the ori“ (ma ori nya). These and
similar assertions meant also “I practice tradition-
al religion.” They were actually the traditionally
correct expressions for conveying such meaning.
They were used particularly when the membership
of traditional religion was asserted independently
of any confrontation with another dini or religion.
The expressions “to have dini“ or “not to have
dini“ were depreciative and used in favour of dini
and against traditional religion.
The foremost position of ori in traditional reli-
gion was confirmed by the answers to an inquiry as
to where one should begin in explaining traditional
religion. Almost all the answers gave the ori as
the point of departure for such explanation thus
emphasising its importance.14
The multifaceted meaning of ori highlighted a
variety of features that characterised Lugbara tradi-
tional religion, the main ones being the ancestral,
humanistic, social, and elitist dimensions.
First, ori conveyed the ancestral dimension of
traditional religion, recalling the watchful, safe-
guarding, and punishing role of the ancestors.
The relations with ori were, to a considerable
extent, pervaded by fear. The ori communicated
to religion a pervasive motivation derived from
fear founded on the possible punishments caused
by misconduct. The ori manifested his guarding
and reproving presence in cases of misbehaviour
on the part of humans. Hence, good behaviour
assured that the ori “stayed quiet.” Consequently,
the idea of religion that emanated from the ori bore
on behaviour rather than on belief, on morality
rather than on doctrine. It demanded conformity in
14 A significant proof, though somewhat negative, of the ori's
paramount importance was the suppressive and devastating-
ly efficient impulse directed against the ori by the newly
imported religions.
The leading role played by ancestral spirits in Lugba-
ra traditional religion is in line with African traditional
religions; see for instance, B. Idowu (1973: 140 ff.), P. A.
Talbot (1926: 14), R. S. Rattray (1927: 11), E. G. Parrinder
(1961: 12). The common element in these examples is the
attention to ancestors. Their preeminent position has re-
mained generally unchallenged. There have been, however,
some dissenting opinions like the one in the article on “Re-
ligion” in the African Encyclopedia (1974:424) considering
god or the gods as the central element of African traditional
religion with ritual, sacrifices, myth, divination, taboo, after
life, and other religious elements as pivoting on the divinity.
There is no mention of ancestors in this article.
36
Albert Titus Dalfovo
practical behaviour rather than assent to theoretical
truths. It had to do with actions rather than with
ideas.
The humanistic dimension of ori was a natural
derivation of the humanism permeating the con-
cept of ancestors. Though the ancestors referred to
as ori were somewhat distant from humanity, they
nevertheless remained ultimately human. Their
shrines were made to occupy places cherished by
humans, quite often within the family compound,
as the ori were still considered to be members
of the human community. The food offered to
them was the same as that taken by any human.
The attitudes and reactions of ancestors such as
jealousy, vengeance, and the consideration of tra-
ditional values were those experienced by people
in ordinary life. In cultivating relationships with
the ori, the living did not transfer themselves to the
transempirical reality of the dead, but rather they
kept the spirits of the dead within the empirical
humanity of the living. That humanism, emanating
from the ori and extending to traditional religion,
involved its adherents and specifically their be-
haviour. Traditional religion had to be seen in the
practice of good relations among the group that
made reference to the same ori. The ethics derived
from traditional religion was eminently public and
social rather than private and individualistic. That
humanistic dimension made traditional religion
easy to understand, defending it from too much
mystery, though allowing to it every sacredness.
All that related to ori was public and that
gave a social dimension to traditional religion. The
very first motivation for a gathering at the ori
might have been private, like a misfortune, or a
calamity affecting a person, or a family. But as
soon as an assembly at the ori was envisaged,
the first duty of its private initiator was that of
making the forthcoming event public. The actual
gathering was public in every detail both with
regard to the actual performance that was entirely
in the open, and to the attendance, which could be
witnessed by all. In case anything in connection
with the gathering might have passed unnoticed, it
would have been eventually brought out in the fi-
nal speeches. Lugbara traditional religion entailed
private aspects as well; however, its public aspect
remained overwhelmingly characteristic.15
15 Traditional religion does not lack the private dimension.
One can observe private religious expressions in the of-
ferings of such gifts as chickens, eggs, and food to spirits
usually in rivers and that are not ori or related to them.
A similar case is that of placing food on the graves. A
private feature is also the confession traditionally practiced
The term ori as referred to traditional religion,
conveyed also an elitist aspect. In fact, ori high-
lighted the active role played by elders in tradi-
tional religion and consequently the passive role
played by the rest of the people, particularly the
women and the young. These latter ones attended
the on-gatherings, but their presence was main-
ly that of spectators. They might have partaken
of the food and women actually helped in its
preparation, but none of them went beyond that
function of acolytes. The final speeches of the
elders were a further and conclusive proof that the
ceremonial leadership at the ori belonged to them.
This elders’ preeminence extended to everything
related to traditional religion. Although religion
permeated the entire social life, it was nevertheless
the predominant business of the elders. While the
women and the young had no particular role to
play in the ori, elders had in religion an instrument
for commanding and maintaining respect, order,
and security in their society.
6. Change from Ori to Dini
Of the four aspects of traditional religion just con-
sidered, it was the elitist one that was immediately
challenged by dini, and that prompted people to
change from ori to dini. This change came about
in two waves.
Changes from ori to dini were conspicuous
among the youth and the women. These two
groups had very few or no vested interests at all in
traditional religion. They were excluded from the
elitist position in traditional religion, as only the
elders were actually reaping the full psychological
and material advantages of belonging to the ori.
Initially, when dini first came, the overwhelming
ori-culture required those who wanted to abandon
it, to break out of it for a new adventure and
insecurity that not everybody was ready to accept.
In general, however, the youth and the women felt
attracted by dini that was free of the domineering
presence of elders and offered wider horizons. In
leaving ori they were breaking out of an inferior
and coercive status. In some cases, however, the
positions of interest and a certain elitism concerned
some young people and women too who conse-
quently held on to the ori. That could be due, for
among the Lugbara when prompted by some impending
danger; a person confesses his/her hidden sins to avert
such danger. A similar example is given in the case of
a person needing divination. The diviner’s oracle needs to
be generally preceded by a rather detailed explanation of
the petitioner’s private affairs.
Anthropos 96.2001
Religion among the Lugbara
37
instance, to their relationship with their fathers,
their husbands, or their families.
The first wave caused a considerable numerical
increase of adherents to dini. It caused an inflow of
new ideas and values into society that was having
an impact on the elders, the depositors of those
values and ideas that gave stability and cohesion
to traditional society and to the ori within it. The
first wave of change caused eventually a second
wave that affected elders. This second wave was
slower. It interested fewer people than the first, but
it carried more meaning.
Initially, when the prevailing opinion was in
favour of ori and the social setup and demand
Was for that religion, the elders held on to their
Position. Those few among them who left ori for
dini experienced the solitude and isolation typical
°f any outstanding convert to a new religion. The
Prevailing social trend brought pressure on them
to return from their adventurous “new way” of
dini to the old security of ori. In fact, the moral
impulsion could be such that the “converted”
elders, who had not attended the assemblies at the
orU were sent the food prepared at such assemblies
f°r them to feel in communion with the ori and
lts community. If some of them refused to eat
and to revert to what that food symbolised, he
Would be threatened with the vengeance of the ori.
Subsequent misfortunes and calamities happening
to these unrepented converts were promptly inter-
preted as the avenging response of the disappoint-
ed ori.
The elders perceived the incumbent danger of
dini that was ousting them from their privileged
Position and relegating them to a marginal side in
the new society. That trend was not only under-
lining their status but it was actually threatening
|he foundations that kept their society standing,
tfence, their concern to hold their peers together.
The extreme spiritualism and the exacting de-
mands of the new dini were uninspiring. The
understandable naturalism of the ori as typified
at hs gatherings with its conversations, food, and
speeches was now to give way to an abstruse
transcendentalism in the prayers, ceremonies, and
ntes moulded on alien patterns and uttered in an
lnc°mprehensible language.16 Again, the demands
of the new dini, its precepts, regulations, and
lrectives, were generally difficult to cope with
ai)d at times impossible. The old ori was simpler
t° understand, to live with, and to satisfy.
16 One could recall here the use of the Latin and Arabic
languages by the early missionaries, and also the use of
English which was equally foreign.
Anth
However, the abandonment of ori on the part
of the young and the women was gradually de-
priving traditional religion of its public and social
dimensions that undermined the position of the
elders themselves. The ori were loosing much of
their significance as faith in them was dwindling.
Although people were retaining certain beliefs
in ori, many of the social practices related to
them were becoming socially obsolete. The move
towards the new dini seemed irreversible. Slowly
and cautiously, some elders started moving to dini
and away from ori. While initially isolation and
solitude were outside the world of ori, now that
isolation and solitude were inside it. The elders
were not only experiencing the normal social
margination posed by time and age and by the
incoming of new generations. They were feeling
that a relentless social change was impinging on
the acephalous structure of Lugbara society and on
the way the ori had to be managed by them. The
traditional acephalous structure gave elders the
highest position in society. And the ori sanctioned
that.
The loss of that supreme and elitist position
forced elders to seek new positions of interest.
The implication of the ongoing transformation was
that elders were loosing the access to authority.
Not just to the effective exercise of it but to any
indirect influence on it. For an elder who knew
what authority meant in the old society as he
effectively had it, the ensuing margination was
particularly felt in all its implications. Accepting
the new setup and moving into it meant for the
elder, with a holistic vision of society that included
religion into it as well, taking up the new dini with
all the novelty of society in order to play in it
whichever part he could.
At the same time, there were other elements in
dini that attracted the elders to it. One of them un-
derlined in inquiries on this point was the freshness
that marked the congregations of dini, particularly
on the occasion of funerals. Elders were particular-
ly sensitive to the social dimension of traditional
religion and thus to the religious assemblies that
sponsored effective participation of the community
to religious ties and consideration for togetherness.
The elders were also traditionally imbued with a
sacred veneration for the dead, and they were close
to the time and the need for the “immortality”
that such diffused veneration provided. Hence, the
way dini animated assemblies, specifically those
related to funerals, were particularly attractive for
and influential on the elders.
Another element was the sense of rejuvena-
tion that dini seemed to provide and that was
lr°pos 96.2001
38
Albert Titus Dalfovo
meaningfully indicated by the new name given
to its members and marking the belonging to the
new dini. For an elder who was experiencing
margination, being once again brought at the heart
of the community was very attractive and fully
rewarding.
7. “Religion” and the Conclusive Question
The main ideas about the meaning of religion
that have emerged from the above considerations
pivoted mainly on the Lugbara ori and on the
Kiswahili dini. Initially, traditional religion was
characterised by a pluralism and indefiniteness
of ideas. Challenged by dini, traditional religion
found in ori, the catalyst, that precipitated its an-
cestral, humanistic, social, and elitist components.
The coming of dini started and developed a new
identity. Dini eventually solidified the ideas of
the new religion with its characteristics of God,
teaching, and organisation. The religious ideas
centred on ori were quite different from those
centred on dini. Moreover, the change from ori to
dini highlighted further concepts, like the influence
of society on religion in ori and of religion on
society in dini. This change marked actually the
passage from one concept of religion to another
that, however, was not necessarily a development
under every respect. For instance, having moved
away from the elitism of ori was an improvement
while having moved into the spiritualism of dini
was rather regressive.
Besides the contribution of ori and dini there
has also been that from a third term, namely,
the English word “religion,” with its meaning and
its influence in Lugbara thought and life. While
the term ori led into the inner and primal area
of religious meaning, and dini introduced a new
and challenging significance of religion, the term
“religion” touched on both ori and dini but, at
the same time, it differentiated itself from both
of them, furthering a third set of ideas about
religion. These latter ideas have also emerged in
the course of this article. They concerned mainly
the autonomy of religion, the dichotomy between
belief and practice, religious pluralism, secular
society, and the rationality and utilitarianism in
religion.
The autonomy of religion implied that it could
be conceived as isolated from the rest of reality,
namely, as a self-contained system in society vis-
à-vis, for instance, the political, the economical, or
the educational systems. Contrary to ori and also
to dini, “religion” was not pervading the fabric
of life and society as an essential constituent of
them.
“Religion” fostered a dichotomy between belief
and practice in the sense that a person could
theoretically accept the teaching of religion and yet
could disregard the demands of it. One could even
teach a religion without adhering to it. Religion
was not indispensable to a person’s life.
“Religion” carried a collective meaning that
implied the possibility of many religions in the
same society, such that its members could be-
long to different religions. This religious pluralism
encouraged tolerance as well as indifference to-
wards religion. The weakening support of society
to religion had to be supplemented by personal
commitment.
An idea related to religious pluralism was that
society did not need any specific religion per se.
Society could acknowledge one or more religions
but it had no commitment to any of them. Religion
was left to the community of its adherents and to
its autonomous organisation. Modern society was
secular.
“Religion” had also a rationality about it that
divested it of its emotional and mystery dimen-
sions. Rationality subtracted religion from that
intuition which was at the origin of religion, in
the opinion of several scholars. The final outcome
of this rational understanding was to place utility
above truth in religion. A religion was true because
it was useful; it was not useful because it was true.
The efficacy of religion became its primary value.
8. Conclusions
The conclusion of this article would seem to sug-
gest gathering into unity the multiplicity of ideas
emerged from the triadic set of meanings con-
sidered above, organising it into a definition and
then decoding it into its implied components. The
question here is not really whether this suggestion
is possible but whether or when it is necessary. The
epistemological exercise of this article has been
contextual and this has highlighted its intrinsic
dynamism, namely, the fact that one is dealing
here with the continuous change that characterises
the life-situation. Such fluid situation needs to be
fixed within time limits, verbal expressions, and
thought patterns for the purpose of analysis and
understanding. These precise terms of reference
are demanded by the research methodology in
scientific inquiry. Consequently the ideas about
Lugbara religion, its definition and the approach
to it have to be systematised in order to provide
Anthropos 96.2001
Religion among the Lugbara
39
the appropriate instruments of inquiry and under-
standing. However, as far as the general public is
concerned, the ideas related to the understanding
of religion remain variables or “floating” in the
general stock culture; they actually belong to that
stock like fish belongs to water. This implies
that scholars who have organised those ideas in
established patterns of thought should keep such
patterns dynamically open to the novelty of life
and change.
Combining the various ideas that have emerged
in this article is difficult and, in some cases, it
may be impossible as it would require harmonis-
mg opposing views like tradition and modernity,
this-worldliness and other-worldliness, naturalism
and supernaturalism, God-oriented and ancestor-
oriented religion. But in fact such combination is
not always necessary. As already said, the religious
ideas highlighted above are in the stock of culture.
The real need is to be aware of them such that,
when required, one selects from them to provide
°r to clarify a certain meaning of religion. The
contemporary person is able to live and to deal
with this plurality of ideas which is actually a
characteristic of contemporary life. It is the men-
tal attitude that allows various “resemblances” of
mligion to enter into the “family” of a needed
definition, as envisaged by Wittgenstein.
Hence, the various ideas encountered in this
article and stemming from the triadic source of ori,
dini, and “religion” do not really imply a triadic
meaning of religion and they do not converge into
0ae fixed definition either. A definition answers
questions that a person or a society face at a given
tuornent of their life and history. The diversified
and complex ideas from one’s cultural stock are
then to provide the elements for such an answer
which cannot be, per se, the “true” definition and
thus to be “persuasively” imposed as the “correct”
0ne- C. L. Stevenson speaks of “persuasive” def-
mitions, a quality that he first introduced. “Our
lunguage abounds with words which ... have both
a vague descriptive meaning and a rich emotive
mcaning. The descriptive meaning of them all is
subject to constant redefinition. The words are
Pnzes that each man seeks to bestow on qualities
°f his own choice. Persuasive definitions are often
recognisable from the words ‘real’ or ‘true’ ...
muce people usually accept what they consider
|rue, ‘true’ come to have the persuasive force of ‘to
e accepted’ ... The hearer is induced to accept
ue new meaning which the speaker introduces”
(Stevenson 1944 in Flew 1984: 86). As religion
*s a term and a concept particularly difficult to
ehne and emotionally loaded, some philosophers
Anth:
ropos 96.2001
like Emmanuel Levinas (1906-1995) have tried to
avoid the word. Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929),
very influential on Levinas, claimed never to have
used the word “religion,” saying that “God did not
create religion; he created the world” (in Borsato
1995:31). Such avoidance may be an extreme
measure but it cautions on the danger of dealing
monistically with pluralistic reality.
The final and practical query concerns the suit-
ability of some conclusive definition that could
exemplify the core around which to gather the
“family resemblances” emerged above. Consider-
ing the purpose of this article and the various
ideas about religion that have emerged in Lugbara
culture, one could consider such core to be the
belief in the “beyond.” This belief comes logically
first, in the sense that it justifies a variety of
religious elements like the ori, dini, Adro, spirits,
etc., and it explains a series of concrete expressions
like rites, observances, and behaviour. But what
comes logically first may not be experientially
such. In fact, a person is generally born into an
existing religion and thus the outcome of the belief
is experienced before the belief itself; the answer
is known before the question. Such person moves
subsequently from this practice to its theory, in
order to establish the premises of the conclusions
that the person already lives. This explains, among
the rest, some shaky explanations of otherwise
firm beliefs. It takes much time and thought to
systematise one’s religious practices, giving them
coherence and infusing logic in them. Also for
religion, the Socratic invitation to pass from the
“unexamined” to the “examined” life is valid.
In most cases, the religious challenge is not in
establishing religious belief but in systematising
its multifaceted expression in life.
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1968 Religions africaines et structures de civilisation. Pré-
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Borsato, B.
1995 L’alterità come etica. Bologna: Edizioni Dehoniane.
Cantwell Smith, W.
1964 The Meaning and End of Religion. New York: New
American Library.
Dalfovo, A. T.
1988 A Bibliography of Lugbara Studies and Literature.
Kampala: Makerere University.
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Albert Titus Dalfovo
Evans-Pritchard, E. E.
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versity Press.
Field, G. C.
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1944 Ethics and Language. New Haven: Yale University
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1926 The Peoples of Southern Nigeria. Vol. 2: Ethnology.
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scombe). Oxford: Basic Blackwell and Mott. [2nd ed.]
Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 41-57
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
Hermann Amborn
bstract. - The concept of soul among the Dullay (Southern
hiopia) is examined with respect to its personal significance
jjnd interpersonal relations, how it influences relations between
® Person and society, and what concept of man and what
0s it entails. This case study allows us to broaden existing
ar°pological models of interpretation. I focus on that part
lhe soul which is able to separate itself from the body
,. ls transformed after death into an ancestral soul. Thus a
lnct concept of soul becomes apparent which allows us to
ter^ inclusions about conscience: conscience as a link or
lUm comparationis of personality and traditional values. The
.^sine of moral behaviour is awareness of occupying a place
th an<^ Participating in the cycle of life. A person is tied to
community through this idea of the soul and urges it to
c P°nsible behaviour. In this sense, there are analogies with
for emporary Western concepts of ethics, with responsibility
^ the Other forming a point of contact. [Southern Ethiopia,
ide • concePts °f sou^ ancestors, person and community,
ntlty, personal responsibility, contemporary ethics]
^ermann Amborn, professor emeritus of Anthropology, Uni-
of Munich; degree in Anthropology; doctoral thesis
°n sociohistorical topic. Habilitation (1987) entitled
Pol erenzierur*g und Integration,” on division of work in
tjleVfePhal°us societies. - Travel and ethnographic fieldwork in
jr . ddle East, India, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Indonesia. Teach-
(K !n ^Unlch’ Hamburg, Berlin, Tübingen, and Manhattan
puj^Sas)- Spokesman for working group on Ethics of DGV.
Ce 1Cations relating to: action research, ethics, identity, poly-
anth a °Us societies, socioeconomics, agricultural anthropology,
r°pology of landscape.
Hy
due^ SOUl *s a mo<^e^ Difficult to comprehend
0£ uto its very nature, the soul requires a model
m
ftself in order to become comprehensible, both
Its °Ur °Wn society ancI in indigenous societies.
a rtl°del character justifies the use of “soul” as
ex^nera* term t0 re^er t0 concepts which will be
P ained in the model.
My aim is to investigate the significance of the
conception of soul for single persons and inter-
personal relations, how this conception influences
the relationship of single persons to society, and
finally, what conception of man and what ethos it
involves.
Our starting point is ideas of the soul among
Dullay-speaking ethnic groups. These ideas have
many structural characteristics in common with
comparable conceptions of neighbouring and other
African ethnic groups, especially those with an
originally polycephalous social order. In addition
to discussing this socioreligious field (which has
not been exhaustively treated for southern Ethiop-
ia), it is hoped that the proposed interpretation will
throw new light on some aspects of the relationship
between soul and ethos, and thus help to reveal
more general relationships.
As a background for the model to be created,
I shall use ideas of the soul as documented in the
ethnographic literature, as far as this appears to me
to be justified in the light of the current state of
research and the broad comparative basis.1
1 In an extensive essay written in 1918 Ankermann collected
a large number of examples showing various ideas of the
soul in Africa. The work of Meyer Fortes (e.g., 1965 and
1987 posthumously) is still fundamental to the questions
which I treat in this paper; although mainly concentrating
on the Tallensi, his studies throw light on the many-sided
African situation. In most monographs there are references
to ancestor worship and the concepts of soul associated
with it. Among more recent work on eastern Africa,
that of Malcolm Ruel (1997) deserves special mention.
His interesting interpretative approach, which, like that
of Anita Jakobson-Widding (1997), takes its inspiration
from psychology and behaviourism respectively, will not
42
Hermann Amborn
My account of the Burji-Konso cluster, espe-
cially the Dullay-speaking ethnic groups (referred
to here as “Dullay”), is based on my own research.
I owe my basic knowledge to my friend Pikole H.,
a seer from Gollango.
1 Concepts of the Soul
Every human culture known to us has developed
ideas of forces present in humans which make the
body capable of life, and which, although not di-
rectly visible, nevertheless find expression in phys-
ical and mental behaviour. Stimulated by the given
ambiguity of this idea, many people have been
driven by it to reflect on their life situation (the
body/soul dualism known to us through Descartes
being only one example). Such considerations also
opened the way to the idea of extraphysical forces
whose sphere of activity and appearance cannot be
clearly grasped due to their complexity. Thus they
have frequently been thought of as a multiplicity
of more or less material components and forces
which manifest themselves in a person and which
together constitute the person.
Anthropological research showed interest in
this phenomenon early on, and tried to systemize
the components of the soul. Today we can still
usefully refer back to older definitions and descrip-
tions, as long as we do not let ourselves be tempted
to see the separate souls as independent entities.
The people concerned clearly see each separate
soul as a necessary part of a whole.
This also applies to the Dullay, who always see
the whole, or at least aspects of the whole, in the
individual elements which constitute a person. In
certain circumstances one component of the soul
may represent the whole person.* 2 *
When a child is born, its separate souls are
already present, but their real development and
the formation of their various aspects take place
only after birth, and in particular after the naming
ceremony.
be followed up here, since the focus in my article is on
religious and social aspects. With regard to West Africa
among some recent interesting studies, that on the Moose of
Burkina Faso by Annie Bruyer (1997) is worth mentioning,
in which the author shows how the person consists of three
components. In the book by Klaus E. Müller (1997) the
reader will find examples from all over the world.
2 In this article I use the term person or persons to refer
to people with their own specific disposition. I have de-
liberately avoided using the term “individual”, as it is too
strongly coloured by Western'ideas. Vernacular forms are
always in singular form.
Among the various components of the soul, let
us begin with the life force sasa^akko. This is
present in animals, plants, even wind and water,
but not in earth or stones. Water can actually
“produce” sasasakko in living beings, which, as
I was told, anyone knows who has been revived
by water after suffering from the heat of the sun.
As regards the seat of this “vital soul,” there
are several possible interpretations. It may be the
heart, sasa^akko - which is suggested by the
etymological similarity - but according to others it
is the abdomen (karadtto), in particular the liver
or the upper abdomen. A distinction is sometimes
made between men and women here. In women
the life force is located primarily in the abdomen,
but in men it is frequently associated with the
arm, since that is where emotional reactions are
manifested - a man’s arm directs his spear and
with it he can kill. Women, on the other hand, or
so it is said, usually hide their feelings in their
abdomen, and it is the abdomen in which new life
grows. The association of the life force with the
heart or the central abdominal area is widespread
and not limited to Africa.
Closely related to this life principle is breath
(,nasso), which is also generally equated with life
and “soul.”
On death, these components of the soul disap-
pear. This is also true, with certain reservations, of
the body and the (soul) force (d’akante or pisko)
associated with it. In particular pisko remains in
the body (pokkas'akko) after death until it has
decomposed. (A part of pisko survives in the
bones. However, I was given different information
on this point. It is possible that this only applies
to the bones of lineage elders buried in hereditary
stone-lined shaft graves.) The skeleton is also
called pokka^akko. (I am not sure whether the
term d’akante is also used for the postmortem
body soul.) Using the shadow or name of a person
to symbolize the soul is much less common in
the Dullay area than in other places. There is a
tendency to avoid addressing people directly by
their name (usual forms of address are “Mother
of so-and-so” or “Father of so-and-so” or various
nicknames), but the name can be used when talk-
ing about somebody. For the younger generation
today it has become customary to address each
other by name.
A term of central importance concerning ideas
of the soul is kaasse. Kaasse is sometimes equated
with shadow. In connection with “soul,” however,
it does not mean the shadow thrown by a person,
but the shadowlike emanation of the soul, such as
can be recognized by a seer. In this paper I shall
Anthropos 96.2001
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
43
mainly be concerned with kaasse. With kaasse,
which can move about outside the body, we touch
°n religious areas. Some brief general remarks on
religion are therefore necessary.
In accordance with the intention of the Dullay,
the deity associated with the sun (haallikko)3 has a
being, the nature of which is hard to comprehend,
^e could interpret this deity as a deus otiosus,
smce he does not intervene in the daily affairs of
humans. But this categorization is true only to a
limited extent, although, as is not uncommon in
Africa, this deity has no particular cult of his own.
However, there are ritual sites (moore d’awra)
which represent the divine or the divine power,
direct relations, such as in prayers addressed to
haallikko, are limited among the Dullay to a few
rehgious dignitaries, and then only during commu-
nal ceremonies. Haallikko did indeed create the
world, but he then left his uncompleted creation
largely in the hands of humankind. However, he
ls not entirely without influence. The creation
°f new humans (i.e., lineage founders) is still
P°ssible today. Even if the deity does not care
about particular people, he does care about matters
^hich affect all humans. In the narrower sense,
ais is understood in relation to one’s own territory
the people, animals, and plants who live in it.
f'aallifcko can send rain to a whole region (going
^eyond one’s own territory) or if there is strife,
e may punish the region by sending epidemics,
°°d shortages, or war. In practice the ancestors
act as mediators between haallikko and the people
ln all religious areas. The rites and ceremonies are
parried out for the ancestors, since it is they who
n§ ago created the existing order according to
lo
the
Wishes of haallikko. They are the guarantors
fertility. The living are in their debt and can
!?eet their obligations by offering sacrifices to
®m. Sacrificial ceremonies such as these and
^er ritual activities are fixed points in the rules
the internal social order. We shall be returning
0 this topic below.
Before proceeding with the discussion, it will
Q helpful to explain the role of three religious
dictionaries: lineage elders, sacrificers, and seers,
e latter, known as soPakko, gain their skills after
Pcriencing a personal vocation. Seers can make
ntact with the souls of the ancestors, and in
Certain
circumstances also with components of the
3 The
equation of haallikko with the sun, the sun being
thought of at the same time as the seat of the god, should
°e understood metaphorically. When people talk about the
neat of the sun, they do not use the word haallikko but
uk’
uyye that means “rays of the sun.”
Anth;
r°pos 96.2001
souls of the living. They are therefore consulted
particularly in cases of illness and death, in order
to discover the social causes behind these events;
they also interpret dreams and give warnings based
on their own visions (which are usually inspired by
the ancestral souls) of dangers that are threatening
particular persons or the whole land.
The lineage elders (qarunko) are responsible
for relations with the ancestors and the resulting
obligations. Among agriculturalists a lineage head
represents the static element of society on the
basis of his genealogical link with the earliest
ancestor. There is a general belief that the earliest
ancestor brought the first crops. His power to
bestow blessings or to cause harm was transmitted
to his descendants and is therefore still effective
today.4 *
Sacrificers are members of artisan lineages
(they are usually also lineage elders). Their pres-
ence at ceremonies is indispensable, since in ad-
dition to their ability to make contact with the
ancestors they are the only ones in a position to
address supplications directly to the deity (Amborn
1990: 308-333).
2 Kaasse and karaadd’e: States of the Soul
With the exception of kaasse, the components
of the soul which constituted the living person
disappear after death at varying rates. The kaasse
is made to pass into the karaadd’e or “ancestral
soul.” This concept goes beyond the single person
and creates a link with the living members of
the lineage and the timeless ancestors (in the first
place the lineage ancestors). The kaasse is thus
the most interesting component of the soul for the
purpose of our investigation. We shall therefore
devote most of the following discussion to it.
In the consciousness of the people, the kaasse
most frequently plays a role in communication
through dreams and in conceptions of illness,
death, and ancestor worship. However, for the per-
sons with whom I came into contact, dream inter-
pretation in the narrow sense was of no great sig-
4 Since it is customary for new lineage branches to be
formed after seven generations, in order to keep lineages
to a manageable size (cf. Amborn et al. 1980: 27 ff.),
the intensity of these forces is determined by genealogical
proximity to the earliest ancestor of the core lineage. In
the case of the Dullay, the lineage heads, who bear the
title poqolho, consider themselves as descendants in an
unbroken line of descent. Concerning differences between
lineage elders, and on their religious function, see Amborn
et al. 1980: 49 ff.; Amborn 1990: 47 f„ 326 ff.
44
Hermann Amborn
nificance. Most dreams do not need to be analysed
by specialists. A dream is a text which uses certain
signs, the meaning of which is known.5 Dreams of
conversations with recently deceased relatives are
considered to be particularly important. Normally
these also require no interpretation because of their
directness.
People think that the kaasse can leave the body
for a time and find the way back to the body during
sleep. However, this is not without risk for, in a
graphic sense, death plays with the soul in dreams
and separates it finally from the body at the end
of life.
People also become aware of the existence of
the kaasse when they get a fright for any reason.
First a slight trembling is felt in the region of
the heart. In this case the kaasse usually stays in
the body, but if the shock is very great, then the
kaasse can suddenly separate itself from the body
and become lost. The result is a sharp pain in the
region of the heart. This is one of the few examples
known to me in which a direct relationship is
shown between sasafakko and kaasse. However,
people frequently assured me that the proper seat
of the kaasse in a physically and mentally healthy
person is between the costal arch and the navel;
that is the area to which sasa^akko can also be
attributed - even if this may not be very evident
to us.
When the kaasse goes “on its travels” in a
dream, it returns of its own accord upon waking.
It is thus unimportant for the affected persons to
know what forms it assumes “on its journey.” But
if it leaves the body outside a dream, a search must
be made for it. Although it stays near the person,
it takes on the form of a spider. It can happen that
the kaasse finds the way back into the body by
itself, if the affected person is exactly in the place
where his or her “soul” is. But in most cases it
is necessary to consult a seer (soPakko) who has
the ability to find the kaasse in its disguise as a
spider.
In the case of many serious diseases, and es-
pecially any which we would call psychosomatic,
kaasse also leaves the body and needs to be
brought back by a seer, if the patient is to recover.
Illness never occurs without a reason: it is due
either to an influence from outside, or to the
patient’s own culpable behaviour. I would like to
illustrate this with an example.
The senior wife in the compound in which
I lived for some months, suffered for several
days from a feverish illness. During the night
she stammered out unconnected utterances. Local
healers were unable to make a satisfactory diag-
nosis, and penicillin injections at the “clinic” did
not help.6 When he saw that she was not getting
better, her husband decided to order a healing
ceremony. All adult members of the lineage living
in the neighbourhood were asked to attend. About
twenty people came. First of all, food and drink
were offered as sacrifice to the lineage ancestors.
The most important actors in this ceremony were
the lineage head (in this case a poqolho), his
senior wife (poqolte), and a sacrificer responsible
for the lineage (ohado). After the sacrifice to the
ancestors, all those present ate and drank from the
sacrificial offerings.
In the meantime the sick woman has sat
down beside her husband leaning against the most
important house post with her legs stretched out in
front of her.7 The seer sits inside the open door.
In a weak voice the patient tells what happened
when she was crossing a river on the way home
one evening with three other women. Something
suddenly frightened her badly. Probably it was a
wild animal. As it was already getting dark, she
could not exactly see what it was. While she was
still in a state of shock, she felt that her kaasse
had left her body. During the following night she
developed a high fever. All those present now
know what happened.
Now the soPakko takes the initiative. He binds
roofing thatch and various other plants into a bun-
dle, like a broom, and uses it to stir some specially
prepared sorghum beer in a calabash bowl. He
stretches out his arm and holds the bundle outside
the door. The expression on his face changes. He
begins to see. With the bundle he sprays some of
the contents of the calabash and calls the soul:
ag!, aga! ag’ag! (“Come, come ...!”). Suddenly
5 If someone dreams that he is in a house with a locked door,
he is going to die soon. The same is true, if he dreams that
he falls into a big hole. But if someone is ill and dreams he
is climbing a mountain, then he will soon recover. Climbing
up a tree is good as long as the dreamer doesn’t fall out of
it, for this also indicates death. A gunshot is a sign of good
luck, for the dreamer will soon marry, and a bullet from a
gun means that a son will be bom.
6 In the rural areas of southern Ethiopia former nurses fre-
quently set up so-called “clinics,” in which they sell aspirin
and give penicillin injections - usually without a diagnosis.
7 In the local house-building style the roof of the house is
supported by four to six posts. The post on the right of the
front doorway is the most important. The one opposite it
to the rear of the house is the next most important. These
posts are rubbed with butter during ceremonies. Parts of the
sacrificial offerings are also tied to them.
Anthropos 96.2001
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
45
he looks up, follows with his index finger what
he sees, and describes it in a murmur: “There it
goes, it’s out there in front ..I recognize it.”8
He calls the kaasse, but it does not come nearer.
It passes by the house. It goes to the the juniper
tree at the cattle kraal. Carefully the soPakko goes
°ut with the sacrificer. He shows the kaasse to the
Priest, who catches it in its spider form together
^ith its web. He brings the spider and the web
hack” to the sick woman and throws them both
lnto her lap. Immediately she begins to talk. The
sacrificer has to repeat the procedure three times,
because the kaasse keeps running away, until it
finally disappears altogether.
The seer becomes active again. He gives the
bundle of leaves which he used before and the
calabash bowl to the patient’s stepson (she herself
has no son), who takes them outside under his cape
[bullukko), followed by the seer and the sacrificer.
priest brings another spider, which he carries
carefully in his cape. First he lays it in the lap
°fi the seer, and the patient covers it with her
CaPe. Sighing with relief, she says that she has
§°t her kaasse back again. The seer now takes
ae bundle of leaves and uses it to rub some of
ue liquid he used before on the middle of the
°rehead of the senior wife of the lineage head
Poqolte). Then he subjects the patient to the same
j^tual and then all those present, one after the other.
°w the sacrificer fetches a central leaf rib from
e nearest Ensete, lays it on the threshold of the
°°r and cuts it into two halves. The poqolho and
le Poqolte spit on it, and then the ohado cuts
‘e leaf rib into thin strips and hands them to the
important people present. He throws some
Pleces on the hearth and others out through the
o^0r while invoking the ancestors. The position
• lfie pieces is examined. He indicates that he
, satisfied. Finally the seer ties the bundle of
Ves and the calabash bowl to the sacrificial post
^ fi16 back of the house. This marks the end of
e ceremony. During the hours that followed the
lent s condition improved visibly.
, This ceremony was explained to me by the
sband and the seer as follows: The spider in
W'tK kaasse is embodied must be treated
the ^reatest °fi care- If anything happened to
captured spider, then the patient would die.
in-0u^ be equally dangerous if the spider fell
0 the calabash. That is why the stepson carried
H this
text, quotations in inverted commas in or from
4UUUU1U11& 111 mvciicu gummas m ui iiuiu
tdlay are either stereotypical expressions or, if not oth-
eiwise indicated, are taken from statements made by the
Seer Pikole H.
it under his cape. When the seer saw the kaasse
passing the house, it had the shadowy form of
the patient. This meant that it had not yet turned
into a spider and was thus not yet tangible. On
the first attempt, the kaasse did not return to the
patient, which meant that she was guilty of a
misdemeanour. The seer knew what the trouble
was. Once, after quarrelling with her husband, the
patient had secretly sworn to leave him, although
in the eyes of the husband the dispute was settled.
When the kaasse came back again, the forehead
of the patient and of all those present was touched
with the bundle of leaves dipped in the ceremonial
beer, to ensure that nobody’s kaasse would be lost.
The cutting up of the Ensete leaf rib at the end of
the ceremony was a symbolic slaughtering. That is
why all important persons were given a piece. The
correct position of the pieces thrown in front of
the door shows that there was no longer any guilt
which still needed to be confessed, and that the
replacement sacrifice was sufficient. Slaughtering,
including symbolic slaughtering, is looked upon
as purification from all the misdemeanours which
have produced the illness.
If a lost kaasse is not returned, the person will
die. This may not happen immediately, but the
patient’s condition will deteriorate. A person can
live for about a month without a soul, but if it is
not brought back within this time, he or she will
die. It can also happen that a person dies even after
the return of the soul. If the soul cannot be found,
this is not its fault but the fault of the soPakko.
But the “spider” tries to hide. Therefore it depends
on the quality of the soPakko, whether he finds it
or not. If even the best soPakko cannot find it,
this is an indication of grave misdemeanours (e.g.,
insulting one’s parents; incest, but not adultery;
rape of virgins, of women on their way to market,
of women fetching water; a false oath taken at the
sacred grounds, and murder within the lineage).
The return of the soul of a sick person can
be deliberately prevented by the lineage head or
mother’s brother. They can “tie” the kaasse soul
component. Interestingly, in this case the kaasse,
which is tied into a knot, is not thought of as
embodied in a spider. Only the persons we have
mentioned have the right to tie the soul, providing
the patient is guilty. In principle, exerting an
influence on the soul is within the power only of
ancestors and haallikko. Thus in the present case
the exercising of influence on the soul in their
lifetime shows that lineage elders and mother’s
brothers are entitled to a certain moral control
function. In the following example a mother’s
brother tied the soul of his in-law:
^nth
lroPos 96.2001
46
Hermann Amborn
A man became ill. When he saw that he was not getting
better, he wanted to ask his mother’s brother, a lineage
head, to help him. But the latter could not be found,
as he had gone up to Gorrose. People rightly suspected
him of having tied the soul of his in-law. The latter’s
condition was getting worse: he was alive but yet not
alive, he died and yet did not die. “His clothes are tied,”
they said.
Finally the mother’s brother returned and came to
visit his in-law. “They say that you can undo the knot
and let me die.” “Yes, I have the knot here and I will
undo it; either you will recover or you will die.” And
he was right. The man did not die immediately. He died
only after the knot had been completely untied. The
people brewed beer and began to wail and lament (for
Dullay text with interlinear translation, see Amborn et
al. 1980: 140 ff.).
3 Death and Transformation
On death, the kaasse finally leaves the body to-
gether with the nasso (breath, breath soul). How-
ever, other components of the soul remain tied to
it for varying lengths of time, which is why the
corpse (pokka^akko) must be handled with great
care. Deceased persons are kept in their house for
three days. Burial takes place on the fourth day. On
the first three days the corpse must not be touched
by members of the family. They should not even
enter the house of the deceased and must not do
work of any kind. Neighbours close the eyes and
mouth of the corpse.9 For three days a fire is kept
burning, the corpse is protected from insects and
turned over once every hour. On the fourth day
the corpse is washed (by a sister of the deceased,
if possible), rubbed with honey and wrapped in a
cloak specially woven for the burial.10 11
On the day of the burial the deceased is laid out
in the compound in front of the house.11 Immedi-
ately before a deceased family head is brought of
the house, he “blesses” his eldest son and gives
him his life force. To achieve this, grain, honey,
and cow dung are put into the hand of the de-
ceased. The son places his hand underneath, and an
9 In the case of the most important lineage head of the
Diraasa, who can be referred to as a priestly-chief (d’aama),
the mandibula is held in place by a metal ring fitted over
his face (author’s own recording).
10 In earlier times a soft piece of leather was used for this
purpose. Poqolho are still wrapped in the hide of a bull
today. For some dignitaries the rules differ from those given
above, but without affecting the basic structure.
11 In the following description the masculine form is used,
since the information was given to me by men. For ideas
of the soul in relation to death and burial, the sex of the
deceased is unimportant.
elder turns the hand of the deceased over so that its
contents fall into the hand of the son. If the corpse
is in the compound, a he-goat is slaughtered (for
women a female goat) and its blood is splashed on
the corpse. If the person did not die of old age, a
soPakko must seek the reason for the death. First
he tries to find out from the kaasse whether the
deceased was guilty or whether someone else is
under suspicion. The soPakko takes the pounded
leaves of a ceremonial plant, scatters them over
the head of the deceased, and asks him: “What
fault killed you?” The deceased confesses his
misdemeanours (kutunko) and concludes: “This is
what I did, these are my offences, I concealed
them, that is why I died.” Those present are moved
on hearing this, and begin in their turn to confess
how they have wronged the deceased, with the seer
again functioning as “interpreter.” Those who have
confessed their guilt give the soPakko calabashes
filled with sorghum beer, which he later pours into
the grave while asking for forgiveness. There is
nothing more that can be done for the soul of the
deceased at this time. No one has any influence on
the ancestral spirits, or even haallikko, or can beg
them to be merciful to the kaasse of the deceased.
In the case of death by execution, the post-
mortem questioning is not necessary since there
is no doubt about who is guilty.12 The soul of an
executed person whose guilt has been atoned for
with death suffers no disadvantages. After death it
is treated with the same respect as the soul of any
other deceased person.
After the ceremony in the compound the corpse
is taken to the burial place and buried with the
head towards the west in a recessed grave. Since
the dead must not come into contact with earth,
the recess is tightly sealed. Up to this time the
kaasse stays nearby. The most recently deceased
members of the lineage now gather at the graveside
to take the kaasse with them at the end of the day.
For the mourners this is an extremely dangerous
phase, since it is possible that the kaasse of living
persons, especially those extremely affected by
grief, may fall into the grave either deliberately
or pulled by the kaasse of the deceased. It is the
duty of the soPakko to prevent this by waving
ceremonial branches. They can also see who will
be the next to be threatened by death, for that
person’s kaasse will keep trying to jump into the
12 Executions (by beating to death with a club) were carried
out only in the case of high treason and then only very
rarely. The worst offence was adultery with the poqolte-
The offender was impaled on a stake and left there to rot.
However, it is possible that this assertion already belongs
to the realm of myth.
Anthropos 96.2001
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
47
grave.13 The shadowy images of the ancestors,
which resemble their appearance when they were
alive, receive the kaasse of the deceased and lead
4 to haallikko. There it remains until the second
funeral rites (d’aPakko), during which haallikko is
fagged to return the soul.
The dead are not given any grave goods. Certain
dignitaries are buried with the bracelet which they
w°re as a sign of office. In the case of the poqolho
0I%, an iron bar is placed in the grave. During the
burial there are various complications which can
arise. In the worst case, the corpse sinks into the
ground together with the grave, which means that
ihe deceased bears an excessive burden of guilt.14
|f this occurs, the kaasse is usually lost for ever,
i ceases to exist.
There are many different and - to our way
^f thinking - contradictory ideas concerning what
naPpens during the time between the first and the
second funeral rites, which are celebrated after
aoout a year. Here, indigenous traditions have
oviously been influenced by Islamic and Christian
eas- On the one hand, it is assumed that the
aasse does not go far from the area where the
§rave and the compound are located. This is why,
0r example, the eldest son of the deceased must
eeP food in the house for the deceased until the
second funeral rites.15 It is also customary to ask
seer to go to the grave, if there are unusual
1 Acuities after the burial of the family head,
e seer rings iron bells and calls the soul of the
ceased, so that he can draw its attention to any
, ence or neglected obligation on the part of the
est son. The son must then confess his guilt and
erforrn a sacrifice to atone for it.
the other hand, there is the idea that the
theestors accompany the kaasse to haallikko. On
it h Wa^’ according t0 a frequently expressed view,
0r as to cross a dangerously narrow bridge (a rope
a sw°rd or something of this kind), from which
f Jjeciahy those who are not yet fully chastened
lnto a pool, to the right and the left alternately.
lToijrr
1 qo me sPec'al risk for the poqolho, see Amborn et al.
‘-'«O: 44
als^ Sacrificial ceremonies for the ancestors, seers can
that ■ t^at cleatl1 ls close to certain people from the fact
at their kaasse takes some of the drinks intended for the
14 £*«•
tie Dullay there is no doubt as to the reality of this
^ 0rnenon. Several of my friends assured me seriously
a they had seen this happen several times at the burial
'5 z\cu 1 arly cruel people.
fo l^r sacrlllce during the burial ceremonies, a three-
in h- ^0St *S Set UP ln tlie lt°use to the right of the doorway,
son 1C^ t^le °f the deceased is placed; below this the
des a leg from the sacrificial animal.
Anth;
roPos 96.2001
When it has finally reached the other side, wild
animals try to push the kaasse into a big hole, to
prevent it from going to haallikko. Common to all
ideas is that during this time the soul is under the
control of haallikko.
When people hear that a relative of theirs has
died but his body cannot be found, they must
organize a symbolic burial for otherwise his kaasse
will be left to wander about aimlessly. While
the relatives of the deceased mourn in the house,
friends take some of his garments to the river and
look for a flat, grey stone, as near oval-shaped as
possible. They wrap this in the garments and take
it home to the mourners. The stone is referred to
as the corpse (pokka <?akko) and treated correspond-
ingly: it is wrapped in a new shroud and laid out
in the house. Mourners come in the usual way. In
the evening a goat is slaughtered. On the following
day the stone is buried (it must be laid out for one
night). The rest of the ceremony is performed as
for a normal burial.
If the body of the deceased is found at a later
date, the grave is opened and the corpse is buried
next to the stone. If the d’aPakko (see below) has
already taken place, this is not repeated.16
The most important ritual connected with the
kaasse is the second funeral ceremony {d’aPakko),
which should be performed one year after the
burial. During the course of this ritual, the soul of
a deceased person is transformed into an ancestral
soul or ancestor (karaadd’e). Unlike the burial cer-
emony, and providing everything goes smoothly,
this is a merry occasion and large quantities of
sorghum beer are ready.
First, male friends bring a gravestone made
from a basalt column at least one metre high
and lay it down near the grave, where it remains
for three days. During this time women prepare
sorghum beer and on the third day men carry
out the ceremonial cleaning of the house and
compound; for “there must be no sin there” when
the kaasse returns.17 The beginning of the festival
is announced by a horn blower on the previous
evening. On the morning of the day of the festival
the eldest son of the deceased goes to the grave
together with some elders chosen by him and a seer
who knew the deceased.18 First, a seer examines
the grave for footprints of animals which could
16 Should it happen that the person believed to be dead turns
up alive, special rituals are necessary. He must not enter
his house before these have been performed.
17 The house and compound are cleaned with bunches of fresh
grass, which are then thrown away “in the bush.”
18 Only a seer who knew the deceased is able to make contact
with the kaasse.
48
Hermann Ambom
tell whether the deceased is still guilty of unatoned
offences. If this is the case, new sacrifices must be
performed before any further steps are taken. If the
deceased was the head of a household, his eldest
son makes a public lament about how difficult it
is for him without his father, and he begs the soul
of his father to come back. The seer steps onto the
grave and transmits the son’s request to the body
in the grave, i.e., to the body soul ipisko). The
latter passes the message to the kaasse, which is
under the supervision of haallikko. Even the seer
cannot understand the conversation between the
souls and haallikko. If the seer receives no answer
from the kaasse, this means the soul has probably
fallen into the hole at the end of the bridge (see
above) as a consequence of unatoned offences. If
the necessary complex rituals are successful, the
kaasse of the deceased lets the son know, through
the seer, what sacrifices it requires.19 If the kaasse
is satisfied, it will bless the son; it indicates this by
appearing in the form of a spider on the grave.20
After this the eldest son sets up the gravestone
together with his friends. The seer carefully picks
up the kaasse and takes it to the house of the eldest
son, where the spider makes its web.21
If the spider were to die in the seer’s hand, this
would be an even greater catastrophe than such
an event during the return of a soul in a case
of illness. For it would mean the final destruction
of the kaasse and the death of all the deceased’s
offspring, as well as the end of the seer. Once
it has arrived in the house the kaasse is now
finally transformed into an ancestor (karaadd’e).
A sacrifice to the ancestors is performed for the
first time. The feasting can begin. But this period
19 If the contact ceases, due to too great a burden of guilt, the
son will become ill and soon die like his father.
20 The spider crawls out of the hole in which the carrying
poles of the bier have been kept since the time of the
burial. According to another version, the spider appears
only after the gravestone has been set up on its point.
If the deceased was a poqolho, and therefore buried in a
hereditary stone-lined shaft grave covered by a stone slab,
the spider will appear on this slab. A seer can always tell
which spider is the carrier of the soul. Therefore there is
no general prohibition against killing spiders, although in
the house this should be avoided if possible.
21 If the d’aPakko is for a women, the kaasse is laid on the
clothes of the husband or, if he is dead, on the clothes of
the son. The souls of dead children are also returned to their
parents’ house in this way. The kaasse of a poqolho is taken
by companions of the soPakko into the kisolte (ceremonial
house inside the compound). The spider is laid not on the
clothes of the eldest son but on that of the poqolte. This
should preferably be the widow of the deceased. If she is
no longer alive, the d’aPakko can only take place when a
new poqolte has been installed.
continues to be hallowed by the nearness of the
ancestors. Uncontrolled behaviour and especially
quarrels must therefore be avoided. In order to
ward off any risk, complex purification ceremonies
are subsequently performed again for all those
present, this time on the nearest road outside the
compound.22 Then they return to the compound,
where a sacrificer from the artisan group (hawd’o)
circles those present three times, holding bundles
of ceremonial plants in his hands; he then goes
round the house and repeats the procedure inside
the house. After circling for the third time he takes
the food from the side of the road and finally
throws the bundles onto uncultivated land. This
ensures that death will keep away from the house
and compound and the people are purified. The
period of mourning is ended, the ancestors are in
the house, and the next day can be devoted to
merrymaking and dancing. For persons who have
been given only a symbolic burial, the anniversary
funeral rites take place in just the same way. At
the graveside a seer calls to the soul: “We have
not got your body. Now the stone is your body. Is
your soul going to come to us?” As in the previous
case the soul appears in the form of a spider, even
if the person has died somewhere far away.
Souls which are not transformed into ancestors
through the traditional rituals exercise a power
(pattakko) which is extremely dangerous to the
living and which can cause all kinds of evils and
plagues, the most frequent being illness, infertil-
ity, failed harvests, and death. Pattakko has the
appearance (for the soPakko) of a deceased person
during his lifetime and is identical with the kaasse.
If no descendants of these wandering souls can be
found, the lineage elders must step in and order
the performance of the necessary rituals.
Special respect is paid to the souls of people
who have slain either humans or big game, as
well as to those of lineage elders descended from
the first ancestors who came out of pools fed by
springs, termite hills, etc.23 *
For slayers, a painted stone stele about one
and a half metres in height is erected during the
22 Water is fetched from a sacred place in the nearby river,
mixed with river sand and the pounded leaves of three
different ceremonial plants and pulverized white stones. All
those present go to the nearest road where the seer “washes”
them: the right arm in the case of men and the abdomen
for women (cf. the seat of the body soul).
23 Slayers are considered to be heroes, clever, and of a firm
character. The killing of male enemies or of big gams
during ritual killing raids was considered by the Konso, as
by many peoples in Ethiopia, as a necessary condition for
maintaining the reproductive powers of the group (quoted
from an unpublished lecture of the author).
Anthropos 96.2001
49
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
d’apakko on a much frequented route. While the
earth pigment is being prepared, slayer ancestors
from the generation set of the deceased (and thus
not lineage ancestors) come dangerously near to
the living actors, so that the latter have to be
Protected by waving ceremonial branches, in the
same way as during burials.
After their d’aPakko, which lasts several days,
lrnportant lineage elders are given a post (sille,
Paxaste) up to ten metres in height, made of
resistant wood from the Juniperus procera tree.
As a rule these are forked posts decorated with
a notched pattern, and in some cases with the
^presentation of a penis, but smooth mast-like
Posts are also seen. The bark is stripped off the
°Wer part of the post and tied together at the upper
ond. Then the post is rubbed with a paste made
tr°m the blood of a sacrificial animal, butter, and
^arth pigments. The location of the posts varies
r°m group to group and according to lineage.24
These posts are directly associated with the
aasse of the deceased. They are the “head of the
ather” (pahte paapo). In other words, the post is
ne soul of the father and does not just represent the
s°nl, nor is it a place where the soul occasionally
stays, as in the case of stones erected for slayers.
The significance of this was made drastically
c ear to me in 1981 in Dihina. A lineage head told
jj!e that at the end of 1975 “revolutionaries” forced
lra to chop down the post which he had erected
0r his father, and to burn it with fire from his
house. Since that time he has suffered from
e sleeping sickness” (probably sudden fainting
ST Also he often goes out of his mind for several
ys- The destiny of his soul remains uncertain.
4
S°m and Community: Commentary and
Interpretation
!n the following section, the experiences of the
tndigenous people (as described from the author’s
Point of view) and our own observations will first
e commented on and then interpreted on a more
§eneral level in a subsequent section.
Of course, the conceptions of the Dullay are
embedded in the broader framework of African
religiosity and social institutions. This does help us
tat °llan£°’ f°r example, the d’aPakko for the poqolho
ike S ^ace at a s^te specially reserved for this purpose
otheP°^’ anc* the post is erected here. In Gorrose, on the
roacT ^an<f t^ie Post stan<is at a prominent fork in the
> and in Diginti it was erected on the east side of the
impound.
Anth;
roPos 96.2001
in our presupposition (Vorverständnis), but at the
same time it is clear that we must be careful when
making analogies and that we should not draw
overhasty conclusions. Within the African context
specific forms developed among the Dullay and
their neighbours, which found their own particular
forms of expression, emphasizing some elements
and marginalizing others.
In many societies, and not only in Africa, the
sensory experience of corporeal-material and in-
corporeal-immaterial forces gave rise to the idea of
several effective principles in humans. Following
some of the ideas of Hans-Peter Hasenfratz, we
can discern three such principles for the Dullay:
the principle of physical life, the principle of
thinking, willing, and feeling, and an extraphysical
principle (dreams and postmortem existence). It
appears justified to me to interpret these principles
as separate forms of soul and to see in their
union the soul of a person. A person experiences
the soul not as a thing but as an event. “Es
ist ein Widerfahrnis einer bestimmten Art von
Mächtigkeit, die sich dem Menschen offenbart”
(Hasenfratz 1986: 35)25.
Everyone has dream experiences. In dreams it is
as if a personal force leaves the resting, immobile
body and is able to perceive and communicate
while moving freely in space and time. It is
not surprising if within the socialization process
people become aware of the existence of a soul
through such experiences. Hasenfratz (1986: inter
alia 43) observed in connection with ideas of the
soul that oppositional pairs frequently occur. The
immobile sleeping person develops a degree of
mobility which is unattainable when he is awake.
In death this opposition is even more obvious,
when the soul of the stiff corpse undertakes its
longest journeys. We would not be wrong if we
referred to the kaasse as the free or excursion
soul, frequently described by anthropologists. Its
excursions are not always without risk, as is seen
in cases of illness, for example.
In our description of the healing of what we
would call a psychosomatic illness, the excursion
soul (kaasse) temporarily left the body while the
other components of the soul, such as breath
(,nasso) and body soul (sasa lakko) remained, even
if in a weakened state. These two components
can also be considered as “vital soul,” with nasso
symbolizing more the physical and sasa^akko the
psycho-physical forces.
25 It is the experience of a particular form of powerfulness
which is revealed to the person.
50
Hermann Ambom
The latter in particular reacts directly to en-
vironmental influences. It also shows the good
and bad features of a person. We can think of
it as the seat of a person’s “ego consciousness”
(Ich-Bewufitsein). In the case of the sick woman, it
was this “I” which confessed her guilt. The kaasse
is clearly not necessary for this, which is confirmed
by its absence. Rather it covers areas going beyond
the single person. Once her kaasse is lost, the pa-
tient suffers because she no longer occupies a place
within a wider set of interrelations, especially with
regard to her fellow humans and the ancestors.
This asyndetic floating state is also clearly seen
in the example where the soul is tied. In the case
in hand, being part of a wider set of interrelations
is symbolized on two levels, on the one hand by
the concrete presence of the lineage members, and
on the other hand by the spider, which can be
both kaasse and karaadd’e (excursion soul and
ancestral soul). A person is healthy only if an in-
dependent element (represented by the karaadd’e)
and an element embracing it (represented by the
kaasse) are harmoniously joined. This is why the
return of the kaasse can take place only in the
community and with its help.
Lévi-Strauss (1967), in his analysis of a healing
process among the Cuna, which on the structural
level corresponds to the one described here, has
shown that the features of the healing process are
more or less equivalent in psychoanalysis and with
shamans, only the terms are reversed. In the one
case we have an individual myth, which the patient
has set up for himself with elements of his own
past, and in the other generally recognized reli-
gious ideas, a social myth so to speak, which the
patient receives from outside. In the first case the
patient can return to being a functioning member
of society through personal healing as a result of
private talks with an individual (the psychoana-
lyst), and in the second case the shaman (or the
seer in our case), who represents the social myth,
restores the personal well-being of the patient with
the aid of the community.
The death of a person is final, but is considered
as a continuum rather than as an abrupt event.
At death the life forces leave the body, which
everyone is aware of when breathing stops, but
the state after cessation of breathing is obviously
understood as a slow sliding away. For this reason,
as long as the body remains in the house, it is
treated as a helpless patient and not as a lifeless
shell. This is seen very clearly in the case of
lineage heads, where the death is not announced
to outsiders until the corpse has been laid out in
the compound outside the house. Before this it is
only said that the person is seriously ill. This also
explains how a father who has already died can
still “bless” his son and transmit his forces to him.
This transmission obviously relates only to person-
al forces which are tied to the body - the kaasse
cannot be transmitted. At the burial, too, the son
can still talk to the deceased through the soPakko,
and dead persons are given food in their bowls
right up to the second funeral rites a year later.
Only after transformation into an ancestral soul do
the offerings become more symbolic, for ancestral
souls take only a very little of what is offered. The
time between burial and the anniversary funeral
rites is considered as a time of transition, a kind
of floating state. The deceased have a shadowy
existence. Their nearness is shown in dreams and
violent outbreaks of grief. In this way the close
link between the kaasse of the living and the future
karaadd’e is experienced. On the subject of the
shadow, it should be noted that among the Dullay
only the shadow that is free from the body is
looked upon as being related to the soul, but not
the tied shadow thrown by living persons.
For an interpretation of the conceptions of
right and wrong living, of morality and ethos
- as we shall attempt below -, it is important to
remember that death, with only a few exceptions,
is always seen as the consequence of guilt, usually
the person’s own. The causes of illness or death
are as a rule known, but not the reason why. The
distinction between the reason for and the cause
of a misfortune which Evans-Pritchard (1937) ac-
curately discerned in the case of the Zande, also
applies in this case.
People know that after about one year little
is left of a corpse apart from the skeleton. This
is when the second funeral rites take place. The
personal forms of the soul, which are tied to the
body, have largely disappeared. The links to the
kaasse have been dissolved. Its transformation to
an ancestral soul is no longer hindered by bodily
forces. The ideas concerning kaasse, which we
have seen in connection with dreams and illness,
are followed to their logical end. The freely mobile
kaasse, which can take on various material forms
(spider, ceremonial post) and may be thought
of immaterially as a shadow, is not dependent
on food. When it takes a little of the sacrificial
offerings, this is only to reassure people of its
presence. Nevertheless, despite its usually intan'
gible forms of existence, it can influence organic
matter, causing illnesses for example.
The decisive point is that the d’aPakko ritual
frees the kaasse from all personal inadequacies,
and that in this form of existence it can be both
Anthropos 96.2001
51
S°ul and Personality As a Communal Bond
^established in the family and initiated into the
community of ancestors. Once it is an ancestral
s°ul, the question whether in its lifetime it com-
mitted crimes or led a model life is completely
irrelevant. In his study of the Tallensi in West Afri-
ca, Meyer Fortes emphasized this phenomenon and
showed it to be one of the main pillars of African
ancestor worship (Fortes inter aha 1965: 128 ff.).
ls these neutral ancestors who are in a position
to judge the acts of the living and to ensure
°bservance of the moral order and social value
Principles (tampe) which are regarded as an ideal,
ret without the help of the descendants, who have
j^0 Perform the transformation rites, they could not
ecome ancestors. They would be forgotten and
neir soul would be in danger of falling a victim
to final death.26 In this respect the ideas of the
ullay can be inserted into Fortes’ interpretation
model with no problem.
Although the ancestors are depersonalized, this
°es not mean they have no relations with cer-
ln living people. In the first place, as we have
mentioned, these are the eldest sons, with whom
sPecial relationship exists for it is they who are
responsible for the permanent sacrifices. (If a son
fro t0 Per^orm these, the ancestor will turn away
m the living.) As far as non-family matters
concerned it is the lineage head, and through
m all members of the lineage, who has contact
h the lineage ancestors. The generation chain
w°es hack through the lineage head to those who
li ^ dlrectly created hy haallikko. Because of this
1 to the creation, the ancestors can function as
. mtors with haallikko, for example when he
Wlthholds the rain.
evotion to the ancestors is expressed through
°nal and communal sacrifices and invocations,
tic ^rom public festivals to barely no-
uole daily gestures, and these together form a
°nial framework covering three main areas:
Cerem
p.' • -VÏ WVV/IUl^ UU W 111U111 U1VUJ.
Pet' ^ tdanhs, offering atonement, and making
will ns- For our purposes some brief information
e sufficient in this respect.
ag . ere is no doubt that the most important
^,^1 festival is the celebration of the “first
s- The festival is usually held when the crop
wh' k arC widely varying ideas on the subject of these souls,
The' Can exercdse no beneficial or regulating influence,
ed 0nly interests those people who might be affect-
er sympathy for their worries within the
re nnity. If they are lucky, the poqolho takes on the
Ability of caring for these souls. If anthropologists
inve °n as^ng about them, they risk being told tales
(“hrist' ^°C anc* ^ased on more or iess wed digested
°r Islamic ideas.
Anth;
r°pos 96.2001
considered to be the oldest and most important
is ready for harvesting. According to mythical
tradition, the lineage ancestors held it in their
hands when they were created. Therefore, this
thanksgiving festival begins in the compound of
the poqolho, followed by all other households
one after the other. The most important actors,
apart from the lineage head, are the sacrificer
(ohado) and the poqolte who prepares the vege-
table offerings. An object symbolizing the lineage
(e.g., an uncut calabash) is decorated before the
ohado touches with it the shoulder of every person
present. He then turns to God and the ancestors
with thanksgiving and petitions. The poqolte gives
him coursely ground flour from the first fruits
which he scatters at the door of the compound
and at the entrance to the ceremonial house. The
ancestors hear the invocations and eat a little of
the sacrificial offerings.27 The ohado is then the
first human being to eat some of the flour before
passing it to the poqolho and, later on, to the
other people present. On the following day, first
the other lineage elders, followed by the head of
each household, carry out similar sacrifices. Then
harvesting of the crop concerned can begin.28
Except in the case of personal daily sacrifices,
any contact with the ancestors is preceded by sac-
rifices and prayers for forgiveness for misdemea-
nours. Only after this ritual cleansing the intended
ceremony can begin. As a rule vegetable offerings
are sufficient, but animal sacrifices are necessary
to obtain atonement for a serious offence. The
most important cleansing ceremony is the one
before the beginning of a rain ceremony. This is
carried out for the whole population of a region at
special ritual grounds (moore d’awra), where the
“cool” (guiltless) condition of the land ipiye) is
established.
For the Dullay, with their polycephalous social
structure, it is significant and characteristic that
relations exist beyond the family or lineage an-
cestors. The gada system virtually summated the
genealogical lines of descent, since membership
was defined through the fathers and grandfathers.
The gada system was set up by the ancestors, and
so they come to the sacred grounds (moore d’awra)
on the occasion of big ceremonies which concern
the whole of the people and the whole land. Today,
now that the generation group system has come
27 Karre manece lammi apaqci... karrese anateehi ik’animas-
ti (literally: “The ancestors of the house then this heard ...
ancestors the offering eat a little”).
28 Within the household ceremonies must be carried out before
harvesting any crop. In addition, the head of the household
offered his ancestors something from each meal every day.
52
Hermann Amborn
to a standstill, this applies chiefly to the big rain
ceremonies.
When the ancestors of a slayer appear while
a stone is being erected for him, this is more
than just a reminiscence of the time when the
age-set communities were still an important factor
in society. That these are age-set ancestors is clear
from the fact that in the old days each age-set went
on a killing campaign where any killing meant
that all members of the set became slayers.29 Rain
ceremonies are the responsibility of the corporate
territorial units to which everyone living within an
ethnic group in an area with known boundaries
belongs, independently of age and sex or lineage
membership. These may be villages, areas contain-
ing scattered settlements, or wide tracts of land.
The central figures at the rain ceremonies are
the haalho piyate (literally “man of the land and
of the people”) elected by the different regions,
a sacrificing priest from the artisan group, and
representatives of all lineages. Here piye becomes
the symbol of all life and of the ancestors on
earth. All forefathers who have become ancestors
are addressed at these rites. Genealogies play no
part.30
The lineage head among the Dullay certainly
has a special function in ancestor worship and
thus also has special power, for he embodies
the direct and continuous link with the founder
ancestors created by God. However, this power is
limited by a variety of institutions. Dullay lineage
heads can therefore be distinguished from those
of the central Bantu language area, who have
been studied, for example, by Thiel (1977: 118 ff.).
Although this complex contains similar elements,
these may serve a different purpose or have a
different weighting (for instance, if one thinks
of Thiel’s observation that referring to genealo-
gies has become an instrument of power). In all
Dullay-speaking groups sacrifices to the ances-
tors of the whole lineage must always be carried
out by farmer lineage heads (the poqolho, pi.:
poqoladd’e) together with a representative from
an artisan lineage. Artisans are the only living
persons who can make direct contact with God, so
that in addition to his link with his ancestors, this
representative is the one who opens the rite and
is the first human being to eat from the sacrificial
29 The actual slayer or slayers were the “big slayers “ (danoap-
ko gula). In recent times, ritual slayings have been carried
out only very occasionally and then usually by individuals
acting on their own, so that the number of people called
slayers is limited for this reason alone.
30 For a detailed description of the ceremony, see Amborn
1990: 320 ff.
offerings. The mythical basis for this is either that
the ancestors of the artisans were born before those
of the poqolho, which makes the latter the younger
brother of the artisan, or (according to another
tradition) that before or during the creation of the
world the artisans lived with haallikko and later
completed his creation (Amborn 1990: 311; 1997
passim). Moreover, the poqolho is dependent on
one or more seers, for it is they who determine
which ceremonies should be carried out when
and with what degree of elaborateness. In the
neighbouring Konso, three poqalla were able to
secure considerable ritual and thus also economic
power for themselves, especially after the conquest
by the Abyssinian Empire, by referring to their
genealogy, as Watson (1997 passim) has shown.
Unlike the poqolho among the Dullay, they are al-
so able to make petitions directly to God (waaqa).
However, at least until the mid-nineties, they were
faced with the ritual and socioeconomic power of
the gada system.
We can now turn to questions of the connection
between soul and ethos, which also means address-
ing the relationship between person and society
and between ancestors and living people.
We have shown that in the Dullay area, in
addition to the lineage ancestors, those connected
with the territorial unit and with the gada system
can exercise an influence on the living. These are
not different ancestors, but different groupings of
ancestors depending on the situation. A description
of the network of social institutions can serve
as the point of departure for my considerations.
Among the Dullay, as with many southern Ethiopi-
an peoples, a grown man belonged simultaneously
to three different social subsystems: lineage, ter-
ritorial unit, and gada system. As a member he
could be given institutional authority in any of the
three, for example, by being elected as speaker of
a generation set, and at the same time - or at a later
date - becoming an officeholder in the territorial
unit. Such offices are controlled by groups each
composed of different people with different party
loyalties (Amborn 1990: 42 ff.). Their interlinking
and mutual dependence has been documented by
Hallpike on the basis of the indigenous admin-
istrative structure of Konso towns (1972: 60ff7
122 ff. Fig. 8). According to his investigations, six
different institutions with different relationships
between each other deal with the matters concern-
ing a town. These institutions are organized on the
basis of descent, residence, and seniority (i.e., line-
ages, territorial units, and the gada system). Ideally
this also applies to the Dullay, but the structures
there are no longer as clearly manifest as in Konso
Anthropos 96.2001
53
S°ul and Personality As a Communal Bond
due to the far-reaching changes which have taken
place over the past one hundred years. Of the
gada system there remained no more than three
insignificant age groups. The model principles of
the gada system on the other hand have proved to
be enduring, such as a special feeling of closeness
and loyalty towards others of the same age.
It is characteristic of many southern Ethiopian
societies that they have developed mechanisms to
Prevent accumulation of power leading to repres-
^1Ve forms of rule. This is assured on the one
oand by the existence of several social institutions,
and on the other hand by conducting discourses
°n deliberately different concerns. The interests
and the values of a territorial unit, for example,
are not the same as those of a lineage and in
,act may frequently be opposed to them. Many
lrnmanent contradictions are necessarily subject to
s°cial polyvocality. In this way, however, they
SuPport the polycephalous structures.
Thus in societies structured in this way con-
lcting interests are embodied in one and the same
Person, since one person always belongs to various
s°cial spheres or institutions. This requires great
s°cial and political commitment on the part of each
rtlari, for everyone is constantly being required to
ayt and cannot avoid making decisions as they
t ect all areas of life. Each man must face up
taking decisions, whether these are negotiated
q others or whether he alone is responsible.
onsequently, every adult person is always in the
^erHina of having to make structurally determined
Clsions, i.e., he is constantly faced with ethical
choices.
expresses his decisions at meetings of the
erent groups. Despite the number of different
social
opinions agreement on them is sought on a
broad basis.
However, it is characteristic of the agreement
cess that right up to the end neither single
. °ns nor groups have any chance of imposing
j? lr solutions against the will of others. Such
rerri?s °f dialogue are striking in their desire to
js n a§reement or find a consensus. By consensus
re meant a solution which is based on mutual
or i* anc* acceptance, and not just a compromise
there Ve^n§ yiews. In the general consensus
been ^ ndther vcinners nor losers. If there have
Presear^UmentS’ a r*tua^ cleansing ceremony in the
host rCe ancestraI souls puts an end to all
v^hi1 lt^es- A neutral (’’cool”) state is established,
Whi l. ls a^so characteristic of the ancestors, and
^ Unites the living and the ancestors.
gence SUC^ meetings a Person shows his intelli-
’ character, and courage, his sasaPakko is
Atlth;
roP°s 96.2001
revealed. Within the broad sphere of responsibility
created by the interlinking of institutions, a person
finds his own personal field of activity in which he
can also gain prestige for himself: a man who can
present his opinion with convincing and sagacious
arguments and win others over will be respected
and acknowledged. Such personal opinions are al-
so considered “good” for the community, especial-
ly when it is a conflict that is being settled or when
public matters in general are being discussed.
Of course, there is personal awareness of what
is good or bad in the given context. The thoughts
and actions of a single person are not rigidly bound
by collectively recognized, irrefutable “traditional”
values. Decisions must be made by the single
person. This is the equivalent of the ego-con-
sciousness which we have mentioned above in a
different connection.
The meaning of the term “sin” is also not strict-
ly canonized. Although the general framework is
given by the tampe, its more precise meaning is
determined according to the particular situation. If
it is determined by the soPakko after consulting
the ancestors, this must not be equated with ideas
imposed from outside. After all, the soPakko are
intellectuals within the community, who are very
well-informed of all discourses that have been
held and who act in consensus with the latter
and in full awareness of the values represented
by the ancestors. With his knowledge of tradition
and with the authority that this gives him, a seer
can allow new things to be discussed in the light
of what is necessary for the community and in
harmony with the ancestors. A lineage head on the
other hand, with his link to the earliest ancestor,
should be the representative of traditional values.
Religiously charged interpersonal relationships
offer us insight into the conception of the hu-
man being or person. For those concerned these
relationships - through the kaasse (of the living
and the dead) - probably appear as follows. First
we have the household in which the father is in
permanent contact with the ancestors present in
the house. On the next broad level follow brothers,
who singly or together maintain contact with the
deceased father through the eldest. Then comes
the lineage with its line of descent going back to
the first created ancestor. Through it all members
carry within them forces of the protecting and pun-
ishing ancestors. The connection between different
lineages passes through the mother’s brothers, in
whom the cognate and agnate groups of kinsmen
are crossed. (We have seen the ritual significance
of this in the case of the tied soul.) Crossing
these relationships are the links to territorial groups
54
Hermann Amborn
and age-sets. In the case of age-sets there is the
additional effect of a genealogical principle, for
the membership of a man is determined by that of
his grandfather and father. All come together in
piye, the symbol of the land as the common place
of life and of the ancestors. The ideas of the soul
with their relation to this world and to the cosmic
eternal order define the area of responsibility and
the extent to which each person is free to make
his own decisions.
Within the field of responsibility three levels
can be distinguished for any person: responsibility
for himself, for the community, and for the an-
cestors. With regard to himself, this responsibility
consists mainly in doing nothing which might open
the way to illness and early death, i.e., nothing
which could endanger his transformation into an
ancestral soul. But since his own kaasse could
never exist alone as an ancestral soul, the idea
of transformation is not a question of caring only
about himself.31 Responsibility to society, as we
have seen, is manifold and seldom clearly defined
in advance. Actions must be determined by each
situation. Responsibility towards the ancestors on
the other hand is much clearer: it constitutes a duty
which is fulfilled by carrying out certain rites.
Let us return at this point to the idea of the
soul having several forms. Basically, the body
soul would suffice for gaining social prestige and
also for recognizing guilt towards others. Yet in
order to remain healthy and permanently capable
of action, the body soul needs its counterpart in the
form of the kaasse. This pair of opposites, which
belong together as of necessity, also symbolize the
opposition between the personal and the commu-
nal, remembering that the communal includes the
personal.
The frequency of pairs of opposites in connec-
tion with ideas of the soul is striking. The case of
rigid body and mobile soul as opposed to mobile
body and fixed soul has been mentioned. We also
found the marked differentiation of living per-
sonalities as compared to the relatively uniform,
neutral ancestors, and the opposition between seer
and poqolho, where one represents the dynamic
and the other the static moment of society.
It is hard to avoid making comparisons here
with chains of opposites, as recognized in particu-
lar by Lévi-Strauss throughout his myth analyses.
Do we not have in our case analogous struc-
31 There is no fear of eternal damnation, but people do fear
that their soul might be extinguished. However, even such
a risk can be averted during a person’s lifetime if necessary
by making public confessions of guilt.
tures of complex thinking which offer explanations
through the concatenation of oppositional pairs?
I would thus like to point not only to the possi-
ble existence of structures of complex thinking,
but also to show that within such oppositions
the two poles are not irreconcilable. A pair of
opposites can contain several different valuations
and one element can be present simultaneously in
several pairs.32 For our considerations it is also of
interest that these pairs of opposites, which exist
on the mental level, correspond to the dilemma
with regard to making decisions also determined
by oppositions - which we have mentioned above.
In considering the idea of dreams, illness, death,
and postmortem existence, we have seen a concept
of soul which includes the world of the living
and the extrasensory world. If we include in our
considerations the related area of responsibility,
this allows us to draw conclusions about a person’s
“conscience,” for there is no doubt that ideas of
the soul are of central significance with regard
to personal decision making. The moral spectrum
thus defined permits an amazingly broad degree
of freedom, for actions are in no way tied only
to communally recognized “traditional” values.
Rather a person is constantly required to make
decisions. The ability to weigh possibilities, in
other words to act ethically, can be (but does
not have to be) rewarded by the ancestors in the
present life in the form of public esteem, good
health, and offspring.
The person is thus not absorbed in a collective
We, and each I is not merely the singular form
of We. Consequently, despite the fact that each
person and his values have a close bond with the
community, morality is not collective.
32 I have made reference elsewhere to this phenomenon, using
the example of a concatenation of oppositions at the begin-
ning of which was the opposition “society inwards” / “soci-
ety outwards.” “Mit außen meine ich Beziehungen ... zum
Übernatürlichen. Bei letzterem wird ... die Verschränkung
mit dem Innen sichtbar. Denn die Ahnen stehen sowohl
außerhalb der Gesellschaft als auch in ihr..., aber sie
beeinflussen das menschliche Leben immer von außen-
Dem Paar außen/innen kann das Paar Töten/Nicht-Töten
gegenübergestellt werden, wobei das Töten selbst wieder
in Töten im Krieg und Töten bei einer Opferhandlungen
unterteilt werden kann ...” (Amborn 1987: 374) [By out-
side I mean relations ... with the supernatural. In the latter
... the interlinking of outside and inside becomes visible-
For the ancestors are both outside and inside society ... but
they always influence people’s lives from the outside. The
pair kill/not kill can be opposed to the pair outside/inside,
while killing can itself be further subdivided into killing in
war and during sacrifical ceremonies ...] Using the exampl6
of sacrifices in the Gamu Highlands, Dan Sperber has
shown the symbolic significance of oppositions (Sperber
1975: 80 ff.).
Anthropos 96.2001
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond
55
A conscience conceived in this way appears
as the tertium comparationis of personality and
traditional values. It is a linking element contain-
ing personal abilities and “character” traits as well
as the social values (tampe) passed down by the
ancestors. This certainly does not correspond to
°ur understanding of a free individual, for, as the
t^ullay see it, development of the personality does
not only take place inwardly. But of course the
^ullay also claim to be able to distinguish good
and bad, and to want the good (i.e., to have a
conscience”). Moreover it is also true that they
are themselves most in their conscience and that,
similar to our understanding, the conscience is
not just self-reflection but is felt and experienced.
Correspondingly, the reward for this morality or its
§°al is not the “salvation” of one’s own soul; rather
11 !s that a person is only capable of life through
the “well-being” of the soul of an Other and of
others. When Karl Marx (Marx and Engels
1983/111; 282 ff.; IV: 482) argues that the Other is
n°t the limit but the condition of my freedom (and
hus of my human dignity), this would not have
ferried strange to a Dullay; on the contrary, they
ave tried hard to help me to understand this.
Obviously these ethical premises have been in-
ternalized during the process of socialization very
early on of course5 comparable things relating to
and conscience can also be said of believers
r°ught up in the Christian faith. But there is
^difference in the immediacy with which these
ings are experienced.
Reverence is felt not for an omniscient God on a
r~off throne, but for human souls whose everyday
0seness is sensually felt, who were known to
teany in their lifetime, and who are now in contact
tenh the eternal. For our society it is also possible
assume that moral awareness, like language, is
Required by the child unconsciously and grows
awareness acquired with the language
^ -C. Gadamer; lecture delivered in Munich in
th^Cern^er 1996). This corresponds to the ideas of
e dullay, for whom the soul of a child grows
tely at first and only becomes fully developed
t- “te time of initiation into adulthood. This is the
e when a person becomes fully responsible for
nis actions.
I driving force behind moral behaviour is the
de ?rat*on and participation in the cycle of life,
^ te transformation into an ancestor, and new
e (filiation). The element that ties everything
(an ther *n cycle concern for the ancestors,
theCeSt0r Worsfi(p)’ for if anyone were to break
d Clrcle, that would unavoidably bring about his
ruction. Therefore, in order to be able to be a
Anth
responsible and authoritative personality, a person
must have a place both in the community and in
the cycle.
If we compare some contemporary reflexions
on Western ethics to these concepts of person
and relations with the Other, we will see that the
latter have nothing to fear from such a comparison.
We refer to the ethical orientation represented in
particular by the philosphers Emmanuel Lévinas,
and Zygmunt Bauman. In our context, their critical
approach to the development of Western ethics
since the enlightenment is significant, especially
the influence of ethics on the way people live
together, in other words social relations with the
Other. Bauman following Lévinas distinguishes
between “being-with” and “being-for.” He finds
it wrong that ethics among Western philosophers
is restricted to “being-with” (Lévinas inter alia
1979: 19; Bauman 1993: 70 f.). (It should be noted
here that the morality of the Dullay which depends
on relations with the Other has a higher goal than
mere living with each other.) According to him,
“being-with” is at best the side-by-side existence
of (self-enclosed) individuals and, paradoxically, it
means they always remain separated. “Being-with”
can be organized by duties, rules, or contracts,
and, in certain situations, bridges to the Other
can be built. But bridges can also be dismantled
again. Limitation to “being-with,” writes Bauman
(1993: 62 ff.), is one of the fundamental principles
of our modern ethics (and in his opinion the reason
for its failure). According to Lévinas, the moral
person - or more exactly the moral self - appears
only in “being-/or”: in a being together that is
not purely synthetic, an unreserved face-to-face
encounter with the Other; or, as Lévinas puts it,
in the becoming present of visage (Antlitz )33. In a
33 In order to express more exactly what he means by face-à-
face, Lévinas chooses to use the term “visage.” The Other
is more than an alter ego. The alterity is imaged in the
visage (Antlitz). “Man darf das Antlitz des Anderen nicht
mit dem Gesicht gleichsetzen. Das Gesicht ist nicht das
einzige Antlitz. Eine Hand von Rodin - das ist Antlitz ...”
(Lévinas 1987: 32). The Antlitz stands for the whole person
of the Other, in his vulnerability and his challenge. The
vulnerability of the naked Antlitz (visage) invites violence
and prevents it at the same time (Lévinas 1982: 89 ff.)
A person’s humanity, or even divinity, is also contained
in visage (or its Spur). Lévinas thus wants to go beyond
his teacher Husserl, for whom a person becomes an I-self
only together with the anderen Selbst. In Lévinas’ view,
however, this means ultimately reducing the alterity of the
Other and assimilating it into the Same, which means that
participation in the being of the Other remains blocked. For
him, on the contrary, access to the Antlitz of the Other is
an ethical matter right from the beginning.
lroPos 96.2001
56
Hermann Amborn
responsibility which is unconditional and which is
not transferable to any fellow man (Mit-Mensch),
I alone am responsible and no one can replace
me. Being-for-the-Other is an individual decision
which no one else can make. Togetherness in
freedom was and is possible only through the for
(and not through the contract); and the moral self
is constituted only in this unconditionality for the
Other.34
In contrast, in the modern period empirical
experience of a “tough reality of being” has of
necessity led to a codifying of moral attitudes
which, however much they may have been mor-
ally motivated, suppress rather than encourage the
moral self. For within such concepts the uncon-
ditional for has sunk into insignificance (Bauman
1993: 72 ff.). The fundamental idea of ethics as
mutual responsibility has also been lost in our
society.
All this cannot be transferred to the philosophy
of the Dullay unconditionally. For one thing, their
concepts relate exclusively to their own ethnic
group, while Western philosophy with its claim
to universality reflects on mankind as a whole.
But analogies can be made between the different
conceptions. For the notion of “being-for” is nearer
to Dullay ideas than that of simply “being-with.”
Of course, the idea of finding one’s freed and
free self only through the Other (face-to-face) is
strange to the Dullay. Then, again, in Dullay the
person is not identical with our liberalist ideology
of the free individual, who may be likened to an
encapsulated singularity. To stay in the realm of
pictures, in Dullay the person may be compared
to a chemical element and its valences: the “free
bonds” want to approach or are actually attracted
to others. This approaching of others is doubtless
also affected by utilitarian considerations (people
are dependent upon each other). But is that really
all? The encounter with the Other seems to me
to be based on the idea of the equal value of the
Other, whose essence - his eternal kaasse - may
meet the essences of other persons on a level
where no advantages are possible. It is the idea of
the kaasse which ties a person to the community
and which admonishes him to act in a responsible
way.
34 “... je suis responsable d’autrui sans attendre la réciproque,
dût-il m’en coûter la vie” (Lévinas 1982: 105); “Moi non
interchangeable, je suis moi dans la seule mesure où je
suis responsable. Je puis me substituer à tous, mais nul ne
peut se substituer à moi. Tel est mon identité inaliénable de
sujet” (108 f.).
It is characteristic that Western models have a
different mode of access from those of southern
Ethiopia. The for of Western philosophers presup-
poses a visage on the individual level in order
to achieve togetherness. The African conception
is more complex. For-the-ancestors is also for-
the-community and, of course - but not in the
first instance - for-the-single-person. Nevertheless
there are amazing analogies with African ideas.
What Bauman sets up as an obligation of general
validity for all mankind has obviously already
been put into practice by other societies. This
does, indeed, mean that the two concepts are not
completely controversial. Their common interface
is responsibility. Here there are points of contact
and here is where both sets of ideas could mutually
complement each other.
(Translated by Ruth Schubert)
Zitierte Literatur
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380.
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tersuchungen zu Spezialisten und Handwerkern in
südäthiopischen Agrargesellschaften München: Trick-
ster Verlag. (Notos, Ethnologische Studien, 1)
1997 Hunde Gottes. Eisenhandwerker und Demiurgen. In:
R. Klein-Arendt (Hrsg.), Traditionelles Eisenhandwerk
in Afrika; pp. 146-173. Köln: Heinrich-Barth-Institut.
(Colloquium Africanum, 3)
Amborn, Hermann, G. Minker, und H. J. Sasse
1980 Das Dullay. Materialien zu einer ostkuschitischen
Sprachgruppe. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag.
Ankermann, Bernhard
1918 Totenkult und Seelenglaube bei afrikanischen Völkern.
Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 50: 89-153.
Bauman, Zygmunt
1993 Postmodern Ethics. Oxford: Blackwell.
Bruyer, Annie
1997 Comment l’esprit va au mort. De la constitution des
principes de la personne jusqu’à leur agencement post
mortem. Social Anthropology 5: 293-311, 344.
Evans-Pritchard, E. E.
1937 Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic among the Azande.
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Fortes, Meyer
1965 Some Reflections on Ancestor Worship in Africa. In:
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of Thought; pp. 122-144. London: Oxford University
Press.
1987 Religion, Morality, and the Person. Essay on Tallensi
Religion. Edited and with an introduction by Jack
Goody. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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Hallpike, C. R.
1972 The Konso of Ethiopia. A Study of the Values of a
Cushitic Society. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Hasenfratz, Hans-Peter
1986 Die Seele. Einführung in ein religiöses Grundphänomen
(mit ausgewählten Texten). Zürich: Theologischer Ver-
lag Zürich.
Jacobson-Widding, Anita
1997 “I lied, I farted, I stole.” Dignity and Morality in
African Discourses on Personhood. In: S. Howell (ed.),
The Ethnography of Moralities; pp. 48-73. London:
Routledge.
Lévi-Strauss, Claude
1967 Die Wirksamkeit der Symbole. In: C. Lévi-Strauss,
Strukturale Anthropologie; pp. 204-225. Frankfurt:
Suhrkamp Verlag.
évinas, Emmanuel
'9 Le temps et T autre. Montpellier: fata morgana.
Ethique et infini. Dialogues avec Philippe Nemo. Paris:
Fayard et Radio France. (L’espace intérieur, 26)
Antlitz und erste Gewalt. Ein Gespräch über Phänome-
nologie und Ethik. Spuren 20: 29-34.
1982
1987
Marx, Karl und Friedrich Engels
1983 Marx-Engels-Werke. Bde. 3 u. 4. Berlin: Dietz Verlag.
Müller, Klaus E.
1997 Der gesprungene Ring. Wie man die Seele gewinnt und
verliert. Frankfurt: Verlag Otto Lembeck.
Ruel, Malcolm
1997 Belief, Ritual, and the Securing of Life. Reflexive
Essays on a Bantu Religion. Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Sperber, Dan
1975 Über Symbolik. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag.
Thiel, Josef Franz
1977 Ahnen - Geister - Höchste Wesen. Religionsethnolo-
gische Untersuchungen im Zai're-Kasai-Gebiet. Sankt
Augustin: Verlag des Anthropos-Instituts. (Studia Insti-
tuti Anthropos, 26)
Watson, Elizabeth
1997 Ritual Leaders and Agricultural Resources in South-
western Ethiopia. “Poqallas,” Land and Labour in Kon-
so. In: K. Fukui, et al. (eds.), Ethiopia in Broader
Perspective, Vol. 2; pp. 652-669. Kyoto: Shokado Book
Seilers.
Anth
lroPos 96.2001
STUDIA INSTITUTI ANTHROPOS 48
Boris Wastiau
Boris Wastiau
Mahamba
The Transforming Arts
of Spirit Possession
among the
Luvaie-Speaking People
of the Upper Zambezi
Mahamba
The Transforming Arts
of Spirit Possession
among the Luvaie-
Speaking People
of the Upper Zambezi
360 pages incl. 32 photos
and 5 skizzes
Fr. 75.- / DM 90.- / OS 657.-
ISBN 3-7278-1293-1
This book is about symbolic practice in the spi-
rit possession rituals known as mahamba in the
upper Zambezi region, specifically among the
Luvale-speaking people of North-Western Zambia.
In it, rituals of possession are analysed as trans-
formational practices that operate changes in the
subjects undertaking them, but also as phenome-
na that transform along time in specific historical and sociocultural contexts. The mahamba are numerous in kind, in
turn addressing serious illness, infertility, madness, failure, social distress and other ills. Alternatively displaying the fea-
tures of ad hoc therapeutic rituals or those of overtly religious cults, and calling membership of men as well of women,
mahamba can lead into initiation to a religious sodality, to admission in a professional cast, or simply to the restora-
tion of regular health and social status.
What is specific to the transformations affecting the people and the rituals themselves? Are they related and which can
be the cultural and/or sociological factors determining them? How is symbolism produced and what is the role of shri-
nes and artworks? A historical perspective and the analysis of two sets of contemporary rituals are combined to advan-
ce elements of answer. The main hypothesis is that a process of poiesis, the generation of symbolic fields, is due to the
existence of a core processual structure that endures in possession rituals, whatever the sociological function that they
fulfill. It is contended that the mahamba are instruments for structuring history that people constantly reprocess to face
their predicament.
UNI VERSITÄTS VERLAG FREIBURG SCHWEIZ
EDITIONS UNIVERSITAIRES FRIBOURG SUISSE
Anthropos
96.2001: 59-72
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
Abstract. - The article develops an anthropological explana-
tion of the ritual masks of the Chane indians of Argentina. The
tasked dancers appear during the annual arete celebration. The
cultural meaning of these masks, however, must be pursued
beyond their ritual performance, relating it to several symbolic
c°ntexts, as a) the ritual practices involving the sacred nature of
the materials in which masks are made; b) the beliefs concer-
ning the native notions of “death,” “soul,” and “person”; and
c) the relation between the cosmological myths, the peculiar
behaviour of the masked dancers, the mask destruction, and
the social representation of “time.” [South American Indians,
Guarani, Chiriguano, Chane, ritual performance, arete, mask,
myth]
Federico Bossert, Licenciado en Antropologia Social por la
-Jniversidad de Buenos Aires, Argentina. Miembro del Centro
Argentino de Etnologia Americana de Buenos Aires (CAEA).
Ha realizado trabajos de campo entre los grupos chiriguano,
chané
y ayoreo en Argentina y Bolivia.
^iego Villar, Licenciado en Antropología Social por la Uni-
Versidad de Buenos Aires, Argentina. Miembro del Centro
Argentino de Etnología Americana de Buenos Aires (CAEA).
Ha realizado trabajos de campo entre los grupos chiriguano,
chani
e> ayoreo y chacobo en Argentina y Bolivia.
1 Introducción
^0s chañé originariamente pertenecían a la rama
Hioxo-mbaure de la familia lingüística arawak.
st°s grupos, que luego de una lenta migración
establecieron en las laderas orientales de los
ndes bolivianos, fueron conquistados y someti-
0s por bandas tupí-guaraní que llegaban, desde
as Ajanas costas atlánticas, en busca de la “Tierra
^ln mal”. De la unión y el mestizaje entre estas
s sociedades nació, en el ámbito chaqueño, el
§ruP° usualmente conocido como “chiriguano”.
No obstante ello, y si bien los actuales chané
hablan el guaraní y comparten en gran medida la
cultura de sus conquistadores, han mantenido en
determinadas zonas la conciencia de su singulari-
dad y su diferencia.1
A través de ciertos rasgos de la “cultura mate-
rial”, y en particular, de las máscaras rituales que
los chané han mantenido en mayor medida que
los chiriguano, creemos posible, en consecuencia,
esclarecer ciertos patrones de la singularidad étnica
y cultural de los chané. Sin embargo, es preciso
aclarar que no nos proponemos abordar aquí el
problema en términos comparativos, sino que nos
limitaremos a dilucidar los sentidos asociados por
ellos a sus máscaras rituales, a través del examen
de los distintos contextos o dimensiones sociales
a las cuales éstas se vinculan.
En primer lugar ofrecemos, entonces, una des-
cripción somera de la fiesta del arete, en la cual
hacen su aparición las máscaras rituales (aña-aña).
A continuación intentaremos demostrar que el
sentido de la máscara no se agota, no obstante,
en esta presentación ritual, sino que es preciso
rastrearlo a través de tres diferentes universos
simbólicos:
- En primer lugar, el proceso mismo de su
elaboración. Ello nos conducirá a considerar el
espectro de creencias y prácticas asociadas por
1 El presente trabajo se basa en materiales originales recogi-
dos en campañas etnográficas en comunidades chiriguano-
chané del noroeste argentino (provincia de Salta) y del sur
de Bolivia: nos referimos específicamente a Campo Durán,
Tuyunti y El Algarrobal (chané), y a Pichanal, Capiazuti y
Aguayrenda (chiriguano).
60
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
los chañé a un ámbito que comporta para ellos
una vivencia dramática: el monte.
- El siguiente apartado, por su parte, buscará
esclarecer el significado concreto de la máscara
ritual; lo cual, como se verá, implica considerar
las creencias relativas al alma de los muertos.
- Finalmente, se analiza el vínculo existente entre
la performance y la destrucción de las máscaras
y la representación colectiva del tiempo.
2 La máscara en acción: la fiesta del arete
El arete es la principal fiesta de los chañé.
Los criollos de la zona la denominan Pin-Pin o,
simplemente, “carnaval”, y los mismos indígenas
han comenzado a adoptar estos términos para
referirse a ella - al menos en presencia de los
blancos. La fiesta extiende sus celebraciones entre
febrero y marzo, y su duración es muy variable.
Supuestamente, su comienzo es señalado por el
florecimiento del taperigua, y su final, por el
marchitarse de esta misma flor.
En el mes de enero comienzan los preparativos:
los hombres comienzan a ir al monte para confec-
cionar sus máscaras ceremoniales (aña-hanti)\ las
mujeres elaboran, lentamente, la chicha. Algunos
grupos de varones comienzan a organizar conjun-
tos instrumentales y a ensayar la música del arete.
El comienzo de la fiesta es paulatino, y está com-
puesto de tanteos. En estas comunidades existe, a
la par del cacique (mburuvicha), un “cacique de
la fiesta” llamado arete iya (“dueño de la fiesta”)
o aña campinta (’’jefe de las almas”). El es quien
fija tanto el comienzo como el final del arete.
Dentro del largo período abarcado por la fiesta,
los chañé distinguen dos segmentos. El primero
es llamado “carnaval grande” {arete guazu), y
coincide con la semana del carnaval oficial. En las
comunidades que están en contacto con los blan-
cos, se percibe una intensificación de los convites,
que se realizan más asiduamente. El “carnaval
chico” {arete rai) abarca los dos últimos días de
la fiesta y reúne los eventos más importantes.2 El
resto del tiempo, la fiesta se mantiene en una fase
de hipogeo, y los convites sólo tienen lugar los
fines de semana.
Durante el período de convites, la fiesta comien-
za cuando los músicos son invitados a pasar al
patio de alguna de las familias de la comunidad,
que les ofrece chicha o vino, tanto a ellos como
2 En Tuyunti, indudablemente por influencia del cristianismo,
los chañé dan a estos días otros nombres: “carnaval de las
flores” y “carnaval de cenizas”.
a quienes se acerquen. Poco a poco, la gente
comienza a reunirse; algunas parejas comienzan
a bailar alrededor de los músicos, y el resto
simplemente observa. Con el correr de la noche,
el grupo de los danzantes irá creciendo; los
bailarines, por su parte, giran incansablemente
alrededor de los músicos. Casi nadie danza solo.
Aquellos que no pueden sostener el ritmo de la
danza bailan fuera de la ronda, más lentamente. De
vez en cuando, una nota aguda y prolongada de la
flauta indica a los danzantes que deben cambiar la
dirección en su girar. En éste y en otros momentos,
quienes danzan dejan escuchar gritos también
agudos, desfigurados, que provocan una sensación
indefinible. Los dueños de casa se encargan de
que la bebida circule permanentemente, llevándola
en jarras. Cuando la bebida se acaba, alguien
de otra casa se acerca a invitar a los músicos,
nuevamente convidando a todos con bebidas. El
convite continúa en otro sitio, y esta sucesión de
invitaciones puede extenderse durante horas, hasta
el amanecer del día siguiente.
Durante este período de los convites, es sabido
en las aldeas que los jóvenes multiplican sus
aventuras amorosas. Las pasiones sexuales, con
todo, no son las únicas que se exasperan: el
consumo de alcohol y el frenesí de la fiesta
preparan el camino para que los conflictos y los
secretos, mantenidos en vilo en la rutina cotidiana,
salgan finalmente a la luz, y no son raras las peleas
durante este tiempo. Según los chañé, se decide
poner fin a la fiesta cuando comienza a marchitarse
la flor del taperigua.
El día anterior al final de la celebración, ésta
entra en una fase de apogeo: las últimas reservas de
bebida comienzan a gastarse y las familias invitan
a sus parientes de otros sitios; se bebe sin inter-
rupción y se duerme en cualquier sitio. El último
día tiene lugar una ceremonia especial. Los con-
vites comienzan desde el mediodía, desplazándose
de casa en casa. El lugar donde se instala la fiesta
es señalado por una cruz de madera adornada con
flores de taperigua, la cual se clava en la tierra
o, simplemente, se apoya contra algún árbol. Esta
cruz es llamada “carnaval”. Generalmente, si el
grupo posee los medios para hacerlo, invita este
día a otra comunidad a participar de su fiesta.
Esta invitación suele practicarse por intermedio de
los caciques, y, por lo general, responde a una
invitación anterior. El grupo invitado es agasajado
con un banquete y se suma a las libaciones y a la
danza.
Este día, justamente, hacen su aparición las
máscaras. Los jóvenes envuelven su cabeza con
trapos, para evitar ser reconocidos, y llevan las
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
61
máscaras que ellos mismos han fabricado, deno-
minadas aña-hanti. Las mujeres visten tipoy y
andan descalzas. Este día tiene lugar un tipo de
baile especial, en el cual los enmascarados y las
jovencitas forman una cadena tomados de la mano;
de este modo se desplazan de casa en casa y, al
bailar, forman un enorme círculo. El baile forma
figuras diversas, cadenas y rondas que intercalan
en sus movimientos a mujeres y a enmascarados.
En las interrupciones de la danza, algunos de éstos
Se alejan del grupo para beber, pues procuran no
ser reconocidos al levantar sus máscaras. Otra
figura enmascarada que aparece este día es el
ana-ndechi (“alma vieja”), el cual posee rasgos
grotescos, deformados, y se mueve en forma inde-
pendiente al resto de los danzantes, importunando
a la concurrencia y obligando a bailar a las joven-
Cltas. El “cacique del carnaval”, por ejemplo, lleva
una de estas máscaras. Otros personajes también
bacen su aparición este día: en efecto, no son
Pocos los hombres que, cubriendo su rostro con
mascaras bufas o simples bolsas, visten ropas de
ttmjer. Estos individuos travestidos bailan solos o
ontre ellos, y se dedican a realizar actos cómicos.
L°s cuchi (“cerdos”), por otra parte, son hombres
Qe toda edad, que visten solamente calzoncillos
0 andan desnudos, y que se han revolcado en
Una mezcla especialmente preparada, denominada
c°n toda justicia “barro hediondo”. Salen desde el
monte a toda velocidad arrojándose sobre la con-
currencia; sus víctimas preferidas son las mujeres
y también aquellos que han tenido la mala idea de
Vestir ropas blancas. Luego de sembrar el caos y
Perseguir a sus víctimas, regresan al monte a toda
Velocidad, lanzando fuertes gritos.
Al caer la tarde, hace aparición un muchacho
fiüe camina sobre sus piernas y sus manos, y lleva
^ cuerpo cubierto de pintas negras. Es el “tigre”
tTagna). Surge del lado del monte, escoltado por
Una comitiva formada por niños y hombres y
Mujeres travestidos, que procuran ocultarlo por
medio de banderas que mantienen frente a él y
sus costados. Cuando este enmascarado hace su
entrada, la música cambia drásticamente su ritmo
P su melodía, tomando un tono más inquietante,
seguida hace aparición otro personaje, llevando
a suerte de casco con cuernos: es el “toro”. Sale
e lado del poblado, y también es acompañado
una escolta que lo oculta mediante banderas,
objeto de éstas es evitar que el tigre y el
0 se vean y se enfrenten prematuramente.
Ia s mtegrantes forman una ronda, dentro de
cual permanece el toro; mientras tanto, el
&re, en el exterior, es atacado por las máscaras
representan distintos animales, a las cuales
Anth:
r°pos 96.2001
procura derribar y luego simula matar o devorar.
Finalmente, por disposición de un aña ndechi, se
introduce a ambos “animales” dentro del corro,
ubicándolos frente a frente. Las bestias se lanzan
una sobre la otra, comenzando la lucha; sin
abandonar un carácter simulado, por momentos
la contienda despliega mucha agilidad y acaso
alguna violencia. Para luchar, el tigre utiliza
principalmente sus zarpas, y el toro sus cuernos;
luego de unos momentos, el tigre vence al echar
a su oponente de espaldas y simula devorarlo.
La lucha es acompañada, en la música, por un
nuevo cambio en el ritmo y la melodía. Este
combate es vivido con la mayor intensidad por
los participantes de la fiesta, y no son pocos los
que aseguran que un triunfo del toro también es
posible. En algunos casos, el tigre debe cargar al
toro hasta el río, donde lo arroja.
Con esta lucha concluye la fiesta. Los partici-
pantes recorren entonces el poblado, llevando la
cruz a la manera de un estandarte. Son visitadas
todas las casas en las que la fiesta tuvo lugar,
por las cuales se pasea la cruz. Un último balde
de chicha es llevado de mano en mano, y todos
beben de él. Los hombres y las mujeres cambian
algunas frases convencionales, expresando su de-
seo de volver a encontrarse en el próximo arete.
Los ancianos y ancianas, como si se tratara de
una despedida, lloran diciendo que tal vez ya no
estarán entonces. Este momento tiende a ser triste,
solemne y melancólico. Luego de haber realizado
esta recorrida, se dirigen a un río cercano o, si no
lo hubiere, a alguna quebrada en el monte. Allí,
las márcaras son destruidas contra las piedras y
los árboles, y arrojadas luego a las aguas junto
a la cruz. El toro, el tigre y el resto de los
participantes se bañan en el río, procurando borrar
de su cuerpo las pinturas ceremoniales y todo
rastro de la fiesta. Si no lo hicieran, aseguran,
contraerían enfermedades de la piel. Al regresar
al poblado, muchos se saludan, estrechando las
manos. La fiesta ha terminado, y la vida social
vuelve a su curso cotidiano.
2.1 La confección ritual de la máscara
Si nos hemos extendido en la descripción de la
fiesta, no quisiéramos sin embargo soslayar un
fenómeno que creemos fundamental para su cabal
comprensión. A pesar de que los enmascarados
chañé han recibido buena parte de la atención que
merecen, la confección de las máscaras que estos
personajes portan no ha sido, hasta el momento,
conceptualizada como un problema etnográfico
62
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
relevante. No se ha procurado esclarecer los
sentidos atribuidos a la fiesta rastreando el origen
y la elaboración de los elementos puestos en juego
en ella. En efecto, se suele dar por sentada la
máscara, sin esclarecer cómo ha sido construida
ni de dónde viene. El origen de estos inquietantes
rostros de artificio queda, así, en el silencio.
Pareciera imponerse entonces un análisis de las
formas que adquiere el proceso de confección de la
máscara. Creemos pertinente sugerir que, entre los
chañé, la obtención misma de las materias primas
y la elaboración de la máscara asumen los perfiles
y las dimensiones propias de una práctica ritual.
En este sentido, creemos lícito referirnos a estos
preparativos como auténticos “ritos de entrada”
del arete. Y, además, advertimos con ello un
corolario fundamental: en tanto prácticas rituales,
estas actividades constituyen una puerta de entrada
a una serie de representaciones asociadas al monte,
verdadero universo simbólico con el cual los
varones deben comerciar al confeccionar sus aña-
hanti?
Afirmamos antes que la confección de la
máscara asume la forma de un rito. Y una práctica
ritual es, ante todo, un modo de comportamiento
ante lo sagrado tradicionalmente pautado y regu-
lado, que es colectivamente asociado a determi-
nadas creencias o representaciones que prestan a
dicho acto una coherencia y un sentido. El hombre,
ante lo sacro, puede actuar sólo de una manera
determinada: cualquier práctica ritual se mueve por
ende en un ámbito de condiciones calificadas; el
espacio, el tiempo, y, en síntesis, cualquier calidad
o circunstancia que la califica en tanto “ritual” se
encuentra tradicionalmente pautada, condicionada
y regulada. Y es éste, precisamente, el caso de la
obtención de la materia prima y la confección de
la máscara entre los chañé.
3 No intentaremos ocultar que en esto no debe verse más
que la pobre aplicación de un principio elemental de la
etnografía, postulado por Marcel Mauss en sus lecciones:
“Hay que observar los ritos por el material empleado en
el culto, y por el lugar en que se celebra, anotando la
preparación de todos los objetos religiosos, su fabricación y
su consagración ... hay que observar también la naturaleza
religiosa de la materia prima ...” (Mauss 1974: cap. IX).
No traemos a colación este lejano eco de las enseñanzas
del sabio francés tan sólo por el mero placer de citarlas;
sucede más bien que ellas nos recuerdan algo fundamental.
Procesos que no aparentan ser sino prolegómenos del rito
principal pueden asumir a su vez formas rituales: “El
conjunto de estas observancias relativas al tiempo, al lugar,
a los materiales e instrumentos y a los agentes de la
ceremonia, constituyen auténticas preparaciones y ritos de
entrada ... Estos ritos son tan importantes que constituyen
en sí mismos ceremonias diferentes a la ceremonia que
condicionan” (Mauss y Hubert 1991: cap. III).
La búsqueda de la madera del palo borracho
(,samou), es una tarea propia del hombre. Ahora
bien, dicha búsqueda se realiza en el monte (káa).
Este último es un ámbito que se encuentra estricta
y tradicionalmente vedado a las mujeres; y, por
otra parte, a todo lo asociado a la esfera femenina.
Esta clara interdicción es tajante y rotunda; una
mujer difícilmente se interne en el monte sin
algún sentimiento de desamparo, angustia o temor.
Aclarémoslo: no se trata sólo de que las mujeres no
entren al monte, sino de que todos los seres y las
cosas asociados a ellas se encuentran igualmente
interdictos. En efecto, las herramientas mismas que
utiliza el artesano, por ejemplo, deben ser “mascu-
linas”; los cuchillos destinados al monte no pueden
ni deben entremezclarse con los utilizados por la
mujer en sus (femeninas) faenas hogareñas. Un
cuchillo “masculino” que tocase cualquier objeto
considerado como femenino quedaría irremedia-
blemente mellado, perdería su filo, su razón de
ser y su eficacia. Por otro lado, este “contagio”
de lo femenino en una actividad esencialmente
masculina no deja de contaminar y manchar al
mismo varón. Un chañé cuya mujer estuviese
embarazada o menstruando no se internaría en el
monte, ya que el olor con el que ella lo impregna
resultaría terriblemente peligroso. De la misma
manera, el embarazo de la mujer o el penetrante
aroma que posee la orina de un niño conduce,
a quien se interna en el bosque, a una potencial
situación de peligro. En una palabra: el monte y la
mujer se hallan tajantemente separados, apartados
e interdictos.
Los peligros de lo femenino, sin embargo, no
son los únicos que acechan a quien se atreve
a “montear”. La excursión montaraz suele ser
motivo de ansiedades, temores y angustias. Para
comenzar, al monte sólo se va de día; la noche
comporta lo imprevisto y lo imponderable. En
segundo lugar, y en la medida de lo posible, el
artesano siempre intenta montear “acompañado”.
En el azaroso contexto del monte, la compañía de
sus perros, por ejemplo, es siempre bienvenida.
El mascarero chañé, en todo caso, es de hecho
acompañado por su infaltable coca, su alcohol o
su vino; ellos son quienes le otorgan la “fuerza”
(ipwére) y la “guapeza” (katupwére) tan necesarias
a la hora de emprender la empresa. De todas
formas, este coraje que regala la bebida en el
monte no tiene nada que ver con el éxtasis alegre y
despreocupado de la borrachera festiva; la persona
que se interna en el monte, sobria o no, lo hace
de una forma determinada y singular, seria y
cautelosamente: “Al monte - se suele decir - no
se va a joder”.
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
63
En todo caso, lo que vale recalcar es que el
nionte constituye una fuente de temores, precau-
ciones y ansiedades; constituye un ámbito repleto
de peligros que, no obstante potenciales y latentes,
s°n tremendamente reales y vividos para quien
quiebra sus estrictas reglas. Quien “montea” busca
Por ello señales y presagios de peligros y desgra-
nas, como por ejemplo serpientes (mboi), zorros
negros (aguará-ü o aguara guazu), pájaros ago-
reros (el “boyerito” o chon-chón) o determinadas
anomalías climáticas: lluvias repentinas, vientos
y torbellinos (kusuminu-guazu), oscurecimientos
inusuales, etc.
Otro de los seres asociados por los chañé al
monte - y clasificado como animal montaraz - es
el temido arco iris, llamado yeg’h o mboi guazu
Serpiente grande). Este ser maligno y peligroso
es relacionado con los vientos, las lluvias o las la-
gunas; es también, quizás, la manifestación o cris-
talización más patente de la interdicción entre el
monte y la femineidad. En efecto, aparece furioso
cuando es atraído por el olor de la menstruación
emenina o el aroma de la orina infantil. El arco
lris es el fundador mítico de la menstruación;
también corre y enferma a quienes se internan en
d monte y les tiende trampas, ataca con flechas,
molesta y asusta.
Otro fenómeno que los chañé relacionan fre-
cuentemente a su experiencia en el monte es el
Sueño. Oráculo vivido y fuente inagotable de pre-
moniciones, éste constituye una experiencia que
ac°nseja, disuade y advierte, tanto previa como
Posteriormente a la empresa. Los informantes
están todos de acuerdo en que el monte “hace
soñar”. Junto a los experimentados ancianos de
comunidad, tradicionalmente es el sueño el
Prmcipal interlocutor con quien el chañé evalúa
lQs tiempos y las circunstancias de la excursión
n sido o serán propicios y bienaventurados; o,
c°mo suelen decir, si se ha “ido bien” al monte.
^ Ea cuestión que obviamente se impone en
" e punto es: ¿en qué consiste “ir bien” al
nte? ¿Quién establece lo que es correcto e
orrecto en este contexto de acción? Debemos
juntarnos si existe, en el pensamiento y en la
r Penencia cotidiana de los chañé, alguna entidad,
j Presentación o ser que subyace y actúa “por
y c as de esta serie de precauciones, regulaciones
cmdad°s que se deben tener respecto del monte.
El
Ser al cual el artesano conoce íntima
y' . “i v.uai aiLtaanu iiimuia y
mámente, y ante el cual obra y actúa en con-
EsCl^nC^a’ CS ^aa (kaá: monte, iya: dueño).
(je e finien juzga y pauta lo lícito y lo ilícito; y,
esta manera, presta coherencia y sentido a la
edad de prácticas (positivas y negativas) que
Anth
hemos descripto y que los chañé asocian a sus
dominios. Es en relación al Iya, en fin, que puede
comprenderse una sentencia musitada, enseñada y
repetida hasta el cansancio: “Todo tiene dueño”. Es
él quien, cuando no se cumplen sus normas y se
quebrantan los tabúes e interdicciones antes men-
cionados, hace soñar. Es también quien enferma o
perturba el sentido de orientación de aquél que osa
incursionar en sus dominios, perdiéndolo hasta que
se desquicie, muera de hambre o sencillamente de
desesperación. Es el dueño, finalmente, quien con-
voca viborones y castiga con vientos u oscuridades
repentinas al desdichado incauto que se aventura
en sus dominios.
Ahora bien, por otro lado, y aquí reside su
carácter eminentemente ambiguo, es también el
Iya quien dona generosamente al chañé diversos
bienes, siempre que se cumplan las condiciones
por él requeridas; en otras palabras, si se inter-
cambia con él. Si se sabe propiciar sus favores,
durante el sueño dona secretos que comunica a
los hombres por medio de diversos intermediarios.
El tigre (yagua), por ejemplo, enseña el coraje y
la fuerza; el fuego (tata), la capacidad de hacer
daño; las piedras (ita), la invulnerabilidad; los
pájaros caburé y dérin-deri, el secreto para el
amor (choridi). Notamos la fuerza y la vigencia
plenas que mantienen las tradicionales ideas - tan
caras a los chañé - de reciprocidad y ambigüedad.
Es precisamente por su generosidad que el Iya
se disgusta ante el quiebre de las pautas, o ante
el desperdicio, el despilfarro, la inconsciencia y
la desconsideración respecto de los dones que
otorga. El Kaá Iya “dona” el samow, es en torno
a él que se articulan las prácticas que prohíben
talar más árboles de los necesarios, derribar los
ejemplares más jóvenes, cortar un nuevo tronco
antes de haber finalizado el anterior o desperdiciar
de cualquier forma la madera obtenida. El dueño
tampoco permite escatimar los bienes recibidos, ni
evitar compartir la madera del árbol talado.4
Es en relación a estos hechos - la existencia
del dueño del monte y el reconocimiento de su
propiedad respecto de los bienes y recursos que
en él encuentran los chañé - que el artesano que
4 De la misma manera, el dueño de los árboles también lo
es de los animales. El Iya, a veces asimilado a la entidad
andina de la Pachamama, prohíbe cazar irresponsablemente
por vicio o en exceso (ouíño). Castiga, al igual que en
el caso de la madera, a quien osa quebrantar sus estrictas
reglas: se enoja cuando se caza irresponsablemente o no se
matan las presas estrictamente necesarias. Caso contrario,
responde y sanciona en la forma típica: hace la caza estéril,
provoca la locura, la muerte, la pérdida de orientación del
cazador y todo tipo de desgracias y enfermedades.
lropos 96.2001
64
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
corta el samou y obtiene madera para sus máscaras
le agradece su don de una manera peculiar. En
efecto, una vez tomadas todas las precauciones y
terminado el trabajo, se encamina al tronco del
árbol caído y, tras depositar en él un poco de
coca, tabaco o alcohol, solemnemente anuncia en
guaraní: “Bueno, Padre. Que no me pase nada
en el camino de vuelta. Quiero dormir bien esta
noche en mi casa. Aquí te dejo un poco de coca.
Gracias, me voy”. No se nos ocurre una forma
más diáfana de intercambio de dones; sólo después
de depositar la ofrenda y de recitar ritualmente su
fórmula el artesano vuelve sano y salvo al poblado
tras haber “ido bien” al monte. No se perderá ni se
encontrará entonces con las temidas serpientes, no
se enfermará ni soñará nada extraño, y la madera
que obtuvo será fuerte y lisa. Si no ha cumplido
los debidos ritos, saldrá “mala y torcida”. “Ir bien”
supone, por ende, cumplir con los requisitos del
dueño antes, durante y después de la tala del
samou.
Hemos esbozado someramente algunos rasgos
de los prolegómenos rituales de la vida de las
máscaras; y sólo aquellos relativos a la obtención
de la madera con la que se confeccionan. La
búsqueda de una “materia prima”, aparentemente
inerte, nos ha conducido a un vivido sustrato
cultural; pudimos esclarecer así las dimensiones
de un horizonte simbólico - el monte - que sirve
de contexto al sentido profundo de la fiesta y
de la máscara. La vinculación entre la máscara
y el simbolismo del monte, en consecuencia, no
puede ser descuidada, a riesgo de perder de vista el
contexto de sentido y la profundidad simbólica en
los que la fiesta del arete se asienta y fundamenta
su eficacia.
Podemos ir aún más lejos. El Iya, genero-
samente, dona al chañé lo que por derecho le
pertenece; las cosas y los seres no están allí a la
espera, tienen sus propietarios. Se deduce de ello
que cualquier intento de entrar en relación con el
monte implica tratar con su dueño; el usufructo de
las cosas “naturales”, por ende, implica una suerte
de contrato.
El chañé debe vincularse con el dueño mediante
una serie de normas calificadas (rituales), que son
de carácter social; y, diríamos, incluso jurídico. El
nexo del hombre con el dueño y sus productos es
del mismo tipo que el que mantiene con sus pares.
En una palabra, se proyectan al monte ciertas
características del mundo humano, socializando la
naturaleza. Los “seres naturales” son concebidos
como seres con voluntad e intención; podríamos
decir que la naturaleza es interpretada socialmente,
o, mejor aún, que es “leída” en clave de reci-
procidad. Nos topamos así con una lógica ubicua
en la etnografía: el intercambio con las deidades,
como subrayase Mauss, constituye la cuarta - y
esencial- obligación del sistema de los dones.
Hay que dar, recibir y devolver, pero, antes que
nada, hay que hacerlo con los dioses. Con ellos
el intercambio es obligatorio, y soslayarlo, tal cual
sucede entre los chañé, puede ser fatal. Y es que,
como escribiera el sabio francés, son ellos los
propietarios auténticos de las cosas de este mundo
(Mauss 1991: cap. IV).
2.2 La máscara y el alma de los muertos
El nombre genérico para las máscaras rituales es,
como hemos visto, aña-aña. Mientras tanto, los
nombres específicos describen alguna particulari-
dad de cada tipo de máscara: aña-ndechi (ndechi
significa “viejo”), aña-hanti (hanti significa “cuer-
nos”) y aña-tairusu (tairusu significa “joven”). Re-
sulta evidente que la raíz de todos estos nombres,
el término que a todas luces debiera denotar el
concepto de máscara, es “aña”. Sin embargo, si se
pregunta a los chañé acerca del significado de esta
palabra, la respuesta es una y siempre la misma:
aña es el alma de los muertos.
Para comprender el significado de la máscara
ritual será necesario, entonces, ubicarla dentro
de un contexto mayor de creencias y prácticas,
relativas a la noción de “persona” y las almas
o componentes anímicos que el hombre chañé
posee. Según la mayor parte de los testimonios,
cada persona posee dos almas. La primera es
el ecove o cherecove. Todos lo llevan desde el
nacimiento; es el principio vital, lo que hace que
uno viva y esté fuerte. Si una persona soporta las
enfermedades, o vive muchos años, es porque su
ecove es chep’a (“duro”). Se encuentra alojado
en el pecho, del lado derecho del mismo; es de
color blanco, claro y brillante. A lo largo de la
vida del individuo, el ipwere (“fuerza” o “poder”)
del ecove va en ascenso, y luego de los 40 o 50
años, comienza a decrecer; con la vejez pasa de un
color blanco y brilloso a otro más opaco, de tonos
rojizos y pardos. La segunda alma es el chea.5 En
5 Al referirse a sus diversas almas, los chañé parecen
anteponer, casi siempre, el posesivo en primera persona (en
este caso, che) al sustantivo. Así, utilizan alternativamente
los términos che-recove (“mi espíritu” o bien “mi vida”)
y ecove (’’espíritu” o “vida”). El caso es más dramático
con respecto a la segunda alma, denominada en casi todos
los casos chea. La palabra “che-a“ significaría, en términos
estrictos, “mi alma”. Es así que í-a nos fue traducido como
“alma de otro”, y ne-a como “alma de usted”. Muchos
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
65
sus características, se presenta como el perfecto
opuesto del ecove: se encuentra alojado en el lado
izquierdo del pecho, es de color negro, oscuro y
opaco, y se mantiene inalterable durante toda la
vida. Se la describe como una “imagen” que carece
de carne, como una “sombra”.
Los chañé parecen ver en el ecove y el chea
dos principios enfrentados y contradictorios. A
uiedida que se acerca su muerte, como vimos,
el ecove de la persona comienza a menguar, a
Perder fuerzas; en este mismo período, el chea
Se fortalece y comienza a aparecer fuera de su
cuerpo, anunciando a los parientes, de este modo,
L inminente muerte de la persona. Así también,
cuando alguien está muriendo lejos del poblado,
su chea aparece entre los familiares. El chea es,
Por otra parte, quien sale por las noches fuera del
cuerpo cuando los chañé sueñan. Por su parte, el
ecove no puede abandonar jamás el cuerpo; pues,
si lo hiciera, la persona moriría en el acto. Este
termino, al parecer, designa a la vida en general,
al principio vital comprendido en los términos más
arnPüos. Con el declinar de la vida del hombre,
lPwere o poder del ecove comienza a decrecer,
Mientras el chea se fortalece. La muerte, en suma,
Slgnifica un triunfo del chea sobre el ecove.
Ahora bien, ¿qué cosa es el añal La cuestión
resulta problemática. La mayor parte de los infor-
mantes coincide en afirmar que el chea es el aña,
Si bien se muestra incapaz de establecer alguna
uerencia clara entre ambas nociones. La literatura
etnográfica tampoco soluciona este misterio: según
misionero del Campana, í’a era el nombre del
ma que tras la muerte se transformaba en aña. El
adre de Niño afirmaba que el aña era el alma de
fuellas personas que habían tenido una muerte
Polenta o inesperada, y que por lo tanto poseía
Ul\Caracter nefasto. Podemos afirmar, con Gianne-
C. ni (1916: 8), tan sólo lo que nos informa la
misma etimología del término: a significa “alma”,
y na “vagabundear, errar”. La palabra aña, en
ma, se utiliza siempre para designar la peligrosa
temida alma de los muertos. De hecho, en ningún
0 se nos dijo que los vivos posean un aña.
autores señalan que, entre los chiriguano, “a” designa al
a'ma- Según sabemos, entre los tupinamba y otros grupos
guaraní, la “sombra”, el fantasma, también era denominado
a~ Sin embargo, si bien los mismos chañé describen al chea
c°rno un reflejo o una sombra, no los hemos escuchado
utilizar la palabra “a” por separado. Por lo tanto, aquí
nos conformaremos con la palabra empleada con mayor
frecu '
che,
encía por ellos mismos en nuestras conversaciones,
a' y nos limitaremos a plantear este problema sin
atentar resolverlo.
Anth
Las almas de los muertos, más que representar
un orden moral equidistante, mantienen hacia los
vivos sus viejos amores y odios, y llevan a cabo
sus antiguas vindicaciones y venganzas; tal vez,
justamente, porque uno de los principales factores
del mantenimiento del orden social es la amenaza
y la sospecha de brujería, más que la simple
adherencia a valores morales compartidos. Así,
por ejemplo, cuando uno de los miembros de un
matrimonio de ancianos muere, se espera que el
otro lo siga en muy poco tiempo; ello se debe a que
el aña del difunto extraña su compañía, y que por
tanto “se lo lleva”. Para proteger su morada de las
aña, los chañé de Campo Durán, durante algunas
noches de la semana, depositan una vela encendida
en el lado derecho de las puertas. También en
el cementerio, lugar predilecto de las aña, suelen
dejarse velas los días lunes; el fuego, según se
afirma, las mantiene a distancia.
Luego de la muerte, si el funeral ha sido
debidamente realizado, las almas emprenden su
viaje hacia la tierra de los muertos. Entre los
chiriguano, la “tierra sin mal” perseguida por los
grupos guaraní era llamada iwoca. Esta era la
tierra a la cual iban los hombres (los guerreros)
después de morir, si bien podía alcanzarse en vida;
allí se celebraba un eterno convite, y las danzas
y las libaciones de chicha eran permanentes. El
iwoca es, para los chañé, la “casa de las aña”.
Su aspecto sufre grandes transformaciones entre
el día y la noche. Durante el día, toma la forma
de “un hormiguero”, no muestra señales de vida, y
se mantiene oscuro y silencioso. Durante la noche,
es “como una ciudad”. En su interior se encienden
luces y se escucha música. Allí tiene lugar la
“fiesta de los muertos”, un perpetuo arete donde
las almas bailan y beben chicha sin descanso.
El aña de un hombre llega al iwoca montada
en el viento. Según algunos, en la entrada hay
un “guardián”, quien lo recibe y lo lleva con
sus parientes, quienes lloran al verlo llegar. Lo
someten también a un baño de tierra, el cual opera
en él una transformación: de aquí en más llevará
los cabellos echados sobre el rostro, que quedará
oculto. Podemos pensar, sin fantasear demasiado,
que este baño inicia al alma en su nueva condición
y la incorpora al mundo de los muertos. La vida
social en el iwoca es, por otra parte, un exacto
reflejo de la vida social entre los vivos; las familias
vuelven a reunirse y los cónyuges vuelven a vivir
juntos. En esta continuidad de los lazos reside
también el peligro de los aña, que echan de
menos a los seres con los cuales se encuentran
ligados e intentan llevarlos con ellos. Por otra
parte, alejados del universo social de los vivos
lroPos 96.2001
66
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
por su muerte y su descomposición fisiológica,
los aña reproducen en su propio ámbito, no sólo
las relaciones sociales reales, sino ante todo las
relaciones sociales ideales: la existencia de un
continuo convite.6
Como veremos, en la fiesta del arete no sólo se
representa a los muertos a través de sus máscaras,
sino que además se actúa del mismo modo que
éstos. Pues los actos de la fiesta (los bailes, los
gritos, la ingestión de chicha), son rutinarios en el
iwoca. Por lo pronto, esto nos indica que el nombre
de las máscaras, y la creencia en la llegada de los
muertos durante el arete, posee un sustrato real
y concreto en el contexto simbólico de prácticas
y creencias relativas a las nociones chañé de
“persona” y de “alma”.
Autores e indígenas, queda claro, coinciden
en afirmar que los enmascarados, durante el rito,
representan a los aña. Debemos preguntarnos,
entonces, de qué manera - y, si es posible, por
qué razón - la máscara ritual juega este papel
de “puente” entre el mundo de los muertos y el
mundo de los vivos. En primer lugar, a diferencia
de las otras, la máscara ritual debe elaborarse
en secreto. El artesano debe ir al monte en
soledad y trabajar la madera lejos de la mirada
del resto de la gente. Y hemos dicho ya que,
durante la fiesta, los enmascarados envuelven su
cabeza con telas y se apartan del grupo cuando se
levantan la máscara para beber. De modo que, al
menos en el plano de las reglas y las intenciones,
los enmascarados no deben ser reconocidos. La
identidad del enmascarado debe ocultarse porque,
según se cree, éste se transforma, durante la fiesta,
en el aña, en el antepasado, en el muerto. Y esta
transformación es atestiguada por su conducta. El
aña-aña se dedica a hacer lo que los muertos
hacen en el iwoca: danzar y beber. Por otra
parte, dado que no pertenece a la sociedad de
los vivos, no tiene por qué respetar sus normas
de decoro y cortesía, y le es permitido entonces
acosar impunemente a las mujeres. Finalmente,
cuando habla, lo hace con una voz aguda y finita.
Este último detalle no nos fue explicado, y si
bien parece encaminarse a ocultar la identidad del
enmascarado, también recuerda la antigua creencia
guaraní que atribuía a los muertos una voz similar
a la de los niños.
6 En Tuyunti, la comunidad chañé con más influencia mi-
sionera, algunos chañé describieron al “cielo” (destino de
ultratumba del ecove) como el exacto reverso del iwoca:
se trabaja todo el tiempo y nunca hay “carnaval”. Incluso
quienes describían al iwoca como la “casa del diablo”
hablaban con sumo entusiasmo y alguna envidia de la vida
que las almas llevan allí.
Hemos recogido dos mitos que, si bien no
se proponen explicar acabadamente el origen de
las máscaras, ofrecen un vínculo entre los aña
y la madera del yuchán o samou. El primero
fue también registrado por Rocca y Newbery en
Tuyunti, comunidad que ha padecido una fuerte
y persistente influencia misionera. Se cuenta que
Jesús y el aña - aquí llamado “el diablo”- reali-
zaron una competencia para comprobar quién era
más poderoso, la cual consistía en resistir diversas
inclemencias climáticas. El aña fue vencido por
el agua helada y, para salvarlo, Jesús cavó un
hueco en un yuchán y lo introdujo en él. Luego
tapó el hueco con la corteza y le anunció que
allí viviría hasta que llegara su tiempo: “durante
el arete te toca salir a vos, salí a divertirte”, le
dijo (Rocca y Newbery 1972). El segundo relato,
por otro lado, nos fue contado en Campo Durán.
En el tiempo de los antiguos (aracaé), cuando los
chañé eran feroces guerreros, existía entre ellos
un cacique extraordinariamente fuerte y poderoso.
Cuando este hombre murió, su alma se transformó
en yuchán. Por eso, nos explicaron, ellos usan esa
madera para fabricar las máscaras. De ese modo,
el alma del cacique “regresa” y transmite a los
enmascarados su poder y su vigor.
Sin intentar una interpretación acabada de estos
relatos, no es posible negar que en ellos se ve
confirmada la relación entre el aña y la máscara.
Ahora bien: ¿por qué, entre todos los símbolos
posibles, los muertos son encarnados por una
máscara? A falta de las complejas cadenas de
símbolos que ofrecen las grandes etnografías, nos
limitaremos a invocar la relación más sencilla y
obvia que el registro nos impone: el aña lleva el
cabello volcado sobre el rostro, por lo cual los
vivos ya no podrán distinguir a los que han muerto.
No resulta insensato pensar que, al conferirles un
rostro, las máscaras permiten a estos aña aparecer
entre los vivos.
Detallemos ahora los mecanismos que hacen
posible esta identificación entre el enmascarado
y el aña. A grandes rasgos, los artificios psi-
cológicos son sencillos y evidentes: se sabe que
la borrachera, las monótonas danzas que giran
incesantemente y la música, que también vuelve
cíclicamente sobre sí misma, son aptas en sí mis-
mas para provocar en los individuos las ilusio-
nes religiosas. El sujeto no experimenta un mero
estado de posesión, sino que adquiere, mediante
los efectos que en él provocan la bebida y el
hecho de enmascararse, una existencia distinta
de la habitual. Dado que esta transformación no
es un elemento aislado, sino que tiene lugar en
un contexto ritual, y además sigue ciertas reglas
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
67
de comportamiento tradicionales, podemos decir
que la embriaguez toma un significado preciso:
no solamente aparta al individuo de su existencia
habitual, sino que además lo lleva a participar de
Una existencia sagrada. Es sólo en este sentido que
Podemos decir que el enmascarado se transforma
en un ser sagrado.7
Resumiendo: para que un aña se encarne en
Una máscara, son necesarias ciertas precauciones
rituales, que podríamos considerar como genuinos
ntos “de entrada”. Es necesario ocultar la máscara
de los ojos de los seres profanos - y en especial
de las mujeres -, es necesario confeccionarla de
acuerdo a los antiguos modelos, es necesario final-
mente utilizar tan sólo cierto tipo de madera. ¿Qué
°curriría si estas reglas no fueran respetadas? Es
difícil decirlo; sin embargo, es posible responder
Senalando que, como hemos dicho, otros tipos de
mascaras aparecen en la fiesta. No es necesario
elaborarlos en secreto ni responden tampoco a
las formas del aña-hanti. Los demás rasgos de
estos enmascarados son idénticos a los de quienes
levan el aña-hanti: están igualmente borrachos,
aanzan prácticamente del mismo modo, etc. Y, sin
embargo, no representan al aña. El espíritu de los
muertos sólo se apodera de ciertos enmascarados,
y esta selección debe atribuirse al tipo de máscaras
fiüe llevan. Aquí podría objetarse que esta acla-
mción resulta banal, ya que la función del aña-
anti es, justamente, simbolizar a estos espíritus.
er° los mismos chañé se cuidan de aclarar que,
a diferencia del uso que los blancos hacen de las
mascaras, ellos no representan a los muertos, sino
^Ue s°n los muertos.
Ahora bien; hasta aquí hemos puesto el énfasis
en mecanismos y procesos que podríamos denomi-
nar “irreflexivos”, actos asociados a lo que Durk-
heim (1968) denominara “efervescencia”: estados
mnotivos del (individuo en) el grupo. Debemos
Peguntarnos también si la máscara chañé puede
Ser vista, al mismo tiempo, como un objeto y un
Producto del pensamiento; principalmente, debe-
mos indagar si su imagen no condensa máximas
y valores sociales. ¿Qué mensajes, en definitiva,
Puede aprender y comunicar el chañé a través de
este objeto?
necesario atemperar estas afirmaciones. La fiesta es,
1 undamentalmente, una ocasión de jolgorios, descanso y
diversión. Aquí interpretamos algunos de sus símbolos
■nterpolando informaciones obtenidas de diversos ámbitos,
fiUe no necesariamente se encuentran en su totalidad en
Pensamiento de cada uno de los ejecutantes del rito. A
decir verdad, toda la eficacia del arete parece residir en una
embriaguez que llega casi hasta el borde de la intoxicación.
^thropos 96.2001
Turner considera que, en ciertos ámbitos limi-
nales, las máscaras, dada su misma deformidad,
son un instrumento privilegiado de transmisión de
los “sacra”, de los conceptos y valores sagrados
(Turner 1980: cap. IV). La máscara chañé posee,
en efecto, un aspecto “monstruoso”; combina un
rostro humano con una superficie denominada
hanti (que significa “cuerno”). En opinión de Tur-
ner, los agrandamientos, disminuciones y cambios
de color son una forma de abstraer, de volver
determinados rasgos culturales o naturales, a través
de su presentación exagerada, objeto de reflexión;
así también, el carácter monstruoso contribuye a
distinguir entre los diversos factores de la reali-
dad. Al recomponer los hechos de la cultura bajo
formas monstruosas, las máscaras ofrecen al pen-
samiento y a la reflexión los “niveles” o “factores”
de la cultura. De esta manera el individuo puede
pensar las posiciones y relaciones sociales que
hasta ese entonces, simplemente, aceptaba como
dados. Ahora bien, tomando como premisa que
las máscaras pueden presentar los valores de la
sociedad en cuestión, podríamos preguntarnos si
las máscaras chañé, acaso, no constituyen una
suerte de reflexión acerca de esta sociedad y los
procesos de cambio a los cuales se ve some-
tida. Las máscaras aña-hanti, como dijimos, están
compuestas por dos partes distintas, claramente
distinguidas por los mismos nativos. La primera,
el rostro, presenta siempre la misma inexpresiva
forma y los mismos opacos colores. Podríamos su-
poner entonces que expresa la completa sumisión
de los hombres al grupo, su homogeinización. La
segunda parte de la máscara, el hanti, es en cada
caso diferente: si bien esta superficie de madera
observa siempre dimensiones y formas similares,
lo que en ella se dibuja o talla es decisión personal
de cada artesano. Frente al rostro, que expresaría
la disolución del individuo en la sociedad, el
hanti expresa y exacerba su individualidad, su
personalidad. Por otro lado, si el color y las formas
del rostro están absolutamente estatuidos por la
tradición, y por ende se mantienen inalterables a
lo largo del tiempo, en el hanti tienen expresión,
a través de los motivos diseñados por los jóvenes
chañé, los procesos de cambio social y la asimi-
lación de pautas culturales ajenas a la tradición.
Pues a los motivos tradicionales se suman otros
tomados de la sociedad karaí (blancos), por la cual
los muchachos chañé se sienten inevitablemente
atraídos.
En su análisis del desdoblamiento de la re-
presentación, Lévi-Strauss - quien, de más está
aclararlo, veía en las máscaras otro producto del
pensamiento estructural - afirmaba que, en las
68
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
“culturas de máscaras”, el decorado del rostro
crea en el individuo su ser social (1994: cap.
XII). Después de todo, tal vez sea posible realizar
un análisis del arete en los estrictos términos de
un rite de passage. Los chañé han abandonado
hace tiempo sus tradicionales ritos de iniciación,
centrados en la imposición del tembetá. Si tenemos
en cuenta que quienes confeccionan y utilizan
el aña-hanti son ante todo los jóvenes, no es
descabellado ver en el uso de máscaras y en
la representación de los espíritus de los muertos
- quienes, mediante su constante amenaza, actúan
como guardianes de las pautas de convivencia
tradicionales - una suplencia atenuada y periódica
de estos ritos.
2.3 La máscara y el tiempo: el final de la fiesta
Una vez esclarecido el significado de la máscara,
es hora de detenernos en una calificación muy pe-
culiar de la fiesta, y acaso la esencial: su ubicación
en un tiempo de potencia y calidad inusuales.
Comencemos por lo más sencillo: ¿qué quiere de-
cir aretel “Ara” significa momento, edad, tiempo;
“ete”, por su parte, evoca la idea de lo cierto,
lo verdadero. La etimología es entonces clara y
contundente: la fiesta es el tiempo verdadero. El
arete, en efecto, es un tiempo separado, de una
potencia y calidad peculiar.
Pero no nos quedaremos sólo con lo que los
celebrantes nos dicen. El arete no puede ser tratado
y vivido con indiferencia. Es por ello que el
tiempo que la fiesta “abre” debe ser demarcado
y delimitado con precisión: de hecho, una serie
de sucesos lo aíslan, por diversos medios, de
lo cotidiano. La fiesta, en otras palabras, ocupa
una posición precisa en el calendario anual; la
naturaleza y la cultura combinan sus fuerzas para
calificar especialmente su tiempo: el inicio y el
fin del ciclo festivo son marcados por el flore-
cimiento y el marchitamiento de la flor amarilla
del taperigua. A la vez, el jefe de la fiesta marca
claramente los límites temporales del arete. Por
otro lado, hacia el triste ocaso de la celebración, el
arete iya también pronuncia discursos, o, simple-
mente, anuncia con solemnidad que ha terminado
el “tiempo del aña”. Finalmente, estrictos lavajes
y purificaciones “cierran” la fiesta. Por otro lado,
la subdivisión interna del tiempo festivo demuestra
como éste fluctúa en su intensidad - como hemos
visto, in crescendo -: el arete guazu, luego el arete
chico y, finalmente, “el entierro”. Mencionaremos
en último término las interdicciones a las que se
someten los elementos de la fiesta; recordemos que
los instrumentos o las máscaras, en efecto, deben
aparecer sólo durante el tiempo festivo, bajo pena
de que el infractor contraiga graves enfermedades.
Advertimos que el arete, como su nombre lo
indica, es un tiempo peculiar y único. Ahora bien,
¿cuáles son los caracteres que lo distinguen y lo
hacen tan especial? El tiempo ordinario se calcula,
se mide, se cuenta; el “tiempo verdadero”, por el
contrario, es un tiempo de calidades, de énfasis
y de intensidades heterogéneas, de ritmos (Hubert
y Mauss 1946b). Y el arete, nos parece, ostenta
estos perfiles que distinguen al tiempo mítico y
originario. Veamos por qué.
Como se deduce de las calificaciones a las que
se ve sometido, el tiempo festivo altera el estado
y la calidad de la vida de la comunidad. En este
sentido, las “entradas” ya mencionadas constituyen
- como decían Hubert y Mauss - auténticas fechas
críticas que interrumpen la continuidad del tiempo
ordinario y transportan a la comunidad hacia otro,
revestido de una significación cualitativamente
distinta; de la misma manera, sólo que a la inversa,
lo harán los lavajes y purificaciones rituales de
“salida”, que cierran el arete. Los mismos chañé
definen las aña-aña, los instrumentos y los adornos
propios de la fiesta como entes de naturaleza
“ritual”.
La comunidad, en la fiesta, se compromete,
asocia y relaciona con lo sacro, en una experiencia
de una intensidad diferente y heterogénea de la
vida cotidiana. Y la sacralidad así evocada, repre-
sentada y revivida asume una forma inequívoca:
la del iwoka. Recordemos brevemente: allí todo
es ebullición, éxtasis y borrachera; se trata de un
frenesí de gritos, bromas e inauditas licencias. Y es
que el arete, el “verdadero tiempo” es justamente
eso, la fiesta interminable que tiene lugar en el
iwoka. ¿Acaso diverge la fiesta de aquella franca-
chela eterna de los antepasados, aún hoy esgrimida
por los pueblos de habla guaraní como modelo de
perfección?
Con todo, queda por aclarar un hecho cuya
importancia es capital. El tiempo de la fiesta es
homólogo al tiempo eterno, y por ello ambos
son considerados semejantes. Ello implica que el
arete no repite, imita o “representa” al iwoka-, para
los chañé, es el iwoka. El tiempo mítico de los
orígenes es revivido plenamente en la fiesta. La
eternidad invade la duración del tiempo ordinario;
los chañé, de hecho, suelen decir que el tiempo
“es redondo”. Esa eternidad presente que es la
fiesta constituye, para ellos, el paradigma mismo
de la diversión: no hay límites ni etiqueta (pues se
rompen o invierten las reglas ordinarias), no hay
culpa (no hay responsabilidades), tampoco carestía
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
69
(todo se derrocha y dilapida), y, menos aún, trabajo
o muerte (las aña, recordemos, aparecen vivas). La
lectura es evidente: no hay forma alguna de finitud.
Sin embargo, lo que llama la atención es que
hasta ahora el iwoka se ha manifestado como aquel
tiempo al cual los chañé esperan que acceda una
Parte de su alma después de la muerte. El arete
aparece como un tiempo que irrumpe efectiva-
mente, cada año, en la vida cotidiana; pero lo
hace - por así decirlo - “desde el futuro”, desde el
final de la existencia. Nos preguntamos entonces
si acaso este tiempo, como toda edad mítica, no
remite también al pasado, a un origen y a una
etiología. Interesa averiguar, en una palabra, si
el “tiempo verdadero” (arete) tiene alguna vin-
culación con el tiempo mítico de los ancestros
(aracaé). En vano acudiremos a la literatura et-
n°gráfica para que nos socorra en este punto; no
registra dato alguno. Sin embargo, si se nos per-
mite remitirnos a una de las fases finales del arete,
nos encontraremos con un hecho fundamental, y
fiue, sin embargo, ha sido descuidado de manera
sistemática.
Detengámonos un momento en el drama final
el arete. Aparece en él, nuevamente, la máscara;
en realidad, entra en escena un tipo de máscara
muy especial. Recordemos que el día del entierro
aParecen, custodiados por sus respectivos corte-
jes, “el tigre”, y, por el lado inverso, “el toro”.
mbos, pintarrajeados y disfrazados, ocultan sus
r°stros. Luego de algunas vueltas preliminares,
Vlyidas por los atentos presentes con expectación y
entusiasmo, los enmascarados se trenzan en lucha,
en medio de grandes gritos y exclamaciones. El
§re, vencedor, domina finalmente al toro, inmo-
lándolo. Y arranca, en señal de su victoria, la
Máscara del vencido.
Hemos advertido ya que el análisis de este
episodio, tan vital a la fiesta, ha sido generalmente
ignorado y negligido. Acaso se deba a la creencia,
tan generalizada en la etnografía de los chiriguano-
^hané, que ve en este combate simbólico una mera
imitación de la influencia foránea y carnavalesca
sufriera la fiesta desde mediados del siglo
Pasado. Doble negligencia: en el caso de que
efectivamente haya sido así, se estaría equivocado
en descuidar el combate porque lo que interesa,
más allá de una “pureza” étnica - por otra parte
Pmsunta e inverificable —, es la manera en que las
c°munidades actuales se han reapropiado de este
P emento ritual. Se olvida así una advertencia de
Radcliffe-Brown (1922: 229) que, no por añeja,
resulta por ello menos vigente: “La interpretación
e una costumbre involucra el descubrimiento, no
e su origen, sino de su significado'’. Y aun así,
^nth
no es del todo segura esta presunta influencia
“externa” sobre la fiesta. Métraux (1944: 311)
mismo ha descripto celebraciones que culminaban
en luchas simbólicas entre los guana y los mbyá; y
éstos, según nos informa la literatura etnográfica,
son los equivalentes orientales - respectivamente -
de los chañé y los chiriguano. Las comunidades
se dividían en dos mitades, y, en medio de
la bebida y las danzas propias de la fiesta,
luchaban y se atacaban alternativamente. Siempre
ganaba la parcialidad considerada “buena”, y sus
contendientes eran considerados vencidos.
El único intento de explicación del combate
ritual ha sido el de Riester et al. (1979): según
ellos, el toro es un símbolo del blanco inva-
sor, y el tigre, de la resistencia y la victoria
final de los indígenas. Riester et al. afirman que
el ganado vacuno ha sido introducido por el
blanco, y por ende - de alguna manera - lo
simboliza. Sin negar su interpretación, creemos
que ella no resulta suficiente. Es cierto: algunos
chañé hoy la esgrimen; pero también aparecen
otros que la relativizan, sosteniendo firmemente
que el toro simboliza a la mujer y el tigre al varón.
Vemos entonces que no siempre se acude a causas
externas cuando se suministra una explicación de
la fiesta; pareciera ser que no todo se reduce a
una simbolización de los conflictos interétnicos.
¿Pero cuáles son, entonces, las representaciones
que otorgan sentido y fundamentan el motivo de
la lucha ritual? ¿Las hay? Y en ese caso, ¿qué
significan?
Todo se aclara si reparamos en lo que cuentan
algunos chañé: antes, en el aracaé, los hombres
vivían en una fiesta perpetua. Los rasgos de
ésta evocan inmediatamente los del iwoka: el
jolgorio y la borrachera, la chicha y las bromas,
la danza, la alegría y la música no cesaban en
ningún momento. Sin embargo, cierto día, la
fiesta se vio interrumpida por un hecho singular.
Repentinamente un tigre y un toro irrumpieron,
entreverados en furiosa lucha, en medio de los
alegres borrachines. Los hombres no pudieron
resistirse a la tentación y la curiosidad de saber
qué sucedería. Todavía absortos en el frenesí de la
celebración, se prometieron entonces que, en caso
de ganar el toro, el arete seguiría su marcha sin fin.
Pero, en caso de que el tigre obtuviese la victoria,
la fiesta cesaría de inmediato. Y, como se refleja
en el combate ritual escenificado cada año en el
arete (y para desgracia de los chañé) ganó el tigre.
¿Qué nos dice este relato? Sencillamente, que
en el comienzo era la fiesta. El arete es entonces
la reactualización periódica del tiempo mítico
(aracaé), circunscripto a su aparición esporádica
lroPos 96.2001
70
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
en la tierra sólo a causa de una apuesta inmemorial.
Allí tenemos entonces nuestro origen, nuestra
etiología. El arete funde y condensa el pasado y
el futuro, el aracaé (tiempo de los antepasados)
y el iwoka (la futura vida ultraterrena). Y es
que ambos son lo mismo, una fiesta eterna: el
“tiempo verdadero”. Pareciera ser en este sentido
que el tiempo es descripto por los chañé como
“un círculo”. Dijimos antes que el tiempo festivo
irrumpe periódicamente en la tierra de los vivos.
Ahora podemos precisar aún más: la mitología nos
sugiere, por el contrario, que el tiempo ordinario
de la vida es, para los chañé, una interrupción del
verdadero (el arete), que es una fiesta eterna.
Esta presencia y esta intensidad del tiempo
mítico en la fiesta no es “teórica”; es vivida. Nunca
hemos podido presenciar, ni entre los chiriguano ni
entre los chañé, una victoria del toro en su combate
ritual frente al tigre. Sin embargo, lo notable es
que quienes han vivido decenas de entierros en
los que el desenlace fue siempre igual, mantienen
sin embargo viva la posibilidad de que el toro sea
vencedor; todo el mundo cree que el resultado del
enfrentamiento es abierto, incierto. Los chañé, en
efecto, aseguran no saber quién va a ganar.
Comprendemos por qué quieren volver, re-
vivir, sentir y paladear nuevamente, cada año, el
tiempo del arete. La respuesta, nos parece, ya
la intuyó Mauss (Hubert y Mauss 1946a: cap. I)
hace años: es porque se ve en este tiempo una
fuente inagotable de energías, de fuerzas y de
vida.8 El arete es la potencia, la fluidez y la
capacidad en estado puro. Y todos quieren o
anhelan participar de esta potencia. El mundo,
tras el desgaste progresivo de la vida cotidiana,
se regenera y revitaliza contactándose con ella.
Recordemos el mito del origen de las máscaras: las
máscaras permiten participar de una fuerza perdida
en el tiempo mítico, encerrada en el samou. Por
ello, para regenerarse, para resurgir con plenitud y
fuerza renovada - para comulgar, en suma, con lo
sacro -, se acude al “tiempo verdadero”.
La fiesta es un desorden, un caos, un sacudi-
miento catártico de las reglas que gobiernan la
naturaleza y el mundo cotidiano: coartar, circuns-
cribir o finalizar la fiesta, como sucede en el mito
chañé, implica regular el tiempo, establecer un
universo ordenado, un cosmos. El fin mítico de la
fiesta es la creación del tiempo; es la posibilidad
misma de la vida social. Que la fiesta finalice
significa que aparecen en la existencia la muerte,
la finitud, la responsabilidad, la regla y el trabajo.
8 Véase también el magistral análisis de Caillois de la fiesta
y la transgresión sagrada (1996: cap. IV).
En una palabra, comienza la duración, que es su
auténtica antítesis. En el arete, por el contrario,
el caos, el desorden, la potencia, la plasticidad y
la fluidez originarias, por un momento, se reesta-
blecen. Las diferencias, las clasificaciones y las
reglas de la vida cotidiana (hombre-animal, varón-
mujer, líder-seguidor) se borran o, sencillamente,
se invierten en beneficio del trastocamiento y la
transvaloración.
Es preciso detenerse un momento en la escato-
logía exuberante de la fiesta chañé, en sus excesos,
su derroche, el desenfreno y la efervescencia. Po-
demos entonces entender mejor, ahora, esa borra-
chera sistemática que aparece en las crónicas, en
la literatura etnográfica y en la actualidad como un
carácter distintivo de este grupo. No se equivocaba
el Padre de Niño (1912: 247) cuando intentaba
comprender el sentido profundo de la bebida: “El
cangüi es su café, su caldo, su vino, su comida, su
bebida, su todo; es en cierto modo su dios”. Frente
a las alarmantes carestías ordinarias, los chañé
derrochan y derraman bebida, arrojan al suelo maíz
y harina e invitan a todo el mundo a celebrar; si
en la vida normal se almacena y se guarda, en el
arete se dona y se convida compulsivamente.
¿Pero por qué derrochan? En suma: ¿cómo
es que los chañé se comportan en el arete de
forma tan abismalmente diferente a la vida co-
tidiana? Como en todas las fiestas, en el arete
ciertas normas y valores morales se invierten o
se quiebran. Veamos un ejemplo: hemos visto que
en estas comunidades las esferas de femenino y
lo masculino se hallan, en la vida cotidiana, divi-
didas claramente. Recordemos la división sexual
del trabajo (los hombres cazan y cultivan, las
mujeres recolectan), la de la actividad artesanal
(los hombres se dedican a la madera, las mujeres
a la alfarería) o los tabúes y las interdicciones
entre la mujer y el monte (ámbito masculino por
excelencia). Pues bien, en el arete todo esto se
transmuta y se trastoca. Los hombres y mujeres
chañé se mezclan en todos los sentidos, los varones
se disfrazan de mujeres y las mujeres de hombre;
por otro lado, caen por el suelo los pudores y las
licencias sexuales se exasperan. El desenfado y el
travestismo aplastan a la timidez cotidiana, y los
aña manosean groseramente a toda mujer que se
atreva a presenciar la fiesta. Y nadie puede que-
jarse, en primer lugar porque no se los reconoce,
y, además, porque no son ellos los que gozan, sino
los antepasados que han vuelto.
No es sólo la moral, sino la misma lógica de las
cosas la que se invierte. Los misioneros llamaban
al arete “el baile de los locos”. Los hombres
caminan en cuatro patas como los animales y,
Anthropos 96.2001
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé
71
efectivamente, los encaman con sus máscaras; las
flautas {pinguyo) deben imitar a los pájaros y los
aña-ndechi llevan guantes en los pies. Por otro
lado, es curioso que entre los chañé advirtamos,
tras su máscara de viejo (aña-ndechi), un jefe o
dueño de la fiesta, que no es nunca el cacique
ordinario; una autoridad paralela y especial se
superpone a la autoridad cotidiana. El arete se
presenta, en cierta forma, como un mundo del
revés.
Ahora bien, resta aclarar todavía una cuestión
vital. Habíamos dicho, cuando describíamos el
arete, que resultaba imprescindible comprender su
fase final, la etapa “triste” de la fiesta. Recapitule-
mos: tras la contienda simbólica entre el toro y el
tigre, y luego de lavarse y destruir las marcas de
la fiesta, arrecia entre los chañé, y especialmente
entre los viejos, un clima de profunda congoja. La
música acompaña esta tensión, triste y apagada.
Algunos dan vueltas por la aldea, otros meditan
en cuclillas. Es la “despedida del carnaval”; los
ancianos, desconsolados, se abrazan y lloran con
§ran tristeza. Según explican, además de recordar
a sus difuntos, advierten entonces que no saben
con certeza si llegarán al próximo arete; que es lo
mismo que decir: al próximo año.
Analicemos un instante la peculiar naturaleza
Ael llanto de los viejos. Junto a las lágrimas
espontáneas, notamos un llorar de una naturaleza
diferente, forzado y algo ficticio. En ambos casos,
el llanto es muy diferente al normal; es un
lamento agudo y sostenido, semeja una letanía y
una lamentación. Los llorones recorren todas las
casas despidiendo la fiesta; a la vez se despiden
eH°s, pues están convencidos de que nunca más
contemplarán ese amado paisaje. Este curioso
evento nos permite reflexionar acerca de algunas
cuestiones asociadas a la fiesta. Notaremos una
nueva razón por la cual el tiempo de la fiesta es,
Para los chañé, el ideal y el “verdadero”, que se
aguarda con impaciencia todo el año. Por ello se
Hora desconsoladamente su ocaso; se despide al
carnaval, que pronto será botado y enterrado, y no
v°lverá hasta el próximo arete.
A la vez, registramos en esta ambigüedad del
tlempo los rastros de los mecanismos rituales
flüe antes mencionáramos. En el plano de la
Jogica formal del rito, ello resulta coherente: si la
^entrada” es alegre y despreocupada, la fase final
do salida” resulta visiblemente triste y nostálgica.
A la euforia inicial, frenética y exuberante, se
contrapone su inversión, la disforia medida y
apagada del ocaso de la fiesta. Esta tristeza nos
? %a a pensar en lo que Hubert y Mauss tanto
an insistido: la heterogeneidad del tiempo y
Anthropos 96.2001
sus grados, énfasis, matices o intensidades. El
tiempo ritual, es sabido, es una cuestión de ritmos.
¿Por qué decimos esto? Los propios chañé nos
lo explican: es precisamente en esta fase de la
fiesta cuando ellos advierten y hacen consciente
el problema del tiempo: “Uno se da cuenta del
tiempo”, dicen. La duración se hace consciente, se
reflexiona sobre el devenir y el envejecimiento;
el tiempo, en una palabra, se problematiza en
tanto tal. El arete es la medida y el “marcador
temporal” del tiempo cotidiano; que, para recordar
una vez más a Hubert y Mauss, no es sino el lapso
entre diferentes fiestas. Los viejos chañé recuerdan
nostálgicamente, entre lágrimas y abrazos, a sus
familiares y amigos muertos; se despiden luego,
lenta y pausadamente, de la comunidad, pues
explican que nadie es adivino ni sabe cuándo va
a morir. Lo que los llorosos ancianos afirman es
que no saben si llegarán, no al próximo verano,
próximo año o próximo mes, sino al próximo
arete. La fiesta no sólo ordena el tiempo, sino que
lo hace objeto de reflexión, lo trae a la consciencia.
La fiesta del arete concluye, finalmente, con
los lavajes y la destrucción ritual de los elementos
puestos en juego en ella; y entre ellos, por supue-
sto, se destruye el elemento que más nos interesa:
la máscara. ¿Cómo podemos explicar la creen-
cia que sanciona la destrucción de las máscaras?
¿Cómo comprender su peligro? Debemos tener
presente que, cuando el aña-hanti no ha sido
utilizado en el rito, no comporta ningún peligro,
y no hay necesidad de destruirlo. El origen de su
carácter peligroso y contaminante debe buscarse,
entonces, en su actuación ritual. Las máscaras re-
presentan - o más bien son - los aña, los espíritus
de los muertos. El contacto entre los vivos y los
muertos, entonces, debe tener lugar en un medio
regulado y controlado, y serán necesarias ciertas
precauciones especiales para llevarlo a cabo. No es
arriesgado pensar que la máscara es el medio que
permite ese contacto, que sirve de intermediario
entre las almas de los muertos, seres sagrados,
poderosos y peligrosos, y los simples hombres.9
La máscara permite al hombre y a los aña comuni-
carse sin perder sus autonomías respectivas. Es el
rostro que los jóvenes llevan cuando representan
a los espíritus; mientras la utilicen, los jóvenes
serán los aña, y su ser moral se verá drásticamente
alterado; pero, cuando se la quiten, podrán desem-
barazarse, junto con ella, del carácter peligroso e
interdicto que comportan. Conservar la máscara,
entonces, equivale a conservar la materialización
9 Véase las funciones de la “víctima” en los ritos sacrificiales
(Hubert y Mauss 1946a).
72
Federico Bossert y Diego Villar
del mismo espíritu que, en la vida cotidiana, se
procura ahuyentar a través de múltiples precau-
ciones. Ahora bien, ¿por qué es necesario destruir
la máscara? El acto de destrucción ritual puede
concebirse como la eliminación, del seno de la
comunidad, de aquellas fuerzas que el rito invoca
- o crea -, pero que fuera de su ámbito resultan
sumamente peligrosas. Al mismo tiempo, este “sa-
crificio” puede ser entendido como la restitución
de la madera al ámbito del monte, que, según
sabemos, es su lugar de origen.
Un segundo acto acompaña a la destrucción
de las máscaras, y nos parece confirmar estas
líneas. Los chañé sostienen que, para evitar las
enfermedades, no basta con deshacerse de las
máscaras: es necesario bañarse en el río, limpiar
del cuerpo toda marca de la fiesta. Esto lo
hacen fundamentalmente los enmascarados y todos
aquellos que han tomado algún protagonismo en
el arete, lo cual prueba que el “contagio” de
los aña no se limita tan sólo a quienes han
entrado en contacto con las máscaras. La visita
de los muertos afecta, en mayor o menor medida,
a toda la comunidad, por el hecho de haber
tomado parte en el rito. También la cruz adornada
con flores de taperigua debe ser destruida; ha
sido confeccionada al comenzar la fiesta, y debe
desaparecer con ella. Todo rastro del arete, en
una palabra, debe ser borrado. Al comenzar un
nuevo período, en consecuencia, las máscaras
deben perderse en las aguas y regresar al monte
con ellas.
Bibliografía
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Giannecchini, Doroteo
1916 Diccionario chiriguano-español y español-chiriguano.
Tarija: Publicación de la Orden Franciscana.
Hubert, Henri, y Marcel Mauss
1946a Ensayo sobre la naturaleza y la función del sacrificio.
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historia de las religiones; pp. 59-212. Buenos Aires:
Lautaro.
1946b Estudio somero de la representación del tiempo en la
religion y en la magia. En: M. Mauss y H. Hubert,
Magia y sacrificio en la historia de las religiones;
pp. 285-336. Buenos Aires: Lautaro.
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drid: Tecnos.
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1994 El desdoblamiento de la representación en el arte de
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las sociedades primitivas. En: M. Mauss, Sociología y
antropología; pp. 153-263. Madrid: Tecnos.
Métraux, Alfred
1944 Estudios de etnografía chaquense. Anales del Instituto
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Niño, Bernardino de
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Ismael Argote.
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Riester, Bárbara, Jürgen Riester, Bárbara Schuchard y
Brigitte Simon
1979 Los Chiriguano. Suplemento Antropológico 14: 259-
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Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 73-86
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians
of North America
Marin Trenk
Abstract. - As a rule, early European observers perceived
°nly the excessive, violent, and licentious aspects of American
ndian drinking behavior, and present studies focus strongly
its destructive features. A survey of the large body of
lst°rical source materials, however, reveals numerous but
Widely scattered examples, dating back to the mid-seventeenth
century, of attempts on the part of the Woodland Indians to
Integrate the imported alcoholic beverages into their religious
Cerenionies and rituals. According to anthropological alcohol
studies, most societies which permit drinking know both a
Sacred and a profane use of liquor. Its integration in religious
Ceremonialism shows that native uses of alcohol were both
^0re complex and more normal than views about Indian
ttking hold. [North American Indians, ceremonial uses of
fl°r, sacred drunkenness, alcohol studies, narcotic complex
°J the New World]
pIarin Trenk, Dr. rer. pol., studied Social Anthropology and
conomics at the Freie Universität Berlin. Privatdozent at the
UroPa-Universität Viadrina Frankfurt (Oder). - His current re-
th^0^1 looks at people between cultures, cultural renegades, and
S ,Pr°Cess op transculturalization. - Major publications: Der
pC atten der Verschuldung (Saarbrücken 1991); Bei fremden
Runden (with D. Weiss; Münster 1992); Die Milch des weißen
2f,„nnes- Die Indianer Nordamerikas und der Alkohol (Berlin
ti i ^hite Indians and Red Euro-Americans. Crossing Cul-
* Boundaries in Colonial North America. In: T. Claviez and
• Moss (eds.), Mirror Writing. (Re-)Constructions of Native
mencan Identity (Berlin 2000).
in early 1680 the Dutch travellers Jas-
Per Danckaerts and Peter Sluyter came across a
tnking spree, Indian style, they were clearly
°cked. Approaching an Algonquian settlement
&n Govanus, present-day Brooklyn, they “heard
^ great noise, shouting and singing in the huts
Indians.” As they immediately realized,
the inhabitants “were all lustily drunk, raving,
striking, shouting, jumping, fighting each other,
and foaming at the mouth like raging wild beasts”
(Danckaerts 1946: 179). However, what at first
looks just like another description of disorderly
drunken Indians, turns out to be a native healing
ceremony. After a lengthy sermon on the evils of
liquor the two pious Dutch Labadists mention that
these “Indians had canticoyd there to-day, that is,
conjured the devil, and liberated a woman among
them, who was possessed by him, as they said”
(180). It is only thanks to this casual comment
that it becomes clear that the riotous scenes of
drunkenness were, in fact, part of a ceremonial
performance. The word cantico or canticoy, an An-
glicized version of the Lenape or Delaware Indians
word gentkehn, to dance or “to sing and dance at
the same time” (Brinton 1890: 187), was used by
colonists as a general term for native religious
ceremonies (Gehring and Grumet 1987: 119n).
The participant’s raging, so revolting to the
White observers, was part of a shamanic healing
session.1
1 Even when such ecstatic ceremonies were celebrated with-
out liquor, Whites did not perceive them any other way.
Of one of the “Cantica’s or dancing Matches” of the Long
Island Algonquians an early English observer reported, that
they “only shew what Antick tricks their ignorance will
lead them to, wringing of their bodies and faces after a
strange manner, sometimes jumping into the fire, sometimes
catching up a Fire-brand, and biting off a live coal, with
many such tricks, that will affright, if not please an English
man to look upon them, resembling rather a company
of infernal Furies then men” (Denton 1966: 11). On the
74
Marin Trenk
Two and a half centuries later some ethnog-
raphers, too, occasionally mention the religious
use of alcohol by Northeastern Indians. Diamond
Jenness (1935: 67 f.) notes its use in Ojibwa div-
ination and as an offering to the spirits. Among
the Naskapi-Montagnais, Frank Speck points out
its potential to induce dreaming: “The underlying
theory is that the soul-spirit, being gratified and
strengthened by the alcohol, will do the nec-
essary work leading the dreamer to success in
his next venture” (1935: 182). Among the Meno-
minee, Alanson Skinner (1915: 193 f.) reports the
role of drinking in shamanism and Felix Kees-
ing acknowledges that liquor came to have an
important religious significance (1987: 55).
In spite of such references the uses of alcohol
in religion, ritual, and healing have been widely
neglected2 or just marginally mentioned (Levy and
Kunitz 1974: 73 f.; Hamer and Steinbring 1980:
16-18, 22) in studies on Native American drink-
ing. And this even though as far back as 1730
the French commandant at Fort Détroit, Pierre
de Noyan, drew attention to the great importance
of liquor in rituals. Speaking of France’s Indian
allies in the Great Lakes region, he exclaimed that
liquor “has become the basis of their religion!
These superstitious men can no longer recover
from their diseases, unless they make festivals
with brandy; their sorcerers or jugglers now know
no other remedy” (1904: 75). In claiming that the
natives knew no other remedy but liquor, Sieur de
Noyan was certainly exaggerating. Small wonder
that his observation on the spiritual significance
of alcohol has received but scant attention from
anthropologists and historians (Hamer 1965:287;
Jaenen 1987: 63).
Some more recent ethnohistorical studies, how-
ever, have stressed the importance of religious
uses of liquor. In his insightful overview of the
subject, Christian Feest (1981:208) points out
that particularly among Central Algonquians liquor
was widely used both in mourning ceremonies
and by ritual practitioners. James Merrell contends
other hand, when trader James Adair wrote of a group
of Chickasaws: “By some fatality, they are addicted to
excessive drinking, and spirituous liquors distract them so
exceedingly, that they will even eat live coals of fire”
(1966:235), it could have been a shamanic performance
rather than drunkenness that he witnessed, since the han-
dling of fire was typical of certain frenetic trance techniques
and rituals. For some early-seventeenth-century observa-
tions among the non-drinking Hurons cf. Grant (1952: 325);
Wrong (1939: 200); Thwaites (1896-1901/12: 23).
2 Cf. Horton 1943; Vachon 1960; Dozier 1966; MacAndrew
and Edgerton 1969; Lurie 1970; May 1977; Unrau 1996.
that the Catabwa Indians “fitted drinking into
their ceremonial life” (1989: 39). Richard White
mentions that around 1800 among “the Delawares,
liquor had become embedded in ceremonies - par-
ticularly the annual Big House ceremony - in
condolence rituals, and in the fabric of hospitality
and sharing” (1991:498). Similarly, Laura Peers
states that alcohol was “incorporated into Ojibwa
culture” and had “become an accepted item for
use in religious offerings” (1994:42) by the late
18th century. Finally Peter Mancall argues that
“perhaps the most significant sign of the religious
importance of intoxication was the role that drink-
ing came to play in mourning rituals” (1995: 76).3
Mancall associates liquors’ role in mourning to the
high death rate from disease and war, giving the
Indian communities “ample opportunity to practice
such rites” (79). Such an explanation, however, is
not completely convincing, since the incorporation
of liquor in mourning ceremonies was part of a
larger pattern of religious uses, as I will try to
show in this paper.
The sizeable but still little used body of histori-
cal source materials (missionary records, travellers
accounts, fur trader journals, captivity narratives,
and other documentary records of the 17th through
19th century) contain numerous indications to the
effect that many of the Northeast Woodlands so-
cieties embedded liquor in religious ceremonies,
particularly shamanic divination and healing, med-
icine societies, rites of thanksgiving, in mourning
rituals, and as offerings to the spirit world. Indeed,
it appears that North American Indians were quite
as adept at inducing trance states with the help of
alcohol as many other cultures all over the world
(Lewis 1975: 39).
The Early Colonial Period
After 40 years among the Micmac, the French trad-
er and adventurer Nicolas Denys (1908: 82, 444-
450) wrote the most detailed single description of
the patterns of alcohol use and drinking behavior
3 However, what Mancall cites as “the earliest sign of use
of alcohol” (1995:76) in mourning rituals turns out to
be a misplaced observation from South America. The
“solemn feast upon the death of a cassique [s/c] chief,”
in the course of which Indians drank for many days, and
which David Peterson de Vries (1971:81) describes, was
witnessed by the widely travelled Dutchman, not along the
North American coast but among South American “Caribs
and Arwackes” (84). In similar fashion Mancall uses a
picture of sixteenth-century Tupinamba drinking in Brazil
as an illustration of the famous Southeastern “black drink”
(1995:66).
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians of North America
75
of a seventeenth-century North American Indian
tribe. His report focused on what he called their
“drunken orgies” (449), the excessive, violent, and
licentious aspects of drinking, which were usually
the first to be noticed - and denounced - by White
observers, and which scholars today increasing-
ly conceive as periodic drinking saturnalia, as a
bacchanalian time of ritual reversal, as an often
planned and carefully managed “time-out” from
everyday normative restrictions.4 * But the obser-
vant trader also described some of their social and
religious “festivals” (337-339). And referring to
these Micmac ceremonies he mentioned that “since
they have taken to drinking wine and brandy they
are subject to fighting” (Denys 1908: 443 f.) on
these occasions. Although made en passant, this is
a most valuable observation, as it shows that mid-
seventeenth-century Micmacs not only indulged in
drinking bouts but also took to drinking during
some of their ceremonies - probably funerals and
mourning rituals.
Similarly, William Penn mentioned the celebra-
tion of a Delaware cantico, i.e., an unspecified
religious ceremony, from which sprang a misun-
derstanding with a White neighbor who had used
to sell rum to the Indians but then “denyed to sell
them any More” (Dunn and Dunn 1986: 106 f.).
Apparently they wanted additional liquor for the
Performance of their ritual and when a certain
colonist refused to sell them any they decided “to
gett into his house and take away his Rum” (107).
Like the culturally closely-related Natives of Long
Island whom the Dutch travellers encountered,
these late-seventeenth-century Delawares were al-
ready familiar with drinking during their canticos.
Lut like the French trader Denys, William Penn
mentions the ceremonial use of alcohol without
Scribing to it any further importance.
“The Jesuit Relations” report the consump-
tion of liquor during a Mohawk feast, albeit
Without specifying the nature of the celebration
(Thwaites 1896-1901/53:191-193). Its use in
Iroquois healing, however, was unmistakably de-
scribed by the Franciscan Father Louis Hennepin.
A “juggler,” he writes, divines the healing proce-
dure, then “The other Savages go all together into a
Stove, and sing as loud as they can baul, and make
u ratling with Tortoise Shells, or Pumpkin made
bollow, and Indian Corn put into ‘em; and to this
Noise the Men and Women dance: nay, sometimes
they get dnmk; with Brandy bought of the Euro-
peans, and then they make a horrible din and clut-
4 MacAndrew and Edgerton 1969; Lurie 1970; Trenk 1996.
Anthropos 96.2001
ter” (1903/11: 485 f.). Probably Father Hennepin’s
observation relates to the Cayuga or Seneca, with
whom he had close contact around 1680. It could
be the description of an Iroquois healing society’s
performance. A Sulpician missionary confirms the
use of brandy during the Iroquoian so-called dream
or fools festival, the gannonhaoury (or ononha-
roia as it was known among the Huron). During
the “carnival,” he writes, French traders made
the whole village drunk and then performed the
“debauch” called “Gan8ary” (i.e., Ganouary), “in
which one runs about stark naked carrying a keg of
brandy under the arm” (Belmont 1952: 56 f., 45).
To be sure, this is not a very insightful description
of the Iroquois Midwinter rite, but it indicates that
spirituous liquors were occasionally incorporated
into this important annual ceremony by the late
17th century.
Finally the French officer and traveller Baron
de Lahontan (1905/11:469) saw the burning of
spirituous liquors in a sweat lodge ceremony,
probably among the Great Lakes Algonquians.
Taken together, seventeenth-century evidence
is sparse indeed. Nevertheless, it appears that
by the end of the century liquor was at least
occasionally embedded in healing rituals among
some Northeastern tribes, such as the Delaware,
Iroquois and possibly the Central Algonquians.
The Micmac, too, seem to have used it fairly
frequently in ceremonies, but unfortunately Denys,
who certainly knew of similar uses from France
(where drinking was regularly part of baptisms,
burials, and church fairs), did not consider such
information worth recording. As can be seen in
the case of the Dutch travellers Danckaerts and
Sluyter, it was all too easy for European observers
either to overlook the ceremonial use altogether or
to simply mistake it for another disorderly drunken
brawl. This may in part account for the relatively
few early observations. But turning to the 18th and
19th centuries we will see that both the scope and
the depth of information improve somewhat.
Shamanic Rituals and Healing
In the summer of 1857, Henry David Thoreau
canoed through Maine’s wilderness. When his
Penobscot Indian guide fell sick, he asked for -
brandy. Joe Polis, his guide, was a doctor (Thoreau
1988: 321). He probably wanted that brandy not
as a medicine but as a means to establish contact
with the spirit world: “Me doctor, - first study my
case, find out what ail ‘em, - then I know what
to take” (397), he said by manner of explanation
76
Marin Trenk
■ MiamtÊBk
when he asked Thoreau for some liquor. Since
Thoreau didn’t carry any, Joe Polis had to resort to
gunpowder instead. He mixed it with water, drank
it off and was “considerably better” the next day
(398 f.).5
The stimulation of shamanistic ecstasy through
liquor, which Thoreau’s Indian guide had to
forego, was widely practised in the Northeast.
While a captive among the Delaware, young John
M’Cullough in 1760 took part in a healing ritual
during a communal drinking spree. His Indian
adoptive brother had been ill for weeks and be-
lieved someone had bewitched him. In the course
of a drinking binge lasting several days, he was
treated by a woman who, as M’Cullough em-
phasizes, was said to be a “witch.” Actually this
“sucking doctor” - a specialist who sucked the
sickness out of the patient’s body - suddenly fell
down on her hands and knees and, convulsing
wildly, promptly began to suck at the body of the
sick person, extracting a shell fragment from the
ailing part. Shortly thereafter the patient recovered,
and remained in good health the following four
years M’Cullough lived with the Delaware (1977-
1983: 112 f.). Here a healing ceremony appears
to have been embedded in a drinking binge. Ac-
cording to M’Cullough’s report, the treatment was
performed quite by surprise, arising as it were,
spontaneously out of the drinking spree. One can-
not avoid the impression that it was the alcoholic
intoxication itself which inspired this medicine
woman to attempt the healing.
There is abundant evidence on the use of alco-
hol in Central Algonquian shamanism. First, there
were the wabeno shamans, who were healers of
diseases and makers of love and hunting med-
icines, and whose cult appears to have expanded
dramatically around 1800: “Friend, friend, whis-
key for the wabana,” such were the words ad-
dressed to the American Superintendent of Indian
Affairs, when he participated in a session which
he mistook for “offerings to the devil” (McKenney
1959: 206-208). That night his whiskey was drunk
jointly by all the participants of the ceremony.
Similarly, the fur trader Alexander Henry, the
younger, noted that the Ojibwa used to drink
during the wabeno sessions (1988/1: 103).
Apart from the wabeno shamans, there were
other specialists who valued alcoholic intoxication.
During the 1826 Fond du Lac treaty conference
Thomas McKenney witnessed the performance of
5 At least on one occasion Ojibwas, too, seem to have
drunk gunpowder mixed with water in order to establish
communication with the spirit world (cf. Jenness 1935: 48).
a “jongleur,” called jessakid by the Ojibwa, a
shaman who conjures the spirits in the shaking
tent. When the American was about to leave,
it was announced that “the devils were thirsty,
and wanted something to drink.” McKenney, who
understood all too well this “call for whiskey,”
gave them “little, and that little well diluted”
(1959: 208). Alexander Henry was once present at
an unsuccessful healing attempt on New Year’s
Day in 1801: An Ojibwa medicine man, “half
drunk,” worked himself into such a frenzy that he
broke his drum, whereupon he threw it down onto
the ground and trampled on it, ending the healing
session (1988/1: 103). This appears to have been a
bad omen, for according to Henry’s entry of 15th
January, the unfortunate patient only survived this
failed treatment by a mere two weeks (107).
It seems that the ability of certain shamans to
control wind and weather could also be increased
by means of alcohol: Fur trader Duncan Cameron
(1960: 262) writes that adverse winds had forced
him to delay his planned departure for days. An
Indian then suggested that, if Cameron gave him
enough liquor to get drunk, he would make the
winds die down. A similar proposal was made
to another fur trader in 1793, when reaching the
storm-torn shores of Lake Huron. He, however,
could see nothing in the request but a last desperate
attempt of the Indians to come by some alcohol,
so he refused. The “conjuror” then threatened to
cause winds to blow even more violently for a full
eight days (MacDonell 1965: 86).6
Twentieth-century ethnographic sources show
that Great Lakes Algonquians retained the use of
alcohol in shamanism. Ojibwa informants told Di-
amond Jenness (1935: 67 f.) that the spirit helpers
of the jessakid consumed the tobacco and whiskey
offerings in the shaking tent. In the course of the
session, the public gathered outside was able to
perceive clearly the smell of the tobacco smoked
by the spirits in the tent. Among the Menominee
the shaman needed the alcohol “partly to pour
libations to the gods, and partly to drink in order
that he may acquire the proper frenzy” (Skinner
1915: 193). During the séance, the spirits drank
together with the shaman, who took great care
not to get drunk, but only stimulated. Finally the
audience, too, was invited to drink, “that they may
enter into the spirit of the occasion” (194).
6 It was apparently only as payment that a shaman of the
Virginia Algonquians requested two bottles of rum for a
rainmaking ceremony, which, however, he seems to have
performed sober (Beverley 1947: 204 f.).
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians of North America
77
Medicine Societies
James Isham, a clerk of the Hudson’s Bay Compa-
ny, wrote in 1743 about a celebration of the North-
ern Cree: “I think I never was so full of mirth, then
once in Seeing their Conjuring & Dancing, when
in Liquor, - they’l Dance hand in hand round a fire
when presantly one comes up side way’s, & blow’s
another Downe with his breath, who falls Like a
Dead man, so by them all, he then Blow’s in their
Ear’s, and other parts which brings them to Life
againe” (1949:98). This description is strongly
reminiscent of the most spectacular rite of the
Grand Medicine Society, the shooting ceremony
with the sacred shell (megis), which is considered
a symbol of life. Some students of Algonquian
religions doubt whether the Cree ever knew the
Midewiwin or Grand Medicine Society (Vecsey
1983: 176). Yet there can be little doubt that those
Great Lakes Indians who did know it, did indeed
incorporate liquor into its performance, in a way
similar to that witnessed by James Isham.
The Midewiwin, an association of medicine
men and women, was the most important col-
lective ritual among the tribes that practised it.
While numerous historians and anthropologists
consider it a postcontact institution, Central Al-
gonquians regarded it as their aboriginal religion.
When on 1 December 1804 fur trader Thom-
as Connor was asked for some liquor by the
Gjibwa Indians with whom he traded, he wrote
m his diary: “the Rascally Indians have agreed
to make their Mittay Ceremony & beg’d Rum
which I refused & abused them as they deserve”
(1965: 260). While these Indians probably had to
make do without, others were more fortunate. A
tor trading post’s daily journal notes in 1820:
all the Indians Dancing, the House [Midewiwin
lodgej contains near 160 Persons. They kept it
UP till sun set, eat 3 Dogs & drank 1 1/2 keg
Rum due them” (Peers 1994: 81). According to
Northwest Company trader Alexander Henry ear-
ly-nineteenth-century Ojibwa considered liquor in-
dispensable for the celebration of their annual cere-
monies including the “Grand Medecine” (1988/
168). Potawatomi Indians, too, regarded liquor
as an enhancement for the celebration of their
ceremonies. One of their speakers in 1817 told
the Canadian Superintendent of the Indian service
toat their chief needed some rum to make a
Nletaiway (Medewiwin) feast.” But the latter only
upbraided” them “for their drunkenness” (Clifton
*975: 108). Similarly, Edwin James witnessed men
and women drink great quantities of alcohol in
toe course of a medicine feast celebrated by the
toithropos 96.2001
Menominee. According to him, those who had
reached a state of complete intoxication were
carried away by their friends (Kasprycki 1990: 4).
Seth Eastman’s painting “Medicine Dance of the
Winnebagoes,” of the first half of the 19th century
allows the presumption that the Siouan-speaking
Winnebago, too, had probably integrated alcohol
into their celebrations, for in the centre of the
picture, which provides a glimpse into the sacred
medicine lodge, a keg of brandy can be seen
(Schoolcraft 1851 — 1857/III: 285 f.).
The Santee-Sioux or Dakota of Minnesota, too,
knew the Medicine Society, which White observ-
ers usually called their xvakan or Medicine Dance.
When in 1805 the explorer Zebulon Pike paid a
visit to Chief Wabasha’s village on the upper Mis-
sissippi, he noted that its inhabitants were celebrat-
ing “their great medicine” or “dance of religion.”
But although Pike realized that the Indians were
drinking, he didn’t relate it to the ceremony in
progress (Coues 1987/1: 43-48). However, Samu-
el Pond’s authoritative report on the Dakota leaves
no doubt that they once had indeed incorporated
liquor in their “medicine lodge.” Whiskey, he
states, “was sometimes drunk at wakan-dances,”
although in his time “the practice was severe-
ly reprehended by many of the Dakotas” (Pond
1986: 96). Pond, a remarkably tolerant missionary,
seemed to consider this drinking hardly “more
unseemly than the Christmas carousels” which the
Indians had ample opportunity to observe among
White neighboring settlers.
Similarly, eighteenth-century Iroquois appear to
have drunk brandy at the meetings of their secret
medicine societies. At any rate, drunkenness was
the reason why Seneca prophet Handsome Lake
forbade these societies around 1800. Arthur Parker
comments on the written record of the prophet’s
teachings: “It is related that at one period whiskey
had so far debauched the Indians that their once sa-
cred ceremonies, like those of the early Christians
at Corinth, were made the excuses of the grossest
licentiousness and drunken-revelry. Whiskey had
entirely supplanted the feast foods” (1913:51n.).
Parker’s comment reveals a lack of understand-
ing for any spiritually motivated intoxication, but
it does show that right up to the beginning of
this century there subsisted among the Iroquios a
recollection of the sacral use of alcoholic drinks,
although the use was deemed an abuse a posteriori.
Thanksgiving Rites
The major religious ceremony of the people called
78
Marin Trenk
Delaware was their annual fall Big House Rite or
Gamwing, a world renewal of universal thanks-
giving (Miller 1997; Harrington 1921:81-145).
During the second half of the 18th century, some
Moravians lived in close contact with the Delaware
Indians. In their writings we hnd for the first time
an overview of the Delaware religious ceremonies
and rites, all of which the missionaries describe as
“sacrifical feasts” (Loskiel 1840: 20). Heavy drink-
ing was an integral part of all these rites: “Festivals
are usually closed with a general drinking bout”
(Zeisberger 1910: 139; Loskiel 1840:22). An en-
try in the journal of the Moravian White River
Mission of October 1804 reads like an illustration
of the foregoing general statement. “Many heathen
Indians rode through our place on their way to a
sacrifice in Woapicamikunk,” it says. “After the
sacrifice was over, they took a barrel of whisky
and drank so much that some of the heathen died
from the effects of it. So pitifully these poor people
come to their death at their supposed service of
God” (Gipson 1938: 314). Scandinavian naturalist
Peter Kalm contributed an illustrative anecdote,
too. He recounts how a Delaware once looked in
at a Swedish religious service in Pennsylvania.
“Ugh! A lot of prattle and nonsense, but nei-
ther brandy nor cider!” (1987: 220) he exclaimed
and left, somewhat disappointed. For it is to be
observed, adds Kalm, that the Indians “all drink
immoderately” at their meetings.
A further rite of thanksgiving among the Wood-
land Indians was the Green Corn ceremony. John
Witthoft’s comparative study (1949) shows how
little is known about this important celebration in
the Northeast, while somewhat more information
is available on its Southeastern version, the so-
called Busk. In a similar manner to their report
on the Gamwing, the Moravian Brethren wrote in
their diaries about a ceremony that took place “ev-
ery year at the time of corn harvest” i. e., the Green
Corn rite. In order to celebrate it “a large quantity
of whisky” was necessary, and people drank and
danced day and night (Gipson 1938: 190). Oliver
Spencer’s narrative of his captivity among the
Shawnee and Ohio Iroquois or Mingo describes the
“feast of green corn” in some detail (cf. Spencer
1968: 102-113). But in particular it illustrates the
Moravians’ observation that “festivals are closed
with a drinking bout.” Although the celebration
witnessed by the young captive was headed by
Cooh-coo-cheeh, a medicine woman and nativist
prophetess, the drinking of liquor was not frowned
upon. With the exception of Cooh-coo-cheeh both
men and women “were more than half drunk” by
the afternoon. The frightened Spencer, watching
the scene from a distance, writes: “They now drank
more frequently; some dancing, some whooping;
and some quarreling, until at length ‘uproar wild
and deep confusion reigned’” (113). So this cel-
ebration ended very much like all ceremonies
among the neighboring Delaware did according to
the Moravians - in complete intoxication.
In the Southeast, the Green Com ceremony,
or Busk, was by far the most important annual
celebration. It was a rite of thanksgiving and at
the same time a means of purifying the whole
social order. In Southeastern societies the drink-
ing of liquor was likewise not excluded from
its celebration, as is sometimes assumed (Braund
1993: 125).7 During its initial phase (a Busk took
either four or eight days) the men fasted and
emetics were taken to achieve a state of ritual
purity; at this time the drinking of spirituous
liquors was strictly prohibited. But after the new
fire was lighted, a time began which in the early
18th century the Creek Indians spent “mit Essen,
Trincken und Tantzen” (eating, drinking, and danc-
ing), according to the German traveller Philipp
von Reck (cit. in Bernatzik 1954: 86). And when
he spoke of drinking, he certainly did not mean
water. A hundred years later, John Howard Payne
gave a quite detailed description of a Busk. He
states that after a period of fasting and purification,
people indulged excessively, not only in food, but
in drink, too, “for,” as he writes, “every pathway
and field around was in the morning strewed with
sleeping Indians” (Payne 1932: 190). By the end
of the 19th century, the orgiastic Drunken Dance
which Frank Speck (1907: 139) calls “a great
favorite” among the Creek, seems to have been
incorporated into the Busk. Similarly, the Iroquois
knew a Drunken Dance which was much favoured
by the Tuscarora. The Tuscarora, the sixth Iroquois
nation, had originally come from North Carolina
and had only in the 1720s joined the League.
Before the Drunken Dance was suppressed by
the prophet Handsome Lake, people “sang and
danced this dance when partly intoxicated, being
furnished with whiskey during the performance.
The dancers performed in the middle of the Long
House” (Speck 1995: 155).
7 “Creeks did not drink alcohol in a ceremonial context”
(Braund 1993: 125). But in his charming travel diary from
1735, Reck (cit. in Bernatzik 1954:78, 86) mentioned its
extensive use in hospitality rituals as well as in a war
ritual in which the men drank heavily most of the night
- perhaps similar to a Northeastern rite, “the whetting of
the grindstone with rum to sharpen the hatchet of war”
(White 1991:372).
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians of North America
79
Mourning Rituals
Almost everywhere in the Northeast alcohol ap-
pears to have been essential in mourning rituals.
Evidently liquor lends itself to use in funerals and
mourning ceremonies, for it can both intensify
feelings of grief and drive away sadness.
The Moravians stressed that in addition to the
celebrations, forming the annual ceremonial cycle
of the Lenape, alcohol was also used in buri-
al, mourning, and condolence rituals. Delawares
prized whiskey as a valuable burial gift. “I have
seen a bottle of rum or whiskey placed at the
coffin head, and the reason given for it was, that
the deceased was fond of liquor while living, and
he would be glad of a dram when he should feel
fatigued on his journey to the world of the spirits”
(Heckewelder 1819: 270). Alcohol was considered
indispensable to appease the soul of the deceased.
To this end the Lenape knew the use of “both
meat and drink-offerings” (Zeisberger 1910: 140).
For the latter exclusively rum was used. Before
drinking, everyone went to the burial site where
some rum was poured out. An old man then spoke
to the soul of the deceased. Finally all the rum had
to be drunk right down to the last dregs (Zeisberger
1910:140, 117; Loskiel 1840:22). These “rum
sacrifices” were seen as a “religious act” (“als
eine gottesdienstliche Handlung”) and were often
performed regularly once a year at the grave of
a deceased person. Delawares, finally, symbolized
the end of the mourning period by drinking, for
after a while the mourners consented to be per-
suaded “to get up, drink rum and be comforted”
(“aufzustehen, Rum zu trinken und Trost anzuneh-
men”) (Loskiel 1789: 58, 156).8
Mary Jemison, who spent four years as a cap-
tive and a further seventy-one of her own free
will with the Seneca, remembered in 1823 that in
former times among the Iroquois (probably before
Handsome Lake’s prohibitionist reform), “frolics”
Were held nine days after the funeral for the dead
at which all the women got intoxicated (Jemison
1990: 158). In 1743, when Pennsylvania naturalist
John Bartram on his travels through Iroquoia wrote
in his diary “The Indian Squaws got very drunk
and made a sad noise till morning” (1966: 54), he
ttfight have unknowingly witnessed such a ritual.
But not only women drank on such occasions.
8 In the English translation of Loskiel (1840) some of the
Moravians’ observations on the Delaware Indians’ use
of alcohol are missing which are present in the German
original (Loskiel 1789).
Warren Johnson, brother of the distinguished Su-
perintendent of Indian Affairs, Sir William John-
son, noted in 1760 of the Mohawk, that they “drink
merrily” (1996: 257) at their funerals. And at a
late-eighteenth-century Iroquois funeral an “Indian
walked before the coffin to the grave, with a three
gallon keg of rum under each arm and a bottle
in his hands; the chiefs spoke, the warriors fired
volleys over the grave, and then the mourners got
completely drunk by nightfall” (Fenton 1965: 339,
fn. 25).
In much the same manner as the Delaware
and Iroquois, the Montagnais-Naskapi (McKenzie
1960: 425) and the tribes in the Great Lakes region
also drank at their funerals. The Indian allies of
New France appear to have expected their “father,”
as they called the French governor, through his
diplomatic intervention, not only to help “cov-
er the dead” but also to comfort the mourners
by providing brandy (White 1991: 140 f.). Fort
Mackinac commandant De Peyster, one of the
British successors of the great French “father,”
noted on a list of the gifts expected by the Indians
“Kegs of milk (rum) to dry their tears” (Keesing
1987: 89). In his remarkable captivity narrative
John Tanner relates how in the mid-1790s his
Indian foster mother, an Ottawa chief and priestess
of the Midewiwin, was “cast down with grief’
after the accidental death of both her husband and
son and “began to drink” (Tanner 1956: 27). It
is not improbable that she started drinking in a
funeral or mourning ceremony, as there is plenty of
evidence that by that time it was customary among
Ottawa and Ojibwa to drink on these occasions in
order “to bewail the Death” (Connor 1965: 269,
266) and “to wash the grief from the heart” (Henry
1988/1: 108, 98, 121 f.). While still a novice in
the fur trade, Daniel Harmon once witnessed at
the Grand Portage some Ojibwas “of both sexes,
drinking and crying over the corpse” of a man
killed in a drunken brawl. As part of the ritual
the mourners not only drank but also offered the
dead man some liquor “supposing him to be as
fond of rum when dead, as he was when alive”
(Harmon 1973: 17, 146). Similarly, there was a
case reported when Winnebago and Menominee
mourned together a man, who had been slain while
drinking, by celebrating jointly a drinking carousal
upon his grave (Keesing 1987: 123). At the funeral
of Winnebago chief Four Legs, the wife of an
Indian agent observed that “grief and whisky”
had “softened” the hearts of the bereaved (Kinzie
1948: 296 f.).
Finally, liquor’s potential to “produce a flow
of tears” - as Colonel Snelling was once told
Anthropos 96.2001
80
Marin Trenk
by a Dakota man, who begged for a bottle of
whiskey - was likewise appreciated by the Santee
Sioux of Minnesota, who also integrated alcohol
into their mourning complex (Keating 1959/1: 433,
261). According to the colonel, the Indians in the
vicinity of his garrison would invariably ask him
for whiskey whenever someone had died. They
wanted to “drown all care in liquor,” as they them-
selves said. Without it, Colonel Snelling suspected,
they were unable to express their sorrow in tears.
Quite unexcelled is the description of a Fox
Indian orgy as recounted by explorer and fur trader
Peter Pond, which had begun as a mourning cer-
emony. Pond (1965: 35 f.) witnessed in the early
1770s a great mourning ceremony at Butte des
Morts, in the later state Wisconsin. The mourners
began the ceremony by smoking the calumet. Then
they poured some rum on the grave, drank some
themselves, and smoked again. Pond described
the proceedings with a benevolent disposition; it
seemed to him that the mourning Indians cer-
tainly knew how to enjoy themselves with this
celebration. But that was only the beginning. As
soon as the rum began to show effect, they began
to sing and remember the deceased, finally they
all started to weep. Then, so it seemed to Pond,
the realization prevailed that all these shows of
sorrow could not possibly help the dead person,
but that the living, on the other hand, could well
avail themselves of the rum, in order to “wash
away their sorrow.” So on they drank and soon
became as happy as only merrymakers can be. By
nightfall all the participants were drunk. To the
White observer the conversation of men and wom-
en now seemed more lively and the atmosphere
more amorous. First one couple disappeared into
the bushes, then others followed. Suddenly finding
himself unwittingly cast into the role of voyeur,
Pond remarks in his incomparable spelling: “I
Could Obsarve Clearly this Bisnes was first Pusht
on By the women who mad thare Viseat to the
Dead a Verey Pleasing one in thare way” (36).
Liquor Offerings to the Spirits
Liquor was also introduced into Bear Ceremoni-
alism as practised widely by the northern hunters
of Asia and America (cf. Hallo well 1926). One
of fur trader Alexander Henry’s Ojibwa hunters
begged liquor of him. He had killed a grizzly
bear and wanted to celebrate a “feast of rum,”
as he had made a vow: “This is a very common
custom among the Saulteaux [Ojibwa] when they
kill any uncommon animal they make a feast of
Liquor. If liquor cannot be got the feast is made
of some of the best provisions they can procure,
but [as] liquor is always considered as having
the greatest virtue in appeasing the manes of the
Bear and rendering thanks to the Manitou I was
obliged to satisfy the fellow” (Henry 1988/1: 73).
As Henry mentions here, apart from its use in Bear
Ceremonialism, alcohol was used in celebrations
in honor of and for the appeasement of other
animal spirits as well. The subarctic Cree seem
to have gladly taken recourse to liquor whenever
an opportunity presented itself, as Isham witnessed
on the occasion of a “goose feas’t” (1949: 76 f.),
for example. And the ethnographer Ruth Landes
writes that the Ojibwa believed the humanlike
bear shared the Indians’ passion for “sweets and
liquors” (1968: 27). At their Bear Ceremony they
shout: “Manito, here is tobacco for you, and berries
and sweets that you like! All that you wish!
And here, a bottle of whisky to show our respect!”
(35).
The spirits of the dead, too, wish to be pacified
with alcohol. The Cree and Ojibwa poured a
little brandy into the fire (Isham 1949: 94; Grant
1960: 364). From the Potawatomi, Keating learned
that they sprinkled whiskey onto the grave, but on-
ly a little, “doubtless from the belief that the living
require it much more than the dead” (1959/1: 114)
as he surmised. And the Jesuit Father Pierre-Jean
de Smet (1905/1: 173) also observed the custom
among them of offering whiskey as a burial gift,
a custom which prompted him to comment that
it would be a very good idea to get rid of all
whiskey this way. A similar custom existed among
the Miami, too, where relatives of a dead person,
who in life had shown fondness for alcohol, would
throw some into the fire on his behalf (Trowbridge
1938: 54). Alcohol-coveting spirits of the dead,
whom the Ojibwa called “shadows,” would some-
times pester the living (for example, by throwing
stones at night, waking them with a start) until
the latter understood their wishes and poured some
whisky for them into the fire (Jenness 1935: 107).
Apart from the spirits of the dead, there were
other kinds of alcohol-thirsty spirits. Henry David
Thoreau (1988: 11) learned from Penobscot that
wayfarers sometimes made an offering of a bottle
of rum to pomola (or bmola), the spirit of Mount
Katadn, the highest point in Maine. Old Kauasot,
a Menominee, was granted the gift of clairvoyance
by his guardian spirit. Therefore he had to make
offerings of tobacco and liquor regularly (Skin-
ner 1913: 51). Another Menominee dreamed of a
longhorn steer and whiskey. Henceforth he was to
drink whiskey “like cattle would,” as his tutelary
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians of North America
81
spirit had shown him in his dream (Spindler and
Spindler 1984: 48 f.). Finally, an Ojibwa once ap-
peased “the Spirit of the Water” of Lake Superior
during a storm by sprinkling some whiskey “as
being something very valuable” and by strewing
some tobacco onto the water. In his “youthful
dream” he had seen “smooth, quiet water” and now
for the first time he was able to test “its power”
(Densmore 1979: 81). This episode, too, can serve
to show how indispensable alcohol had become
in spiritual life and to what extent its sacrifical
function had become similar to that of the sacred
tobacco, with which it is frequently mentioned in
one breath.
Among the Christian Mashpee Indians of Cape
Cod a researcher noted as late as the turn of the
century, that they built little spirit houses for the
dead, and there offered food and whiskey. Due
to this practice these places were called “taverns”
(Flannery 1939: 141). This appears to be a survival
from past, pre-Christian days. It is quite possible
that the custom dates from a time in which the
Indians of New England, too, used alcohol cere-
monially. The so-called mikumwassuck or “Little
People” of the Passamaquoddy are feared and
hated spirit beings. They have hairy faces like the
Whites and are considered “heavy drinkers.” But
since among the Christian Passamaquoddy there
was probably no longer anyone willing to make
offerings of alcohol to them, they are said to have
once stolen the sacramental wine out of the church
(Stevens 1981: 128).
Summary and Conclusions
The evolution of American Indian drinking pat-
terns from the 17th to the 19th century includes the
use of alcohol in a religious context: in shamanism;
in the medicine societies’ performances; in the
annual rites of thanksgiving and New Year celebra-
tions such as the Delaware Big House Ceremony
and in Green Corn Ceremonialism; remarkably
widespread at funerals, in condolence, and remem-
brance rituals; finally, it was used together with the
sacred tobacco as a favoured offering to the spirit
World. We can now see more clearly that when
the early-eighteenth-century French commandant,
Pierre de Noyan, wrote about the Great Lakes
Indians that liquor “has become the basis of their
rehgion” (1904: 75), he was not completely wrong;
he was only exaggerating. There is also some
deeper meaning in Robert Beverley’s much-cited
observation that the Indians of Virginia went about
their drinking “as solemnly as if it were part of
their Religion” (1947: 182), because drinking quite
often was indeed part of the native religions.
How is it that this spiritual use of alcohol
has received so little attention? We have seen
how Europeans at first simply overlooked the
spiritual character of many an Indian drinking
carousal.9 The Dutch travellers Danckaerts and
Sluyter were not alone in misunderstanding the
ceremonial character of drinking and seeing only a
wild drink orgy when in fact a healing ceremony
was in progress. Other observers, too, failed to
see anything exceptional in the fact that at certain
ceremonies such as funerals, there was drinking
in profusion, because they were well acquainted
with such practices in their own culture, as was
the case, for instance, with the Frenchman Nicolas
Denys. Finally, many natives, having learned to
live with the unabashed derision and condemna-
tion of the Whites concerning all their religious
beliefs and practices, will have taken good care to
keep secret certain rites involving alcohol. This is
what Canadian fur trader George Nelson, a man
interested in native religions, was to find out. On
a certain day he had sold some rum to a group of
Northern Cree and then, by chance, he came upon
these Indians’ lodge while on a hunting trip. He
was surprised to see that instead of getting drunk
the usual way, they were celebrating a “feast of
rum,” as he called it. He writes: “I communicated
this a few years after to a couple of Gentlemen
- one of them longer in the country than myself
denied it - and enquired of his wife who had lived
a long time with the Indians - she corroborated
his denial - I perceived the cause, and told him
that it was because they do not chuse [szc] that we
become too well informed of all their ceremonies:
it was to no effect, and I had almost a mind to
credit the woman too myself, but by insinuation I
find I am perfectly right” (Brown and Brightman
1988: 101).10
The banishment of drinking from native cer-
emonialism can be traced back to the rise of
the nativistic prophets, who first appeared around
the mid-eighteenth century in the “Old Nortwest,”
9 However, when Edwin James wrote: “Intoxicating drinks
do not appear to be ever made use of by the Omawhaws for
superstitious purposes” (1823/1:245), he must have been
aware of religious uses.
10 Nelson gives several examples of the traders’ habit of
“laughing at and ridiculing” native religious ceremonies and
beliefs “as is the custom with us” (Brown and Brightman
1988: 29, 58, 66). From the time of the very first contact
even Whites who spent most of their lives with the Indians
were in the habit of ridiculing their beliefs (cf. Blair 1911 —
1912/1: 27, 40, 92).
Anthropos 96.2001
82
Marin Trenk
and who often zealously combated drunkenness
and any use of alcohol (cf. Dowd 1992: 32-46).
In December 1805 the Moravians wrote “of a
Schawano Indian” (i. e., Tenskwatawa) who has
“arisen among the heathen as teacher” that the best
thing about his message was that he forbade the
drinking of alcohol: “If only the Indians would
follow this injunction!” (Gipson 1938: 402). In the
late 19th century a Winnebago refused to join
the Medicine Lodge on grounds that he was old
and couldn’t control his “desire for drink any
longer” (Radin 1983: 90), thus being unable to
live according to the rules of the Society.11 Some
decades earlier, Lewis Henry Morgan had heard
said of the Medicine Lodge of the Winnebago in
Kansas that “no intoxicated or intemperate person
that is under the influence of liquor” (1993:69)
might participate. Drunkenness, observed Frances
Densmore at the beginning of the 20th century,
was considered quite incompatible with the “ethics
of the Midewiwin” (1979: 87) among the Ojibwa.
The same attitude prevailed among the Shawnee
towards all their religious celebrations (Morgan
1993: 52; Voegelin 1944: 253, 397), and among
the Delaware towards their Big House rite. In
the opening speech of a Big House Ceremony
among the Oklahoma Delaware around 1900 the
participants were exhorted not to drink any li-
quor and reminded of the strict rule that for the
duration of the event “no drinking or improper
conduct is allowed” (Harrington 1921: 145, 133).11 12
By the close of the 20th century the banning of
alcohol from religious celebrations has come to be
taken for granted. At a Sauk Drum Dance religion
ceremony a speaker admonishes those present to
stay sober with the words “God’s moving away
from you the more drunk you get” (Reinschmidt
1994: 23). In the light of the historical materials
presented, this attitude would seem to illustrate
almost a complete reversal of the former attitudes
of Central Algonquians and other Woodland Indi-
ans towards alcohol use. If then native ceremo-
nial use of alcohol as documented in historical
sources is so little perceived today, it could also be
because in retrospect it simply appears too improb-
able.
11 Unlike his father, the old man in question, Crashing Thun-
der, apparently did not abide by this prohibition (Radin
1983: 138).
12 Moravian missionary Abraham Luckenbach had heard of a
prohibition to drink alcohol during a Big House ceremony
around 1805 (Gipson 1938:614). It is clear, though, that
this was a time of extreme nativistic enthusiasm.
Nevertheless the use of spirituous liquors has
survived into the 20th century among shamans of
the upper Great Lakes area. Before the introduc-
tion of “ardent spirits,” a Menominee informant
told anthropologist Alanson Skinner, “it is said
to have been harder for a man to place himself
en rapport with the mysteries” (1915: 193). Some
Menominees valued alcohol “as a go-between
between mankind and all powers of good and
bad, above and below” (Skinner and Satterlee
1915:496). They said: “The closer a shaman is
to the powers, the more he needs liquor to get
them to guide and tell him what he cannot know
in his soberness,” and added that “the powers
accept this method of coming to them” (496).
Thus shaman practices in the Northeast converge
with those in Siberia and South America where
intoxicating liquors were widely used to induce
trance states and to communicate with the spirit
world (cf. Alvarsson and Hultkrantz 1995: 8). At
this point we can join Feest (1981:206) in say-
ing that native North American drinking practices
seem to have developed fairly independently to a
point where they often duplicate native Central and
South American patterns of alcohol use.13
Anthropological alcohol studies highlight the
fact that in most societies where people drink,
drinking is commonly not only a highly patterned,
socially and culturally integrated activity but is
usually also either a profane or a sacred act (Man-
delbaum 1965:281; Douglas 1987). Research on
American Indians, however, has focused mostly
on the secular, disruptive and destructive aspects
of drinking to the point of altogether ignoring cer-
emonial uses. Historical sources, though, remind
us that North American Indians did once know a
religious use of intoxicating drinks, making their
experience with liquor appear more complex, and
at the same time giving it back some of the “nor-
mality” which has been widely eliminated from
the common view of “Indian drinking.”
13 Particularly well-documented is the drinking pattern of the
Tarahumara or Raramuri of Northern Mexico from the 17th
century till the present time (cf. Lumholtz 1987: 253-257,
348-352; Kennedy 1963; Deimel 1980: 58-70; 1996: 14-
16; 1997). A fascinating description of sixteenth-century
Tupinamba drinking in Brazil is given by Léry (1990: 74-
77). For a recent description of Tupi-Guarani alcohol use cf.
Castro (1992: 119-133).
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland Indians of North America
83
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Anthropos 96.2001
anthropos
96.2001: 87-103
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
Two Alternative Paths to Survival for Utopian Communes
Christoph Brumann
Abstract. - In previous studies, the rare cases of long-term
survival in property-sharing utopian communes have been at-
tributed to a consensus of members on basic beliefs, particularly
religious beliefs. A comparative study of a broad sample of
19th- and 20th-century cases reveals, however, that longevity
is associated only with religions that clearly separate between
sacred and profane and between good and bad. Moreover, there
is a small but significant number of egalitarian communes
that are secular and lack consensus even on basic questions.
Procedures of decision-making and social control in these
cases cannot aspire to produce more than compromises, but
this, in turn, also protects them from any risky, potentially
dangerous moves. [Utopian communes, religion, institutional
survival, egalitarian societies, common property]
Christoph Brumann, Dr. phil. (Cologne 1997), is a lecturer
at the department of Ethnology, University of Cologne. He
is currently analyzing the results of an ethnographic field
study of the townscape disputes in Kyoto, Japan, conducted
in 1998-99. His other research interests are globalisation, gift
exchange, the concept of culture, and general anthropological
theory and methodology. Recent publications include: The An-
thropological Study of Globalization. Towards an Agenda for
the Second Phase (.Anthropos 1998); Writing for Culture. Why
There is No Need to Discard a Successful Concept (Current
Anthropology 1999); Materialistic Culture. The Uses of Money
in Tokyo Gift Exchange. In: J. Clammer and M. Ashkenazi
(eds.), Consumption and Material Culture in Contemporary
Japan (London 2000). See also References Cited.
“Utopian communities are society’s dreams,”
writes one of their most influential students (Kan-
ter 1972: 237), and indeed, the range of exper-
imentation in these groups has often tested the
limits of human sociality. And while some utopian
communes - groups of both men and women
who intentionally and voluntarily live together and
share all their property1 - object to being seen
as cultural laboratories, others pride themselves of
such an orientation. Be it true equality (including
that between the genders) or rather rigid meri-
tocracy; be it the even distribution of emotional
attachment over all fellow members, even to the
disadvantage of marital and family relations; be
it a life without sexuality or rather one suffused
with it; be it the renunciation of any superfluous
technology or comfort; be it the complete erasure
of sin - all these are goals that different communes
have tried to put into practice within their utopi-
an schemes. The therapeutae of the first century
B.C. (Moffatt 1971) were the first recorded case,
1 There is hardly a utopian commune that fails to allow
its members at least some private property, such as the
trunk in which adult Hutterites keep their personal be-
longings. Its scope, however, is highly limited and does
not include productive assets such as land, buildings, or
vehicles which no member can claim as their own. These
groups thus differ widely from their ambient societies where
private ownership and corporate ownership built on private
ownership (such as in joint-stock companies) are usually
the dominant mode of allocation. Utopian communes are
distinct from monastic orders since these are restricted to
only one gender; kolkhozes and people’s communes since
these were not voluntary; and traditional cases of shared
property (as e.g., in hunter-gatherer groups) since in these,
community of goods follows established practices and is not
an intentional, voluntary deviation from the societal norm.
Communes are also often termed “communal groups,”
“communitarian groups” (Hostetler 1974b), or “intentional
communities” (Andelson 1996) although common usage of
these words is not always confined to cases that share their
property.
88
Christoph Brumann
and in the Middle Ages, several of the religious
movements branded as heretics followed the Prim-
itive Christians’ precedent of having all things in
common. Such utopian ventures, however, have
been most numerous in the modern period where
communes have sprung up all over the globe,
with the United States of America providing a
particularly fertile ground. The small trickle of
independent experiments has sometimes swollen
into whole streams, most intensely in the period
around 1970 when communes were considered as
a societal alternative by many, mostly young peo-
ple in North America, Europe, and Japan. While
utopian communes are not more than a marginal
phenomenon in most of their host societies most
of the time, they are a remarkably persistent one,
and at least the Hutterite colonies in the U.S.
and Canadian Great Plains and the kibbutzim in
Israel include substantial portions of the regional
populations.
In sharing all their possessions, utopian com-
munes face considerable problems. By definition,
they can neither enforce cooperation from their
members, nor can they offer them individual ma-
terial incentives in return for conformity to the
self-given norms. Such an arrangement opens the
door to human egoism and could invite a “trag-
edy of the commons” (Hardin 1968) dynamic:
given nontotal social control, the temptation for
individual members to reduce their contribution
to, yet not their use of, the common resources
arises. As long as it goes unnoticed, such free
riding is profitable for members who rationally
maximise their personal utility, irrespective of how
other members act. Such a classical Prisoners’
Dilemma situation should lead in due course to
the destruction of the joint resource, i.e., the
commune and the goods and services it offers to
its members.
Small wonder, then, that many commentators
expect utopian communes to be inevitably tem-
porary creations, and the historical record is in-
deed full of premature failures. Of the 277 com-
munes established in the U.S. before 1938 (Oved
1988: 485-490), the majority did not even last for
a decade, and neither is there more than a handful
of the thousands of communes founded around
1970 - possibly tens of thousands in the U.S. alone
(Jerome 1974: 17) - that have retained community
of goods until the present day. In other periods of
intense communal experimentation, such as after
World War I in Germany (Heineke 1978; Linse
1983), quick failures have also been the rule.
It would seem that utopian communes share the
destiny of communist state economies that, in the
end, have proved impossible to perpetuate. There
are, however, a number of communes that have
existed for a long time, and some of them have
even outlasted the Soviet Union by far. Thus, the
question what distinguishes these cases from the
others arises.
Of course, when the members of a commune
are not utility maximisers and/or when they expect
to be - or already feel they are - sufficient-
ly rewarded by immaterial, nonreducible goods
such as spiritual blessing, moral legitimacy, or
eternal life in a celestial afterworld, there is no
dilemma. Such gratification is most commonly
offered within the framework of a religious belief,
and consequently, previous authors have sought
to associate communal longevity with religion.
Comparing samples of U.S. American communes
of the 19th century, Stephan and Stephan (1973)
and Erasmus (1977: 143 f.) correctly observe that
the religious communes existed longer than the
secular ones and attributed this to their religious
beliefs, and extending the scope to all 19th- and
early 20th-century American communes listed by
Oved (1988), Sosis (2000) confirms this result by
way of a statistical study. Other authors do not
ask for religion but rather for consensus, be it on
the supernatural or on something else. Already in
1875, Nordhoff stipulated that communes must be
“of one mind upon some question which to them
shall appear so important as to take the place
of a religion, if it is not essentially religious”
(1960:387). Oved (1988:370) likewise states
that
[a]ll those who have studied the history of the communes
agree that the presence of an ideologically motivated
core of members who adhered to their doctrine or
religion, as well as the predominance of their central
principles, was an essential element that ensured the
commune’s existence and its survival.
And in the most widely quoted contribution to the
considerable literature on the question of commu-
nal survival, while conceding to religion the value
of providing a comprehensive framework (Kanter
1972: 136 f.) for the “commitment mechanisms” -
such as being celibate, wearing uniforms, regu-
lar confession, etc. - which directly increase the
commune’s survival chances, Kanter also agrees
that “the particular faith is not what promotes the
success of a utopia, but rather the fact that all
members believe in it” (1972: 122). A consensus
on basic beliefs, whether religious or secular, is
thus unanimously regarded as indispensable for
communal longevity, with only few calls for cau-
tion (Shenker 1986: 104 f., 127 f.) and no outright
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
89
dissent on record. Members must be dedicated to
some higher, shared purpose, if the impossible
arrangement of a utopian commune is to achieve
at least some degree of permanence.
In the following, I will show that this conclu-
sion is partly too simplistic and partly wrong. Not
just any religious belief system but only specific
ones are associated with communal longevity, and
the latter can also be achieved with secular beliefs
and even in communes that lack consensus on even
the most basic questions. I will first outline my
analytic strategy before systematically explaining
these findings.
Method
For assessing the importance of religion and con-
sensus, I collected a sample of all the well-de-
scribed modern communes that I could find; mean-
ing that there are scholarly articles and/or at least
one scholarly or popular monograph on each case,
or that I refer to data obtained during personal
visits.2 Most of the cases are U.S. American,
European, and Japanese communes of the last two
centuries. This spatial concentration may reflect a
bias in related research, and given the fact that the
precise extent of the phenomenon is unknown, the
sample cannot claim to be representative. All com-
munes for which ethnographic data is too scarce to
include them, however, are very similar to at least
2 I visited the Japanese communes twice in 1990 and 1993,
staying for a total of between two and seven days in each
commune, and conducted interviews with members. Ajisai
mura I visited only for one day in 1993. I also use the
information material collected then and written accounts by
members and other outside observers. In a few of the other
cases, I collected additional information by exchanging
letters and e-mails with members. Additional ethnographic
information, also on the cases not specifically discussed
here, can be found in Brumann (1998a: 33-71 and passim).
A number of communes have more than a single set-
tlement and some even more than a hundred. The large
number of Hutterite colonies, kibbutzim, or Shaker villages,
however, are not independent social institutions. Instead,
they are subject to decisions made jointly with the other
settlements or by some overarching leadership body, and
they also redistribute members and resources, minimally
during emergencies but often on a fairly regular basis.
Founding and closing a specific settlement is often also
determined with the goals of all settlements - rather than
only the one concerned - in mind. Thus, the settlements
within such a larger organization are most appropriately
considered as a single communal unit. For the social organi-
sational advantages of a branch structure of a decentralised
structure for utopian communes, see Brumann (2000).
one sample case (that may be taken to represent
them) and conform to all my - nonstatistical -
conclusions. The 43 communes are listed in Ta-
ble 1 together with their life dates and durations
and include all the famous and widely discuss-
ed cases, such as the Hutterites, the kibbutzim,
Twin Oaks, Brook Farm, Oneida, and the Shakers.
The existence of good descriptions becomes more
likely, of course, the longer a commune exists,
so the sample is biased towards the more durable
cases. Thousands of additional short-lived com-
munes have existed whereas it appears that long-
lived communes outside the sample are few in
number.
As will be immediately apparent, the durations
of the sample cases vary widely. The absolute life
span alone, however, can be misleading since it
does not accurately reflect the fact that after an
equal amount of time, some communes live on as
thriving social institutions while others only barely
avoid falling apart and would most probably be
brought to an end by the slightest mishap. The
latter is especially true for the later life of the
numerous celibate communes where in spite of de-
creasing institutional vitality the members still left,
lacking the alternative social unit of the family,
tend to stay together (Brumann 1998a: 146-148,
164 f.). Therefore, I introduce a second variable,
the time period until the commune falls below one
third of the maximal membership reached, and call
it the “active” life span. This is a useful measure
since whenever a case did so - except in the
formative first few years (as in the Bruderhof com-
munities [Zablocki 1973: 73 f., Eggers 1985: 92-
96]) or on account of unusually harsh external
circumstances beyond the commune’s control (as
with the consequences of the Pacific war in Ata-
rashiki mura [Brumann 1998a: 67] and the violent
racist attacks on Koinonia [Lee 1971: 176, 179])
- this ushered in irreversible decline. While the
commune might linger on, it did so in a state of
apathy permitted only by the economic fruits of the
initial period, and what members and enthusiasm
remained would never have sufficed to get it
started in the first place.
Even this second variable, however, does not
accurately capture the fact that the present-day
communes continue to exist, facing very diverse
perspectives. Some of them appear highly stable
and must be expected to last at least several more
decades. Among the older cases, the Hutterites,
the kibbutzim, and the Bruderhof communities,
none of which shows any clear signs of decline
at present, enjoy much brighter prospects than
any of the other cases (including the Shakers and
Anthropos 96.2001
90
Christoph Brumann
Table 1: Life-Spans and Religious Orientations of the 43 Sample Cases
Name of Case Start End Absolute duration 1/3-limit reached “Active” duration Religious orientation
Shakers (USA) 1787 - 213 <1900 <113 Christian
Hutterites (Canada/USA) 1874 - 126 - 126 Christian
Abode of Love (England) 1840 1958 118 1929 89 Christian
Harmony (USA) 1804 1905 101 -1851 -47 Christian
House of David (USA) 1902 - 98 «1963 «61 Christian
Snowhill (USA) 1798 1889 91 <1872 <74 Christian
Kibbutzim (Israel) 1910 - 90 90 secular
Amana (USA) 1843 1932 89 - 89 Christian
Itto-en (Japan) 1913 - 87 - 87 non-Christian
Atarashiki mura (Japan) 1918 - 82 - 82 secular
Bruderhof (USA/England) 1920 - 80 - 80 Christian
Zoar (USA) 1819 1898 79 - 79 Christian
Koreshan Unity (USA) 1880 1947 67 1904 24 Christian
Ephrata (USA) 1732 1797 65 1778 46 Christian
Woman’s Commonwealth (USA) 1877 1940 63 1908 31 Christian
Shinkyo (Japan) 1939 - 61 - 61 secular
Riverside (New Zealand) 1941 - 59 - 59 secular
Koinonia (USA) 1942 - 58 - 58 Christian
Ajisai mura (Japan) 1946 - 54 - 54 secular
Arche (France a.o.) 1948 - 52 - 52 Christian
Icaria (USA) 1849 1898 49 1863 14 secular
Point Loma (USA) 1897 1942 45 <1941 <44 non-Christian
Reba Place Fellowship (USA) 1957 - 43 - 43 Christian
Yamagishi-kai (Japan) 1958 - 42 - 42 secular
Bethel/Aurora (USA) 1844 1881 37 - 37 Christian
Oneida (USA) 1844 1881 37 - 37 Christian
Twin Oaks (USA) 1967 - 33 - 33 secular
Spirit Fruit Society (USA) 1899 1930 31 - 31 Christian
Fukuzato tetsugaku jikkenjo (Japan) 1970 - 30 - 30 secular
Alpha Farm (USA) 1971 - 29 - 29 secular
Llano Colony (USA) 1914 1939 25 - 25 secular
Aiyetoro (Nigeria) 1948 1972 24 - 24 Christian
Renaissance (USA) 1968 <1992 <24 - <24 non-Christian
Bethlehem (USA) 1741 1762 21 - 21 Christian
Kerista Village (USA) 1971 1992 21 - 21 non-Christian
AAO (Austria a.o.) 1973 1991 18 - 18 secular
Bishop Hill (USA) 1846 1860 14 - 14 Christian
Bohemia Manor (USA) 1684 1698 14 1690 6 Christian
The Farm (USA) 1971 1983 12 - 12 non-Christian
North American Phalanx (USA) 1843 1855 12 - 12 secular
Peoples Temple (USA/Guyana) 1972 1978 6 - 6 Christian
Brook Farm (USA) 1841 1847 6 1846 5 secular
Rajneeshpuram (USA) 1981 1986 5 1985 4 non-Christian
> = greater than/after, < = smaller than/before, « = much smaller than/much before, ~ = approximately. Durations are given in
years; the reference date is 2000. “non-Christian” is short for “non-Christian religion.”
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
91
Table 2: “Heterodox” Traits of Religious Sample Cases
Name of case Postbiblical prophets/ messiahs/ revelations Sinless life possible Immortality Reincar- possible nation possible Bible merely symbolical God an- drogynous Indigenous witchcraft beliefs Communist ideological elements
Shakers X X
Abode of Love X X X
House of David X X X
Koreshan Unity X X X X X
Oneida X X X
Spirit Fruit Society X X
Aiyetoro X X
Bishop Hill X X X
Peoples Temple X X
Woman’s Commonwealth X
Abode of Love) did after a similar time span.3
Riverside, the Arche communities, Yamagishi-kai,
and Twin Oaks are younger, but their present
condition - much more vigorous than that of the
other contemporary cases their age - makes them
the most promising candidates for comparable
durations in the long run. These seven cases will
receive special attention in the following. To do
so is to engage in prophecy, but in the attempt to
build a general theory, the obvious future potential
of these communes should not be ignored.
Religious Communes
When looking at the last column of Table 1,
the received view seems to be confirmed: Of the
15 most durable communes no less than 13 are
religious. Moreover, all but one of these cases are
also based on some sort of Christian belief. The
large number of Christian communes should not
come as a surprise, given the precedent/compet-
itor of monastic orders and the extent to which
sharing and altruism are generally emphasised in
Christianity. In addition, Acts of the Apostles 2,
44-46; 4, 32-35; and 5, 1-11 can be interpreted
as saying that the Primitive Christians lived as
a property-sharing commune in Jerusalem. Vague
as these passages may be and much as they are
called into question by James 5, 1-4, no Christian
commune I know of fails to refer to this model.
Most of the non-Christian religious sample cases,
3 This may seem debatable on account of the recent schism
of the Schmiedeleut, one of the three traditional Hutterite
federations, and the conflicts between the Bruderhof com-
munities and a self-help organisation of former members
(see Miller 1993). The continuation of community of goods,
however, is not at issue in these controversies.
by contrast, had a shorter life-span, so it might be
concluded that religion - and more specifically a
Christian-based religion - is indeed conducive to
communal survival.
However, the durations of Christian communes
are very diverse, so a closer look is required. While
most of them start out from the diagnosis that or-
dinary religious practice in the surrounding society
is insufficient and church institutions have become
estranged from the spirit of true Christiantity, the
nature of their other beliefs differs widely. Some,
including the Pietistic (such as Amana, Harmony,
and Zoar) and the Anabaptist cases (such as Hut-
terite colonies and Bruderhof communities), try
to recapture a purer, more encompassing religious
practice lost by historical accident, but otherwise
stay within the established limits of Christian doc-
trine. Others, however, diverge significantly from
the latter; assuming postbiblical divine revelations
to further prophets or messiahs; believing in the
possibility of immortality, reincarnation, or a life
without sin; regarding the Bible as purely symbolic
and God as androgynous; and/or mixing Christian
belief with other religions or political ideologies.
As Table 2 demonstrates, these special features
often appear in combination. In all cases except the
Shakers - and previous to the communal period
even there - these communes were founded and
headed by charismatic leaders, and it is to them
that many of the special beliefs refer. Usually,
it is the leader who is believed to be a prophet
or messiah invested with all kinds of supernatural
properties.
Comparing the life spans of the two groups
created in this way, it turns out that the three
Christian cases among the seven most promising
present-day communes - Hutterites, Bruderhof,
and Arche communities - all belong to the more
“orthodox” variety and that 8 of the 12 most
Anthropos 96.2001
92 Christoph Brumann
Table 3: “Holistic” Religious Sample Cases
Name of case No regular reli- gious rituals Everyday activ- Few or no spe- ities seen as re- cific religious ligious practice contents Pantheistic Type of religion
Woman’s Commonwealth X X orthodox Christian
Point Loma X non-Christian
Oneida X X heterodox Christian
Spirit Fruit X X heterodox Christian
Renaissance (X) (X) X non-Christian
Kerista (X) X X non-Christian
The Farm X X non-Christian
Rajneeshpuram (X) X X non-Christian
Where the “x” is bracketed, the presence of the respective feature could be subject to debate but appears given to me. On the
one hand, this concerns the three religious cases that apparently performed religious rituals only for the sake of expediency. On
the other hand, Borowski reports that many members of Renaissance did not distinguish between work and prayer (1984: 165).
durable Christian communes do so too. A clos-
er analysis of the more “heterodox” communes
shows that these were extremely dependent on
their charismatic leaders with whom the special
beliefs originated, making for an almost insepara-
ble complex; so when these leaders weakened or
died, only apathy and decline4 or even collective
suicide (Hall 1987:263-279) could follow. By
contrast, a good number of orthodox communes
had no charismatic leaders or - such as Bruderhof
and Arche - leaders who consciously built up
successors or institutions that could take over most
of their functions.5
Still, the durations of the - clearly heterodox -
Shakers and Abode of Love are considerable. To
explain this, a further differentiating aspect of
religious beliefs is important. It can be described
as the contrast between “dualistic” and “holistic”
worldviews. Dualistic communes draw a clear
boundary between the sacred and the profane,
meaning that they explicitly mark out ritual from
everyday activities and precisely determine the
places, times, procedures, texts, and functionaries
of such rituals. In a moral sense too, objects
and activities are unambiguously parted into those
that are good and expected from members and
those that are bad and prohibited for them. Often
4 McCormick 1965: 149-169 (Abode of Love); Fogarty
1981: 120-128; Landing 1981: 13 f.; Robertson 1972; Mur-
phy 1989:168-209; Barrett 1974:24, 51-53, 58-60;
1977:56 f.; 135-142, 147 (Aiyetoro); Mikkelsen 1892:
42-49, 61-67; Kitch 1993: 110-112).
5 Zablocki 1973:80, 83; Lanza del Vasto n.d.: 37, 40,
1978:55, 65; Popenoe and Popenoe 1984:143; see also
Brumann (2000) for a more systematic treatment of cha-
rismatic leadership.
the moral line is both more clear-cut and more
encompassing than in ordinary Christian practice,
and the general mode of life is markedly ascetic.
The separation of sacred and profane, the par-
amount theme of all religion for Durkheim, has
already been demonstrated to be characteristic of
only some religions by several of his critics. And
among the religious communes there are also those
which, by contrast to the dualistic cases, gloss
over distinctions until almost no specific religious
forms clearly separated from mundane activities
and no specific beliefs clearly separated from
other possible beliefs remain. Then, all places,
times, activities, and objects are equally sacred
(or equally profane). This holistic orientation is
exemplified by the numerous religious communes
fusing occidental religion with elements of Hin-
duism, Buddhism, and humanist psychology that
have been formed since the 1960s, with Point
Loma as a kind of distant precursor. These have
found their adherents mainly among middle-class
youths to whom they offer spirituality (rather
than strict morality), mysticism, a philosophy of
personal growth, and the prospect of the “new
age” that has become their epithet. Holism in this
sense is, however, not restricted to such a religious
background, since some Christian communes also
play down the separation between the sacred and
the profane.
Table 3 lists all these cases and those of their
features that attest to what I call their “holis-
tic” religion and worldview. In these communes,
there are often either no religious rituals recog-
nisably partitioned off from everyday activities,
or these rituals are performed only for obvious
reasons of expediency, such as retaining a judicial
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
93
church status and the corresponding tax benefits
in Kerista (Pines 1987:624), Renaissance (Bo-
rowski 1984: 59-62), and Rajneeshpuram (Carter
1990: 177, 185 f.). Instead, common everyday ac-
tivities are declared to be religious acts - in Raj-
neeshpuram, the commune founded by Bhagwan
Shree Rajneesh and his sannyasin followers in
Oregon, work was collectively designated as “wor-
ship” (Carter 1990: 17). There are no boundaries
to the divine, rather it is - in typically pantheistic
fashion - believed to be present in all things. In
these communes, it is often difficult to identify
dogmatic specifics, and Rajneeshpuram emphati-
cally denied to have a creed (Carter 1990: 41; 259;
Braun 1984:56), with members admitting their
ignorance of the leader’s religious writings with-
out any embarrassment (Carter 1990: 29). Kerista,
declaring “responsible hedonism” the express goal
of its religion, would develop its “rational panthe-
ism” in the directions decided by the members’
majority vote and published comic strips about
the adventures of its gods (Pines 1987:624; Sill
1990: 25).6 With the possible exception of this
case, however, religion - even if just in the form of
a very generalised spirituality - is clearly a serious
concern and a major attraction for members. The
lack of differentiation between the sacred and the
profane and the scarcity of absolute moral tenets
are presented as a positive value, not a matter
of expediency but rather the very point to be
made against petrified, dogma-ridden established
creeds. Thus, although these groups are far from
the dualistic mode of most thought that would
ordinarily pass as religious morality, there is still a
clear and momentous difference to the communes
with secular ideologies.
It could be objected that a number of Christian
communes not included in Table 2 also aimed at
lowering the threshold between religion and ev-
eryday life, bom as they were from revolts against
contemporary church Christianity. The Anabaptist
communes Hutterites and Bruderhof, for instance,
have no church buildings and no ordained priests.
Moreover, they reject most sacraments and cel-
ebrate the Last Supper as a purely symbolic act
in which transubstantiation is not believed to take
place. Nonetheless, they have divine services at
6 The social functional rationale given by one member for
the group’s religion - “The religion of Kerista ... provides
a culturally accepted and shared way of describing to each
other what values are important to us, and gives us a very
clear and cosy niche to settle into” (Sill 1990: 26) - and
the charismatic leader’s remarks about his initial divine
revelation (25) make it dubious whether religion was more
than a joke or a publicity gag for the members.
fixed places and times, and fixed persons - the
office holders - lead the ritual proceedings.7 And
while the Hutterites deliberately celebrate their
services in the schoolhouse or some other ordinary
building, they still mark ritual time as special, if
only by turning pictures - used in the state-admin-
istered school education but otherwise prohibited
- to the wall (Hostetler and Huntington 1980: 98)
or by not ringing the bell that signals the start
and end of all other joint activities during the
day (Hostetler 1974a: 158; Stephenson 1991: 153—
155). Besides, in terms of clarity and scope, moral
tenets leave nothing to be desired. Clearly then,
this is an instance of the dichotomous ordering of
the world that I call dualistic, not holism in the
sense described above.
Table 4: Overview of Types of Religion in Sample Cases
Dualistic Holistic
Orthodo Hutterites Woman’s
Christian Bruderhof Arche Amana Zoar Harmony Snowhill Ephrata Koinonia Reba Place Bethel/Aurora Bethlehem Bohemia Manor Commonwealth
Heterodox Shakers Oneida
Christian Abode of Love Spirit Fruit
House of David Koreshan Unity Aiyetoro Bishop Hill Peoples Temple Society
Non-Christian Itto-en Point Loma Renaissance Kerista The Farm Rajneeshpuram
Table 4 presents an overview of how these two
dimensions differentiate religious communes. In
the majority of cases the dimensions parallel one
7 Zablocki 1973: 31,51 f„ 79, 153 f.; Eggers 1985: 69; Hoste-
tler 1974a: 166-169, 172f.
Anthropos 96.2001
94
Christoph Brumann
another: Christian communes are dualistic, non-
Christian communes are holistic; and while there
are spectacular examples of persistence among
the dualistic Christian cases, none of the holis-
tic non-Christian cases continued for more than
Point Loma’s 45 years. Ittô-en, however, is not a
Christian commune. Its religion is chiefly based on
Buddhism but also includes elements from other
creeds, including Christian prayers, and assumes a
common nucleus of truth in all religions. Despite
this all-embracing syncretism, however, the group
performs daily divine services in a hall reserved
for this purpose, and everyday activities are guided
by an ascetic, repentance-oriented morality - with
free toilet-cleaning in the houses of strangers as the
preferred exercise in humility - that is clearly du-
alistic. Opposite Ittô-en, there are three communes
which, while Christian, were not dualistic. Among
these, Woman’s Commonwealth originated from a
Methodist background, but after the initial peri-
od, Christian rituals hardly played any role. “...
religion - rituals, codified beliefs, traditions, in-
stitutions - was quickly and irrevocably replaced
in the daily lives of the Sanctificationists [i.e.,
Woman’s Commonwealth! by spirituality - a sense
of personal connectedness with a divine presence
and a feeling of comfort and blessing supplied
by a higher power” (Kitch 1993: 133). Oneida,
basing itself on the Perfectionist tenet that true
believers in God are able to live without sin,
regarded the communal everyday life as sufficient
expression of the members’ faith. For most of
the time, there were no standard Christian rituals,
and common meals were regarded as equivalent
to Last Supper (Carden 1969: 45 f.). Social control
was exerted primarily via an institution named
“mutual criticism” in which - anticipating modern
group therapy - members had to listen in silence to
the others’ evaluation of their character.8 Almost
automatically, this must have made the standards
of good and bad more negotiable than if there
had been a set list of unviolable rules by which
members’ conduct would be measured. In Spirit
Fruit Society (Murphy 1989) as well, religious rit-
uals were not performed, although the charismatic
leader was an Adventist preacher. Moreover, a
great deal of tolerance against other creeds (144)
was coupled with a pronounced rejection of orga-
nised religion and priesthood (67, 107, 137, 166),
and standard Christian invectives against alcohol,
swearing, adultery, and non-married love affairs
8 Carden 1969:71-76; Parker 1973:215-217; Robertson
1981: 129-147.
(68, 75, 98, 101, 141 f., 150, 152, 171 f., 202)
were taken lightly. Only after the leader’s death,
something that could pass as ritual - spiritistic
seances - were engaged in for a while, yet mostly
for the purpose of communicating with the de-
ceased leader (169 f., 198, 231), not with standard
Christian supernatural beings.
Turning to durations, it shows that Itto-en lives
on in the present after a long history, while
the three holistic Christian communes disbanded
after a much shorter time. More generally, for all
three types of creed holistic communes have fared
worse than dualistic ones; be it orthodox Christian
Woman’s Commonwealth in comparison to Hut-
terites or Bruderhof; heterodox Christian Oneida
in comparison to the Shakers; or the non-Christian
New Age communes in comparison to Itto-en.
So while orthodox Christianity is more clearly
associated with communal longevity than hetero-
dox Christianity and this, in turn, more clearly
than non-Christian religions, this dimension is
overshadowed by the question whether religious
communes clearly differentiate along the axes sa-
cred-profane and moral-immoral. No holistic case
has ever reached an active life span of four decades
while numerous dualistic cases have exceeded this
by far.
In a sense, a utopian commune as such is a
dualistic institution by nature. Existing within an
ambient society which is invariably far larger and
stronger, it has to maintain its boundaries and with-
stand the perennial challenge of the conventional,
leading to a natural juxtaposition. It appears as
if an all-embracing creed, that excludes nothing
from the presence and blessings of the divine, does
not fulfil this task well. More than the nature of
beliefs, it is the charismatic leader - present in all
holistic cases but absent in several dualistic ones
(including the Shakers, Hutterites, Snowhill, and
Koinonia) - who provides for a clear boundary,
with his followers on the one side and everyone
else on the other. This, however, ties the fate of
holistic religious communes to that of their leader,
and they lose their vitality or even perish together
with him or her.
Secular Communes
What has been said about the religious communes
modifies the received view but does not turn it
on its head. Rather, it is the secular communes
that deviate most widely from the assumption
of indispensable ideological consensus. Although
a majority of long-lived utopian communes are
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
95
religious, there are also notable exceptions, as can
be gleaned from Table 1.
Two of these secular cases may be seen as
dubious. Ajisai mura formed around a charismatic
leader who is also head of a small religion, and
although adherence to this religion is no pre-
requisite for membership and nonbelievers have
entered the commune, most members are attracted
by the leader’s religious, somewhat shamanistic
properties and charisma (Brumann 1996: 181 f.).
Shinkyô was formed by a missionary of the Japa-
nese religion Tenri-kyô and his followers. While
members officially severed their connection to
that creed early in their history and have denied
any ideological foundation ever since (Brumann
1996: 179-180), the subsequent development of
the commune remained very much built on Tenri-
kyô morality, as has already been pointed out by
Plath (1969: 178-181). The social fabric of both
cases has rested very much on their charismat-
ic leaders whose opinions became the members’
consensus most of the time, and at least ini-
tially, this charisma was without doubt backed by
religion.
Still, a number of cases remain that were never
connected to religion or that completely disavowed
it, and aside from the kibbutzim and Atarashiki
mura, these include Riverside, Yamagishi-kai, and
Twin Oaks, i.e., three of the above-mentioned
younger communes who appear to have a par-
ticularly promising future. One might, therefore,
suspect these cases to agree on some nonreligious
belief “which to them shall appear so important
as to take the place of a religion” (see Nordhoff
above).
Yamagishi-kai, for one, fits this characterisa-
tion. This commune built itself on the philosoph-
ical system of its founder and charismatic leader
that emphasises mutual dependency in cosmic,
natural, and human relations and places a par-
ticular emphasis on agriculture. All decisions are
taken by a procedure named kensan (“thorough
investigation”) in which members inquire into the
nature of a given problem, carefully listening to
the others’ opinions until the right solution will
emerge of itself. Since every member undergoes a
training in kensan that allegedly enables them to
approach any problem in an unbiased and impartial
way, consensus is said to be reached without
fail, and members will never get angry. There is
no reference whatsoever to the supernatural, but
both from the accounts of Japanese observers and
personal visits it strongly appears that members
are, if anything, more strongly and unanimously
convinced of their common beliefs than those
of many religious communes (Brumann 1998b:
355-363).
In the four remaining cases, however, members
all but agree. Atarashiki mura had a charismatic
leader - a well-known novelist - in the beginning,
but he left the commune a mere eight years after
its foundation, among other reasons in order to
promote equality among members. For the kib-
butzim, Riverside, and Twin Oaks the possibility
to let one trusted person settle what all others
will conform to was ruled out right from the
start. It would be exaggerated to say, though, that
members never agreed with one another. While
a number of authors would not concede the kib-
butzim more than a flexible structure of loosely
integrated values9 - a mere “ideologization of the
improvised” (Near 1992: 396) - others contend
that patriotism, socialism, and physical toil on the
own plot of land had a quasi-religious status in
the early period,10 amounting to a “religion of
labor” (Rayman 1981: 116). The philosophy of
uninhibited self-development of Atarashiki mura’s
charismatic founder, the radical Christian pacifism
of the World War II conscientious objectors who
formed Riverside (Rain 1991:9-23, 60-63), and
the blueprint of B. F. Skinner’s behaviourist utopia
“Walden Two” (1948) that brought Twin Oaks’
founders together (Kinkade 1973:7-9, 56 f.) also
provided belief systems which members agreed
upon and turned to as a guide for joint action.
In time, however, these belief systems have
become almost dispensable, and the members’
consensus even on basic questions has shrunk
to a degree that would never have sufficed to
form these communes in the first place. Sometimes
this happened surprisingly fast: In Twin Oaks, for
instance, the orientation on “Walden Two” was of-
ficially dropped a mere seven years after the start,
and present members are if anything embarrassed
by this chapter of the communal past (Komar
1983: 62; Kinkade 1994: 13). Instead, the diversity
of the members’ personal beliefs and goals is ex-
pressly recognised (Kinkade 1994: 24 f.), and there
is “no one ideological name tag beyond ‘egalitar-
ian’” (13) today. Komar summarises that “... in
the history of Twin Oaks there has never been a
time when one-hundred percent of the member-
ship fully endorsed all the community’s policies
and directions” (1983: 196). Symptomatically, in
a group of less than one hundred members, about
9 Blasi 1986:29, 31, 41; Rayman 1981: 12; Shenker 1986:
119 f.
10 Bowes 1989:30, 59; Spiro 1972: 11-17, 33-35, 180-183;
Neubauer and Wask 1988: 121 f.; Rayman 1981: 270.
Anthropos 96.2001
96
Christoph Brumann
five different dishes are usually prepared for every
meal in the communal kitchen. Despite the effort
involved, it is considered of prime importance that
the palates of the various types of meat eaters
and vegetarians among the members are satisfied
(Kinkade 1994: 116-119). For getting work done,
the commune uses a complex system of labour
credits that asks equal hours of everyone but - with
the exception of very few unpopular tasks to which
everyone has to contribute - leaves it up to the
individual members to choose their jobs and times.
Two members are fully occupied with operating
this system, yet this is still considered preferable
to other means - such as permanent specialisations
or rotating tasks after a fixed schedule - that would
press the members into a rigid scheme (Kinkade
1994: 29-36).
In Riverside, the Christian morality of the initial
period would cast substantial pressure on mar-
ried couples to stay together even if unhappy,
and divorcees were accepted as new members
only with reservations (Rain 1991: 51 f., 56, 94 f.;
Popenoe and Popenoe 1984: 263). After the re-
quirement of a Christian faith was dropped in
1972 and members from a hippie or alternative
background moved in, however, any family form
has become permissible, with unmarried people
and single parents constituting the majority of
households now (Rain 1991:95, 143 f., 153, 156,
160; Popenoe and Popenoe 1984: 258). Religion
has become a private affair, and individual mem-
bers are followers of Sai Baba, the Japanese new
religion Mahikari, Steiner’s anthroposophie teach-
ings, Buddhism, or Catholicism, in addition to the
Methodism that was prevalent in the initial period
(Rain 1991: 93). Neither is there agreement about
the legitimacy of alcohol and marijuana, and the
related debates have a long history (1991: 95 f.).
Even in agriculture - the mainstay of this rural
commune’s economy - the discussion whether to
use conventional or organic methods in the fields
and orchards has continued for decades, without
ever reaching a definite conclusion (132-137). In
Atarashiki mura - predominantly agricultural as
well - the narrow cages in which almost all laying
hens are held have repeatedly come under attack
from some members, and here too, the debate is
never really laid to rest. As a working solution, the
individual members in charge of the single coops
are free to proceed as they please at present. Even
for the kibbutzim, Bowes has concluded that many
of even the most basic questions are controversial
now (1989: 8).
It is not rare that members in these communes
are hardly motivated by the official beliefs any
longer, and they also feel - this being the most
significant deviation from the religious communes
which also have their share of disbelievers -
uninhibited to admit this openly. Socialism and
Zionism are hardly ever mentioned as a personal
motivation in the kibbutzim now (Blasi 1986: 49),
and central values such as cooperation and equality
are given by less than one half of the members
asked about what keeps them in the commune.
By contrast, more than ninety percent mention
the possibility to enjoy one’s family life, a value
that, while not denied, is anything but glorified
in the official ideology (Liegle and Bergmann
1994: 33 f.). The elected head of Atarashiki mura
complained to me that about one third of the
members do not really care to engage in the moral,
spiritual, and/or artistic self-development that is
the raison d’etre of the commune. As long as they
contribute their share of the workload, however,
he felt that nothing could really be done about
this. In effect, the basic tenets of the communal
life formulated by the charismatic founder stipulate
that no member may give orders to any other.
Decision-making in these four cases is another
field which does not really produce consensus.
Officially, Atarashiki mura and Riverside - never
having grown beyond 75 inhabitants - base their
decisions on the unanimous consent of members.
Even if only for a single dissenting voice, deci-
sions are postponed, and a controversial issue may
continue to be debated over a whole series of the
regular meetings (Rain 1991: 145). In Riverside,
reaching agreement is seen as a difficult process.
The concerns of a small portion of members who
feel strongly about a certain point will often sway
the others who care less but whose interests may
still not exactly be served by the consequences
(145 f.), and there are members who complain
that the more eloquent or simply more persistent
people often get their way in the end (146). Clear-
ly, consensus is a technique of compromise here
and not enthusiastically embraced. Many mem-
bers of Riverside are rather disillusioned about
the meetings, several both there (144, 146) and
in Atarashiki mura have stopped attending them
altogether, and individual members of Atarashiki
mura complain that nothing ever really changes
(personal information).
After experiencing similar problems, Twin
Oaks - a bit larger with its up to 100 members-
abolished decision-making meetings after only a
few weeks (Kinkade 1973: 51-54). Initially draw-
ing on an idea of “Walden Two,” the commune
rather delegates politics to three or four specialists
with a tenure of 18 months each, the so-called
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
97
“planners.” This leadership body acts autonomous-
ly most of the time and also picks its own suc-
cessors. Everyday management is in the hands of
“managers,” specific members who are in charge
of one or sometimes more of the considerable
number of departments and special tasks and will
decide most minor issues for themselves (Kinkade
1994: 17-20). Major decisions of both planners
and managers have to be reported to the members.
Weekly meetings were held for this purpose but
were not very well visited (Komar 1983: 84, 99).
Now, instead, the planners’ working meetings have
become public but this still does not provoke
more than perfunctory attendance. For important
matters, however, special meetings are convened
which draw larger audiences, and most members
keep themselves informed by the postings of
decisions on a general notice board. A single
member’s veto suffices to delegate a manager’s
decision to the so-called “council” of managers in
related fields, a council’s decision to the planners,
and a planners’ decision to the majority vote of
all members. Characteristically, a ballot box open
for a set period instead of e.g., a show of hands at
a meeting is used for such a vote. Candidates for
the planner office who collect vetoes by as few as
twenty percent of the members are already rejected
(Kinkade 1994: 19-21). As a consequence, while
there have been assertive governments in the
past, the recent trend is towards planners who
seek to gauge the general mood on a particular
problem by informal talks, opinion surveys, and
other means instead of risking vetoes (1994: 238;
personal communication by a member). Since
criticism is freely uttered and much more easily
gained than praise, offices are not much sought
after, and lengthy vacancies of planner positions
have occurred (Kinkade 1994: 19, 235; Komar
1983: 97).
“Process” - Twin Oaks’ term for decision-mak-
ing - generates a considerable amount of bureau-
cracy (Komar 1983: 320), but members retain their
right to air their complaints while being able to
keep clear of positions of responsibility at the same
time (Kinkade 1994: 265). Any dictatorial tenden-
cies are thus held at bay, yet members who attempt
to change a particular aspect of communal life for
the better often end up thoroughly frustrated. For
a commune that is vociferously egalitarian, it is
surprising how many positions may be allotted
to members who crave them - such as in the
case of member Veena (Kinkade 1994: 255-264).
But these members often realise in time that the
commune does not follow their moves and may
even end up leaving in despair (Komar 1983: 317—
321). The fruits of their efforts, however, stay in
the commune, such as the various building projects
that have a notorious record of costing the mem-
ber in charge (Kinkade 1994: 124, 265). As one
member criticises, the commune thus feeds parasit-
ically on unrewarded personal efforts (265) while
fully continuing to be what has been described as
“paranoid about hierarchy, power, and authority”
(Komar 1983: 143). It is more than apparent that
unanimous agreement is not what Twin Oaks’
political system brings about, and corresponding-
ly, the average duration of membership has still
not reached eight years (personal communication
by a member), with only one founding member
-who has also left and returned several times -
still present. The commune as a social institution,
however, continues to thrive.
Majority votes - the epitome of a lack of
consensus - are even more important in the kibbut-
zim where single settlements usually have many
hundred and in some cases more than one thousand
inhabitants. Everyday management is the task of
a central leadership board - the secretariat - and
sometimes more than twenty specialised commit-
tees in charge of specific productive departments,
finances, education, etc.11 All committee members
and officeholders — amounting to as many as
20 to 30 percent of the adult population in one
(Ben-Rafael 1988: 46) and almost one half in an-
other kibbutz (Barkai 1982: 22) - are elected by
the general assembly of the full adult members,
and this is also the authoritative decision-making
unit on any controversial point (Bowes 1989: 70).
But a similar pattern as in Twin Oaks arises:
in most kibbutzim, attendance at the general as-
semblies does not exceed one third or even one
fourth of members,11 12 with a substantial minority
of between 10 and 30 percent13 never showing
up at all. Given the largely conventional division
of labour among genders, female participation has
further suffered from the termination of children’s
houses that has brought the children back into
their parents’ apartments (Melzer and Neubauer
1988: 30 f.). Political apathy and/or resignation on
the part of some members is resulting from, as well
as conducive to, the concentration of power in the
hands of others: while a good number of members
avoid offices (Melzer and Neubauer 1988: 27; Spi-
11 Melzer and Neubauer 1988: 27 f.; Spiro 1972:95; Blasi
1986: 43; Tiger and Shepher 1975: 53.
12 Bowes 1989: 19; Melzer and Neubauer 1988:26; Rosner
1982: 103; Blasi 1986: 107 f.
13 Rosner 1982: 107; Blasi 1986: 107 f.; Tiger and Shepher
1975:129.
Anthropos 96.2001
98
Christoph Brumann
ro 1972: 96 f.), the rotation of important positions
among just a few persons is reported for a number
of kibbutzim.14 In kibbutz “Goshen” studied by
Bowes, many complain about how a clique of
mostly founding members - generally referred to
as “the mafia” - shrewdly monopolises power
positions, giving the other members no real chance
to participate (Bowes 1989:49, 71, 79). As in
the cases discussed previously, a true consensus
of members appears impossible to accomplish,
and decision-making procedures aim at the least
controversial solution at best. At the same time,
the luxury of disengaging oneself from any kind
of responsibility, while retaining one’s right to
complain about anything that others may decide
in one’s stead, also goes unchallenged.
Given such conditions, it is safe to say that the
compromises reached in any of these four cases
will hardly ever be confounded with a true unity
of hearts and minds by the members. And much
the same must also be said for the effects of
their measures of social control. Generally, a close
monitoring of personal conduct is not esteemed.
The nearest approximation to this is the relentless
gossiping in the kibbutzim15 that functions as a
kind of permanent evaluation system of members
and censures all kinds of misbehaviour. When
individuals show themselves immune to nega-
tive gossip and social marginalisation, however,
the kibbutzim are astoundingly helpless (Bowes
1989: 48 f.; Spiro 1972: 207 f.), given that outright
expulsion - a major breach of the self-image as
the ideal society - is taken recourse to only in
very extreme cases.16 Often, there is not more
than one such incident on record in a specific
kibbutz (Bowes 1989: 78). Thus, it is often margin-
al members and their violations of the communal
rules that become the motor for cultural change.
Bowes (1989: 73 f.) describes this for a generally
disliked member couple of kibbutz “Goshen” who
so stubbornly refused to surrender the personal TV
set they had acquired in violation of the rules that
the kibbutz leaders finally had to give in and, in
order to restore equality, buy private TV sets for
all other households too. In Riverside and Twin
Oaks as well, the reluctance to exclude members
- a very rare occasion in Twin Oaks (Kinkade
1973: 28 f., 33, 45-48; Komar 1983: 78 f.) where
14 Melzer and Neubauer 1988:27; Spiro 1972:25; Niv
1976:217.
15 Bowes 1989:61-69; see also Spiro 1972:104; Niv
1976: 209.
16 Bowes 1989:76, 78; Spiro 1972: 102 f.; Blasi 1986:52.
it was avoided even after a member had embezzled
thousands of dollars (Kinkade 1994: 220), and not
reported for Riverside at all - has often led to
a deliberate testing of the limits by individual
members. Thus, one female senior member of
Riverside, when inheriting a car, resisted all ef-
forts to persuade her of relinquishing this illicit
piece of private property. In the end, the specific
status of noncommunal resident - living among
members but having private property and paying
for the commune’s services - was established to
accommodate her case (Rain 1991: 169). In Twin
Oaks too, individual challenges of the communal
norms have at times been contained, yet at times
managed to establish new rules, with officehold-
ers being characteristically reluctant to meddle in
hotly debated questions such as to whether, e.g.,
microwave ovens should be permitted or not. It
then has been very much a matter of the op-
ponents’ personal character and popularity rather
than programmatic consistency, how such affairs
were eventually settled (Kinkade 1994: 203-208).
In Twin Oaks and the kibbutzim, there is also
an extensive grey zone of minor infringements
of the common rules17 - such as withholding
personal presents that, in theory, should be handed
over to the commune - which as single instances
are insignificant enough to make individuals as
well as leadership institutions wary of premature
interference, but collectively have developed into
a major nuisance. And where this compounds
with a general reluctance to closely scrutinise the
activities of others, even major violations capable
of seriously harming the commune’s well-being
may go unsanctioned. A case in point is the mem-
ber who, when building Twin Oaks’ new kitch-
en-dining complex, overspent the allotted budget
at no less than 70.000 dollars before this was
noticed by other members (Kinkade 1994: 130 f.).
Atarashiki mura’s above-mentioned reluctance to
deal with members who do not strive to live up
to the founder’s ideals is of a similar kind. In
sum, whoever does not succumb to the more or
less subtle pressures of public opinion becomes a
serious problem in all these communes.
Frequent experiences of community might at-
tenuate such problems, but not even this is forced
upon the members. While in the religious com-
munes and also in a number of secular cases
there are, in addition to work, joint activities such
17 Komar 1983: 139 f.; Kinkade 1994:46-49; Bowes 1989:
73, 115; Spiro 1972: 207; Blasi 1986: 52; Tiger and Shepher
1975:45; Ben-Rafael 1988: 135, Rayman 1981: 143.
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
99
as divine services or obligatory meetings on an
almost daily basis, the secular communes just
mentioned do hardly have any. In Atarashiki mura
where the coops are the major source of income,
members take care of their coop individually, and
only female members with jobs in the communal
kitchen and the small museum work together on a
regular basis. Lunch and dinner may be and, from
my observation, quite frequently are taken home
to the separate family houses or individual rooms
in singles’ houses. Other than the imperfectly
attended monthly meetings, there are no regular
reunions, so one member surprised me by saying
that he had hardly exchanged more than greetings
with some newer members although these had
been around for years.
In Twin Oaks as well, members will not find
themselves assembled in one place more than
about once a year (Kinkade 1994: 22). A private
room for each member became an unassailable
right as soon as the commune acquired sufficient
space (96). While the lack of more intimate, fam-
ily-like groups has at times led the mostly single
members to experiment with “small living groups”
and common living rooms in the residences (96-
102), most members opt for “a private room
and a public life” (101) instead of voluntarily
focussing their social contacts. Participation in the
various support and encounter groups that keep
being formed is also far from universal (Kin-
kade 1973: 61 f.; Komar 1983: 179, 185-187, 192
-194). Meals may be taken wherever it pleases
the members, and steam trays in which meals
are kept warm for hours help to control any
unwanted sociality as well (Komar 1983: 50; Kin-
kade 1994: 101).
While the kibbutzim initially fostered a “mys-
tique of group experience” (Spiro 1972: xii-xiii)
and lack of privacy was still complained about
by some members in 1951 (247), privacy is now
respected and an ideal of polite distance and
noninterference followed in the relationships of
members who do not know each other well (Blasi
1986: 40 f.). Outside the scantily attended gener-
al meetings, there are few occasions where all
members meet (Niv 1976: 189). Riverside is also
described as “not an intimate community” (Rain
1991: 143). Families live in separate houses, and
while work, three or four of meals per week,
the weekly meeting and festivals bring members
together, there is not a lot of mutual visiting and no
place to meet casually. At least one single member
has finally left because of perceived loneliness
(143 f.). Typically, a “Communal House” which
was built in 1986 to bring a larger number of
families and single members into closer contact
did not succeed (156). Support groups have been
formed here as well but are not continued (146).
“We are the least communal of communes”, as one
member remarked (143).
In all four communes, then, the degree of social
interaction with fellow members is thus more or
less completely determined by individual choice,
and it can be assumed that social control - com-
paratively loose as it is anyhow - will hardly
be fostered thereby. Another corollary is the sur-
prising degree of indirect communication. Almost
every kibbutz publishes an at least monthly, if not
weekly periodical for its members (Niv 1976: 209,
211; Tiger and Shepher 1975: 65), and some have
even started to broadcast their general assemblies
on TV (Liegle and Bergmann 1994: 37). Twin
Oaks also relies heavily on a central notice board
for internal communication and debate (Kinkade
1994:21) and has also had radio programs for
this purpose (Kanter 1972: 27), surprising already
an early observer with the ubiquity of signs and
written messages (21 f.). In Atarashiki mura, a
large blackboard in the common dining room
where members must at least fetch their meals
is used for announcements. Characteristically, I
was also introduced via that blackboard during
my week-long visit; and while this was certainly
impersonal by Japanese standards, with no meeting
close by it could apparently not be helped. Even in
Riverside that, from Rain’s account (1991), must
be suspected to have a higher density of personal
interaction, members still felt the need to publish
a community newspaper for a while, with each
new issue being “eagerly awaited” (147). This em-
phasis on written communication further reduces
face-to-face interaction and whatever consensus
or subtle pressure to conformity the latter might
produce.
In sum, the four discussed communes are far
from striving to put some agreed-upon, a priori
utopian blueprint into reality and lack any nec-
essary tools, even if they were to attempt this.
Rather, they experience an endless series of com-
promises between members’ diverging interests
that never yield more than provisional solutions.
These are good only until the next turn of events or
- in a group such as Twin Oaks where membership
turnover is high - the next generation of members.
The communards themselves are often well aware
of this fact. In the words of a Riverside member
(Rain 1991:77):
... all ideas originated by an individual member get
modified - sometimes out of all recognition - when they
Anthropos 96.2001
100
Christoph Brumann
pass through a community meeting. The meeting
tends to adapt views which are off to one side so that
they meet some norm of community feeling. (“Ex-
tremists have never got far at Riverside,” it was said
recently.)
And even more tellingly, members in Twin Oaks
play the “Trade-off Game” once a year. They
receive a large sheet of paper on which the eco-
nomic departments, their current labour and money
budgets and their demands for the next year are
listed. Each member is then asked to distribute the
total amount of resources available according to
individual preferences. Of course, demands always
exceed the supply, and it is left to each member
to work out a personally suitable solution, with
the “planners” who decide the final budget staying
close to the average of the members’ individu-
al suggestions (Kinkade 1994:63-68). Nothing
could bring it home more clearly to everyone
involved that the commune is built on compromise
and is not the realisation of an abstract ideal.
From an objective point of view, decisions
taken in the religious or the more consensus-ori-
ented secular communes are often compromises
as well; but importantly, members do not see it
that way or at least do not openly say so. Instead,
there is often the concept of the one right solution;
be it one emerging naturally from unbiased con-
sideration and discussion, as in Yamagishi-kai, or
suggested by the voice of God that will become
audible among members, if they only really strive
to listen, such as in the Bruderhof communities
(Zablocki 1973: 155, 157; Eggers 1985: 69). There
may be a specialist for the one right solution in
the person of a charismatic leader - him or herself
often believed to transmit God’s will - or they may
be detailed catalogues of rules that offer the one
right procedure for almost any everyday situation,
such as the Millennial Laws of the Shakers (Stein
1992:95, 183, 198 f., 203; Andrews 1953:251-
289). Yet the one right solution is there, and also
there are ways for the members to find it and thus
keep their faith in the utopian vision of the one
right society.
Many members of the secular “compromise
communes” also have a utopian vision and clear
ideas about how the commune should be orga-
nised. But as there is no procedure to determine
whose vision is right, none of them will be fully
realised. Consequently, there is always a consid-
erable number of members who are dissatisfied
with the status quo and do not hold back their
misgivings. The kibbutzim, for instance, have been
diagnosed as to be in crisis almost continually
since the 1950s. None of these secular communes
can realistically expect to be a realised utopia for
more than a fraction of its members.
Nonetheless, these communes continue, demon-
strating thereby that continual compromise can
also be a source of institutional strength. As
one member of Twin Oaks summarises (Kinkade
1994: 192):
Despairing of agreement, Twin Oaks began to see ideo-
logical diversity as a virtue. The idea is that, because
we don’t get whole group agreement on any one direc-
tion, and therefore have to compromise virtually every
decision we make, we avoid all the dangers of going off
any deep ends.
It is difficult to see how a higher degree of
consensus would hurt these cases, if it suddenly
fell from heaven. But secular as these communes
are, it could only be reached by violating the
one basic tenet which is really agreed upon, that
members have equal rights, meaning that - unless
under extraordinary circumstances - no member
and most often not even a majority has the right
to force any other member. Tolerance of individual
needs and whims is thus the paramount principle,
and any kind of pressure used to violate it, while
possibly increasing economic efficiency and the
level of satisfaction of some members, would
inevitably drive a considerable portion of others
out of the commune. Ruling by compromise and
turning suboptimality into a principle, by contrast,
keeps the - more or less disgruntled - members
together and ensures that while utopia is never
reached, dystopia is also avoided. Descriptions
such as those by Kinkade (1994) and Rain (1991)
suggest that many members still find a consid-
erable degree of fulfilment and identify with the
commune that increasingly becomes its own raison
d’etre, not a vehicle for the realisation of abstract
ideals. It seems that the controlled erosion of
the principles established in the ideological phase
- “The most extreme decisions this Community
ever made came from the initial founders, who
were either few enough to agree or else strong
enough to ignore those who didn’t” (Kinkade
1994: 220) - has turned into a survival strategy
here. Very clearly, it has done so in the case
of Riverside that, when doomed as a Christian
commune, dropped its former religious creed and
became a secular commune tolerant of a wide
variety of life-styles (Rain 1991: 87-103).18
18 The accounts on Twin Oaks (Kinkade 1973, 1994) and
on Riverside (Rain 1991) I chiefly use have been written
by members, and in Atarashiki mura I did not stay for
more than a week. The aspects of communal life I build
my argument on, however, are (although not silenced)
Anthropos 96.2001
Religious Consensus and Secular Dissent
101
As already emphasised, this is not to say that
there never was consensus in these communes or
that they did not need it to get started. It must
also be suspected that there is a lot of agreement
that is so much taken for granted by the members
that it goes unmentioned, comprising, e.g., the
norms and values of the liberal-alternative segment
of the educated middle class that furnishes most
members of Twin Oaks and Riverside, or those
of the specific ethnic groups that are dominant
in a given kibbutz (Niv 1976: 373). Contrary to
what previous authors have suggested, however,
an explicit consensus on aims and objectives is not
needed in the long run, and it may help these cases
more to water down the initial agreements than to
sustain them by all means or to work towards the
creation of new ones. Not utopia, but the trade-off
has become their second nature.
Conclusion
With respect to the beliefs upon which they build
themselves, two paths can lead to the long-term
survival of utopian communes. One is based on
religious beliefs that clearly distinguish between
sacred and profane and between good and bad,
rather than dissolving these dichotomies in an all-
embracing mystical union. While such an orienta-
tion is often coupled with Christian beliefs, it is the
dualism of these communes, not the specific creed,
that matters. For these communes, the consensus
on basic beliefs that has been held so important in
previous writings is indeed indispensable.
There is, however, an alternative path to com-
munal survival that, although being followed by a
smaller number of cases, does exist nonetheless.
In several secular, egalitarian communes, the con-
sensus on basic beliefs that the initial ideology
provided has been all but lost in the course of
time. The only ideal left, equality - which is more
of a procedural than a substantive ideal anyway
- is interpreted as ruling out the coercion of
individuals, and thus, unanimity of opinion is out
of range. Consequently, decision-making proce-
dures and mechanisms of social control are geared
not a particular source of pride, so anything admitted in
this respect should point to even more compromise and
trade-off hidden underneath. In addition, both Kinkade’s
and Rain’s accounts have a decidely realistic and honest
feel about them, and Kinkade’s later book - one of the best
I know about utopian communes - strongly bespeaks an
anthropologist manquée. For Atarashiki mura, the aspects
presented here were also confirmed in an interview with
another European who had lived there for half a year.
towards the achievement of working compromises
rather than what anyone would take for an optimal
solution. Starting out as utopian ventures to create
model societies, these cases in many ways have
come to resemble modern parliamentary systems
that likewise fail to please more than a majority
of those subject to their rule or even to engage
them into the political process at all. There may
be limits to the range of opinions a commune can
take, yet the extant diversity has not harmed the
kibbutzim, Atarashiki mura, Riverside, and Twin
Oaks but rather seems to protect them from the
danger of extreme decisions. Moving as slowly
as these communal institutions do, it seems that
they have sufficient time to become aware of any
trap on their way. Consensus may be a prerequisite
for religious communes - these secular, egalitarian
groups are better served by sacralising dissent.
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Anthropos
96.2001: 105-118
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert
(Nias/Indonesien)
Dominik Bonatz
Abstract. - This article focuses the development of the mega-
lithic culture in Nias (Indonesia) during the 20th century. It
shows that changes in the megalithic tradition are mostly caused
by factors of politicization, innovation, commercialization, and
acculturation. In result, the megalithic culture of Nias at the
end of the 20th century seems rather to persist in the perception
than in the performance of its communities. In this context the
social function of the megaliths has been turned into art objects
and memorials. In future this function can create an important
value of the cultural identity of Niha people. [Nias, Indonesia,
megaliths, megalithic art, cultural identity]
Dominik Bonatz, Dr. phil. (Berlin 1997). - Seit 1998 Wis-
senschaftlicher Assistent am Orientalischen Seminar der Albert
Ludwigs-Universität in Freiburg (Brsg.), Fachgebiet Archäo-
logie des Vorderen Orients; Mitarbeiter an Ausgrabungen in
Syrien und im Libanon. - Forschungsschwerpunkte: Kunst-
geschichtliche Betrachtungsweisen in der Vorderasiatischen
Archäologie und komparative Methoden unter Einbeziehung
der Ethnologie und Historischen Anthropologie. Publikationen
u. a.: Das syro-hethitische Grabdenkmal. Untersuchungen zur
Entstehung einer neuen Bildgattung in der Eisenzeit im nord-
syrisch-südostanatolischen Raum (Mainz 2000).
Der vorliegende Artikel resultiert aus den Erkennt-
nissen einer Feldstudie, die der Autor im Frühjahr
2000 auf der Insel Nias (Indonesien) durchfüh-
ren konnte. Im Vordergrund der Untersuchung
standen kunstanthropologische Betrachtungen zur
Entwicklung des Megalithismus auf Nias. Kann
dieser einerseits noch als ein bis in die Gegen-
wart reichendes religiöses, soziales und politisches
Phänomen erfahren werden, so sind andererseits
Veränderungen in den verschiedenen Bereichen
der Gesellschaft spürbar, die zu einem durchgrei-
fenden Wandel in der Rezeption des megalithi-
schen Erbes geführt haben. Der folgende Beitrag
stellt den Versuch dar, die Modalitäten des Wan-
dels der Megalithkultur auf Nias als Parameter
zur Deutung von Kunst- und Kulturprozessen zu
beschreiben.
Die Insel Nias liegt im äußeren Westen des
indonesischen Archipels, 120 km vor der Küste
Sumatras (Karte). Ihre Gesamtfläche beträgt ein-
schließlich der vorgelagerten Inseln 5625 km2.
Geographisch ist der Süden durch eine bis zu
800 m hohe Bergkette deutlich vom Rest der
Insel getrennt. In den anderen Regionen bilden
Hügelketten und zahlreiche, tief eingeschnittene
Flussläufe ein schwer zugängliches Fandschafts-
relief. Handelsstrategisch begünstigt sind deshalb
allein jene Orte, die an der Ost- und Südküste,
also Sumatra zugewandt, liegen. Heute sind dies
die nördlich gelegene Inselhauptstadt Gunungsitoli
und der südliche Hafenort Teluk Dalam. Dennoch
hat sich die indigene Kultur nicht entlang der
Küstenstreifen, sondern im isolierten Inneren der
Insel entwickelt. In dieser geographischen Abge-
schiedenheit liegt einer der wesentlichen Gründe
für die bis zum heutigen Tage fortbestehende Ge-
genwart der Megalithkultur auf Nias.
Die überwältigend große Zahl an Steinsetzun-
gen auf Nias sind Ausdruck vergangener Festak-
tivitäten zur Regulierung des sozialen Zusammen-
halts (Hämmerle 1984; Ziegler 1990). Feste bedeu-
ten für den Einzelnen die Einlösung der Verpflich-
tung, Rang und Ansehen gegenüber der Gruppe
zu vermehren. Dazu zählen die Heirat, die Geburt
eines Kindes, der Tod eines Elternteils sowie Feste
106
Dominik Bonatz
Karte: Lage von Nias im indo-
nesischen Archipel.
zur Erbauung eines Hauses, zu Ehren der Eltern
oder der Frau, und die als owasa bezeichneten
Verdienstfeste, mit denen sich der Festgeber einen
großen Namen (töi sebua) erwirbt, der ihm dazu
verhilft, im Gedächtnis der späteren Generationen
fortzuleben. Entsprechend der Zahl der geladenen
Gäste erfordert jedes Fest eine große Menge an
Schweineopfern und die Anfertigung bzw. Zur-
schaustellung von Goldschmuck. Die Erinnerung
an das Fest stiftet der Stein, der zu diesem Anlass
errichtet wird, wobei es in der Vergangenheit vor
allem die owasa- und Hausgründungsfeste waren,
welche die an Größe und Aussehen bedeutendsten
Steinmonumente hervorgebracht haben. Steinset-
zungen sind demnach konstitutiv mit der Veran-
staltung eines Festes verbunden. Da aber die Mehr-
heit der traditionellen Verdienstfeste an Bedeutung
verloren hat, weil ihr sozialer Stellenwert nicht
mehr anerkannt wird und die Kosten dafür rea-
listisch als zu hoch erachtet werden, hat auch die
Zahl der Steinsetzungen in jüngster Zeit drastisch
abgenommen. Erstirbt die Tradition der Feste, so
stirbt auch die Megalithkultur aus, könnte die
Prognose für die Zukunft heißen. Dass jedoch Ur-
sache und Wirkung im Wandel der Megalithkultur
vielschichtiger sind, soll in den folgenden Ab-
schnitten verständlich gemacht werden.
Megalithismus und Megalithkunst
In der niassischen Sprache existieren für den Me-
galithen, den “großen Stein”, eine Reihe äqui-
valenter Bezeichnungen. Während im Süden der
Insel der aufrechte Stein batu nitaru’o und der
liegende daro-daro heißen, werden dafür in der
Mitte die Wörter behu bzw. awina und im Norden
gowe bzw. si’alawe benutzt. In der Begriffsvielfalt
spiegelt sich zugleich die Formvielfalt der Mega-
lithen wider, zum Beispiel auch, wenn von einem
gowe ni’oniha, “einem Megalithen im Aussehen
der Menschen von Nias”, die Rede ist. Der kon-
zeptionelle Begriff vom Megalithismus existiert
hingegen auf Nias nicht. Dieser ist ein Konstrukt
der europäischen Ur- und Frühgeschichte, welcher
erst zu Beginn des 20. Jh.s von der Ethnologie
einbezogen wurde, um die Megalithkomplexe im
tropischen Raum, u. a. auf Kalimantan, Sulawesi,
Flores, Sumba, Sumatra und Nias unter einen Nen-
ner zu bringen (Förster 1972: 1-11). Diffusionis-
tische Theorien, wie sie insbesondere der Wiener
Ethnologe Robert Heine-Geldern vertrat (1928),
sollten deren Beziehungen untereinander bis hin
zu den Megalithen in Assam (Nordindien) und im
östlichen Mittelmeerraum deutlich machen. Ent-
gegen dieser Sichtweise kann heute mit Sicherheit
bestimmt werden, dass es zwischen den Megali-
then auf Nias und anderswo keine entwicklungsge-
schichtlichen Beziehungen gegeben hat, und dass
auch in ihrer Funktion erhebliche Unterschiede be-
stehen. Es fragt sich deshalb, inwieweit der Begriff
zur Charakterisierung der Kultur der ono niha,
der “Menschen auf Nias”, tatsächlich geeignet ist.
Trotz der externen, wissenschaftlichen Perspektive
sollte diese Frage positiv beantwortet werden. Gro-
ße Steinsetzungen sind das herausragende visuelle
Merkmal im niassischen Lebensraum. Nur dort,
wo aufgrund der örtlichen Geomorphologie keine
Stein Vorkommen zur Verfügung stehen, sind die
Dörfer ohne megalithische Strukturen. Ansonsten
dienen die breiten, gepflasterte Straßen (ewali)
der Dörfer zur Aufnahme einer oft unüberschau-
baren Menge an Steinmonumenten (vgl. Abb. 1
und 2), in deren Größe, Anzahl und Form sich
die soziale Hierarchie der Dorfgemeinschaft wi-
derspiegelt. Die Megalithen stehen an der Grenze
zu den Wohnhäusern, in dessen Besitz sie ge-
hören. Gleichzeitig sind sie mit ihrer Schauseite
dem Straßenraum zugewandt, der Lebens- und
Arbeitsbereich aller Dorfbewohner ist. In bezug
auf das soziale Wohnumfeld markieren sie somit
den semi-öffentlichen Raum. Nur im Süden von
Anthropos 96.2001
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien)
107
A gowe ni ’oniha D ewali
B gowe E eno’o
C ni’ogaij F ewe ewe
Abb. 1: Profil der Dorfstraße in
Onowaembo Tolamaera (nach
Viaro 1984: 135).
Nias, wo entsprechend der bedeutenden Größe
der Dörfer auch die meisten Megalithen versam-
melt sind, dienen sie zusätzlich zur repräsentativen
Rahmung eines öffentlichen Versammlungsplatzes
(ewali gorahua, Abb. 3). Da hier zudem Stein-
pyramiden (falombo) für Sprungübungen der her-
an wachsenden Krieger auf der Straße stehen und
Steine architektonisch bestimmend für die Anlage
von Wegen, Treppen, Toranlagen und Bädern sind,
kann von einem regelrechten Dorfmegalithismus
gesprochen werden (vgl. Viaro 1984 und 1985).
In der Megalithkultur des Südens fehlt jedoch
ein Merkmal, das für die Mitte und den Nor-
den der Insel so typisch ist: die anthropomorph
oder zoomorph ausgearbeitete Rundplastik. Von
unwiderstehlicher Eigenart sind zum Beispiel die
in Mittelnias, im Gebiet des Flusses Gomo, zu
Hunderten angefertigten osa ¿«¿/-Figuren (Häm-
merle 1984: 590-595). Sie bestehen aus einer
rechteckigen oder runden Steinplatte mit Standfü-
ßen, an deren Unterseite ein männliches Genital
und weibliche Brüste angebracht sind, während
Abb. 2: Lageplan der Häuser, Gräber und Megalithgruppen in Onowaembo Tolomaera. Aufgenommen von A. Viaro, 1982 (Viaro
1985: Taf. 5) und modifiziert nach der eigenen Besichtigung des Dorfes im Frühjahr 2000.
Anthropos 96.2001
108
Dominik Bonatz
Abb. 3: Megalithen auf dem Versammlungsplatz und vor den Häusern in Botohilitanö, Südnias.
die Oberseite vorne mit ein oder drei monströsen
Tierköpfen auf langen Hälsen und hinten mit der
entsprechenden Zahl an vogelähnlichen Schwän-
zen versehen ist (Nias 1990: Kat.-Nrs. 10-17).
Neben diesem außergewöhnlichen Beispiel figura-
tiver Megalithkunst treten pilzförmige Steinplatten
(,ni’ogazi), zu ebener Erde liegende Steine (awi-
na), Steinbänke (harefa) und monumentale Pfeiler
(behu) in Erscheinung. Verallgemeinernd lässt sich
sagen, dass die vertikalen Monumente für Männer
und die horizontalen für Frauen errichtet wurden,
doch kommt es örtlich zu Ausnahmen dieser Regel
(Hämmerle 1984: 624).
Anthropomorphe Statuen sind im Gebiet von
Gomo nur selten anzutreffen (Schröder 1917: Fig.
104, 110). Die eigentlichen Zentren hierfür liegen
weiter nördlich in den Megalithdörfern entlang
der Flüsse Oyo, Huruna, Fahömi, Moro’o und
Idanöy. Hier stehen vor einem Haus Gruppen von
8 bis 12 und manchmal sogar mehr Megalithen,
unter denen einzelne dadurch herausragen, dass sie
Menschen darstellen (Abb. 4, 5, 6). Eine vorläufige
Bestandsaufnahme hat ergeben, dass zum jetzigen
Zeitpunkt in 24 nordniassischen Dörfern noch 80
derartige Bildwerke stehen. Ihre Gestaltungsfor-
men sind sehr vielfältig, weshalb es nur wenige
Gemeinsamkeiten gibt. Dies sind die angedeutete
bis extrem ausgeführte Hockstellung der rund-
plastischen Figuren und ihre durch das kraftvoll
dargestellte Genital betonte Nacktheit, die im Kon-
trast zu den Attributen steht, die Status anzeigen,
wie Kopf-, Ohr-, Hals- und Armschmuck,1 ein
Messer an der Hüfte und zuweilen ein Gefäß in
den Händen (vgl. Abb. 4 und 5). Ein wesentli-
cher formaler Unterschied besteht darin, ob die
Figur rundplastisch gearbeitet ist (Abb. 5) oder
in die Grundstruktur eines Pfeilers eingebunden
bleibt (Abb. 4). Die Größe der rundplastischen
Statuen schwankt zwischen 1-3 m, die Pfeiler-
figuren erreichen vereinzelt sogar eine Höhe von
über 4 m.
1 Im Original ist dieser Schmuck aus Gold bzw. Blattgold
gefertigt. Die Bezeichnungen sind u. a. tuwu ana’a für die
Goldkrone des Mannes, ndröno ana’a für sein goldenes
Stirnband, lulu ana’a für den Ring, den der Mann nur an ei-
nem Ohr trägt, und ana ’a ba wiso für beide Ohrgehänge der
Frau, ana ’a nifatali für den spiralförmig gedrehten Halsreif
des Mannes und ana ’a ba mbagi für das mondsichelförmige
Halsgeschmeide der Frau, töla jaga für den Armreif der
Frau und töla gasa für denjenigen des Mannes (vgl. Moor
1990, mit Abbildungen).
Anthropos 96.2001
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien)
109
Selbst dieser kurze, nur einen Bruchteil aller
Details erfassende Überblick vermag anzudeuten,
dass die Megalithkultur auf Nias trotz der geringen
Größe der Insel ein sehr heterogenes Phänomen
darstellt.2 Ursachen dafür lassen sich in der Entste-
hung und Verbreitung des Megalithismus auf Nias
finden.
Entstehung und Verbreitung des
Megalithismus
Hartnäckig hat sich bis in jüngste Zeit das Klischee
vom hohen Alter der Megalithkultur auf Nias
gehalten (z. B. Danandjaja 1971: 4, Anm. 2; Mulla
1981). Erst in den neueren Publikationen wurde
darauf aufmerksam gemacht, dass der Großteil der
Megalithen nicht älter als das 19. Jh. ist.3 Dem
2 Für eine detailliertere Beschreibung siehe Ziegler und Viaro
1998.
3 Thomsen 1976: 53; Viaro 1984: 137, 140; Hämmerle
1984: 599; 1999: 374.
Anthropos 96.2001
kann aus eigener Erkenntnis hinzugefügt werden,
dass die Anfänge des Megalithismus auf Nias nicht
wesentlich mehr als 300 Jahre zurückliegen. Auf
Nias ist es die vor allem bei älteren Einwohnern
präsente Tradition des mündlichen Gedächtnisses,
die es angesichts zahlreicher Monumente nach
wie vor möglich macht, eine lückenlose Folge
von Generationen vorgelegt zu bekommen, die
zwischen dem Errichter eines Megalithen und den
heutigen Nachfahren liegen. Daraus resultiert, dass
die ältesten Monumente, und zwar ausschließlich
solche, die im Norden und in der Mitte der In-
sel stehen, vor nicht mehr als 12-13 Genera-
tionen errichtet wurden. Ein solches Alter wird
zum Beispiel für die große anthropomorphe Sta-
tue in Onowaembo am Idanöy in Nordostnias
überliefert (Abb. 4). Die Wahrscheinlichkeit dieser
Angabe wird durch die persönliche Mitteilung
Alain Viaros bestärkt, der bei seinem Besuch des
Dorfes 1982 als Alter der Statue 12 Generatio-
nen genannt bekam. Auch in den Nachbardör-
fern besteht Übereinstimmung darüber, dass es
sich um das älteste Bildwerk in dieser Region
110
Dominik Bonatz
handelt.4 Für die frühe Entstehung der Statue
sprechen auch die gestalterischen Aspekte: Die
Vorderansicht ist plastisch durchgearbeitet, wobei
auch eine leichte Hockstellung durch die her-
vortretenden Kniescheiben angedeutet wird; die
Seitenansicht ist dagegen, der rechteckigen Kon-
tur des Steinpfeilers folgend, brettartig flach. Die
Statue steht somit gestalterisch noch zwischen
rundplastischer Statue und Pfeilerfigur. Erst bei
späteren Bildwerken ist die Trennung zwischen
beiden Typen konsequenter vollzogen.
Archäologisch nachweisbare Anzeichen einer
älteren Megalithkultur gibt es nicht. Einzelne An-
gaben über angeblich wesentlich ältere Steine ge-
hören in den Bereich niassischer Ursprungsmy-
thologie.5 Über den plausiblen Mittelwert von 25
(Hämmerle 1984: 598) bis 30 Jahren (Marschall
1976: 75) für eine Generation auf Nias lässt sich
somit als historisches Datum für das Auftreten der
ersten anthropomorphen Megalithen das Ende des
17. Jh.s bestimmen. Bemerkenswert sind in diesem
Zusammenhang die beiden ältesten schriftlichen
Quellen zu Handelsverträgen, welche die Hollän-
der 1669 und 1693 mit Häuptlingen an der Ost-
küste von Nias abschlossen (Modigliani 1890: 25-
32). Die Verträge sicherten die gemeinsamen Inter-
essen am Sklavenhandel, der den daran beteiligten
Dörfern einen von außerhalb der Insel garantierten
wirtschaftlichen, aber auch militärischen Vorteil
verschaffen sollte, da die Holländer ihren Ver-
tragspartnern zusätzlich Unterstützung im Kampf
gegen die feindlichen Clane versprachen. Darüber
hinaus förderte der Handel mit Sklaven aus der ei-
genen Bevölkerung den Import von Prestigegütern,
insbesondere Eisen, Gold und Schusswaffen, wo-
durch die Macht einzelner Stämme entscheidend
gestärkt wurde (Scarduelli 1986: 173). Auch neue
Gerätschaften und Techniken zur Steinbearbeitung,
die beim Einsatz der Sklaven in den' Goldminen
auf Sumatra schon länger in Gebrauch waren (dazu
Hesse 1931), gelangten nun wahrscheinlich über
den Handel nach Nias. Das Bevölkerungswachs-
4 Eine gewisse Skepsis ist bei mündlichen Altersangaben
natürlich stets angebracht. Sie können, ob bewusst oder
nicht, übertrieben sein. Falsche Aussagen könnten sich zum
Beispiel dadurch verraten, wenn der Stein älter als die
nachweisliche Gründung des Dorfes wäre. Dies trifft jedoch
auf Onowaembo nicht zu, da das angegebene Alter der
Statue mit der Gründung des Dorfes korrespondiert.
5 So soll der älteste Stein vor 40 Generationen vom Stamm-
vater Hia in Börönadu, Mittelnias, errichtet worden sein.
Diese Angabe ist jedoch überhöht und anscheinend auf
einen sehr viel jüngeren Stein übertragen worden, um einen
Bezug zum mythischen Alter des Urahnen der Einwohner
von Nias herzustellen (vgl. Hämmerle 1999: 375).
tum, neue Technologien sowie das ökonomische,
soziale und politische Ungleichgewicht lösten eine
Migration aus, die vom Osten her zu einer fort-
schreitenden Besiedlung der westlichen Regionen
führte. Infolge der über Generationen andauernden
Siedlungsdynamik verbreitete sich die Megalith-
kultur über Nias. In der mündlichen Tradition
einiger Clane im Westen Nias ist der Zeitpunkt
der Auswanderung aus dem Osten der Insel festge-
halten. Zur Vergegenwärtigung dieser Erinnerung
kann vielerorts auf die anthropomorphe Statue
hingewiesen werden, die bei der Dorfgründung
errichtet wurde.
Für den Anführer einer auswandernden Gruppe
und Gründer eines Dorfes galt der tonnenschwe-
re, überlebensgroße und individuell ausgearbeitete
Stein als sichtbarer Beweis dafür, dass er über die
Potentiale verfügte, eine neue Dorfgemeinschaft
zu leiten. Persönliche Kompetenz und ausreichen-
de materielle Mittel waren Voraussetzungen, um
die nötige personelle Unterstützung zum Brechen
oder Ausgraben eines geeigneten Steins im Fluss-
tal, seines Transportes hinauf in das Dorf und
seiner Ausarbeitung zum megalithischen Monu-
ment zu erhalten. Der Megalith wurde somit noch
vor der Gründung eines Dorfes oder Hauses zum
konstitutiven Merkmal der Legitimation eines von
den Niha als salawa anerkannten Oberhauptes.
Durch den energischen Druck, der auf dem Grün-
der lastete, den Megalithen größer und besser zu
gestalten als im Herkunfts- oder Nachbardorf, ent-
wickelte sich die für Nias charakteristische Vielfalt
anthropomorpher Statuen, von denen keine der
anderen gleicht. Der künstlerische Wettstreit um
das bedeutendere Bild setzte sich von Ort zu Ort
fort, wohingegen er am Ort schnell stagnierte. Da
im Kontinuitätsdenken der späteren Generationen
bis zum heutigen Tage Tradition iadaf) mehr gilt
als Innovation, bot sich nur selten ein Anlass, den
Stein des Vorfahren durch das eigene Denkmal
zu übertreffen. Die Errichtung neuer Steine fand
fortan im Zusammenhang mit den das Gemein-
schaftswesen regulierenden Ehren- und Verdienst-
festen statt. Auf diese Weise entstanden vor den
Häusern charakteristische Steingruppen mit dem
ältesten und gestalterisch aufwendigsten Bildwerk
in der Mitte (vgl. Abb. 4 und 6), jenes als ein-
maliges Merkmal der Haus- oder Dorfgründung,
der überwiegend bildlose Rest als potenzierbarer
Ausdruck der Rang und Ansehen begründenden
Festaktivitäten.
Im Süden der Insel, der zuletzt vom Me-
galithismus erreicht wurde, trat ein ähnlicher
Mechanismus in Kraft, ohne jedoch vom künst-
lerischen Standpunkt aus betrachtet zu einer
Anthropos 96.2001
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien)
111
Abb. 6: Steingruppe und christliches Grab vor einem Rundhaus in Lalai Zatua, Nordostnias.
vergleichbar bildnerischen Darstellungskraft zu
gelangen. Die Ursachen hierfür liegen in der feh-
lenden Siedlungsdynamik, der Größe der Dörfer
und ihrer strengen sozialen Hierarchie. Begünstigt
durch die küstennahe Lage und den Handel mit
Sklaven, entstanden die großen, über 100 Häuser
zählenden Dörfer im Süden von Nias wahrschein-
lich nicht vor dem 19. Jh. Ihrer Größenordnung
entsprechend verlangten sie nach ausgedehnten
Territorien mit ausreichenden Potentialen zur
Landwirtschaft, was gleichzeitig eine stärkere
Siedlungskontinuität bedingte. Eine dem Norden
vergleichbare progressive und kompetitive Kunst-
entwicklung konnte unter diesen Bedingungen
nicht stattfinden. Die Dörfer im Süden bildeten
vielmehr eine in sich abgeschlossene Lebenswelt
aus,6 in der die Gesellschaftsstruktur von Häupt-
ling {balö si’ulu), Adligen (si’ulu), Ratgebern
(si’ila), gewöhnlichen Dorfbewohnern (sato) und
Sklaven zu einer strengen Normierung von Form
und Funktion der Steinmonumente führte. Bild-
6 Die deutliche Dichotomie zwischen dem Dorf und der
lebensfeindlichen Natur außen herum spiegelt sich auch in
der Bezeichnung für das Dorf wider, das banua, die “Welt”
an sich ist (vgl. Scarduelli 1986: 46).
hafte Elemente spielten hierin eine untergeordnete,
und wenn, dann der Königsfamilie vorbehaltene
Rolle.7 Individuelle Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten er-
öffnete das südniassische Dorfkonzept nicht, da
jeder Stein Bestandteil des öffentlichen Lebens-
raums und somit Gegenstand der gemeinschaftli-
chen Kontrolle war.
Ansatzweise lassen sich somit Entstehung und
Entwicklung des Megalithismus auf Nias bis zum
Beginn des 20. Jh.s erklären. Genauere Angaben
sind aufgrund fehlender schriftlicher Quellen nicht
möglich, denn auch die protestantischen Missio-
nare schenkten in ihren von der zweiten Hälfte
des 19. Jh.s an erstellten Berichten den Megali-
then im Gegensatz zur religiösen Holzplastik keine
Beachtung. Dieser Umstand steht im Widerspruch
zu einem erkennbaren Interesse an der Kultur auf
7 Die reliefierten Bildelemente sind überwiegend attributiv,
in Form männlicher und weiblicher Herrschaftsinsignien
wie Krone, Hals- und Ohrschmuck sowie Waffen des
Mannes (Ziegler und Viaro 1998: Fig. 93, 95). Szenische
Reliefs, wie jene kurz nach 1900 an den beiden großen,
schiffsförmigen Monolithen in Bawömataluo angebrachten
Darstellungen von Menschen, Affen und Fischen (Feldman
1985: Abb. 37-41), sind bis zur Mitte des 20. Jh.s eine
deutliche Ausnahme.
Anthropos 96.2001
112
Dominik Bonatz
Nias am Ende des 20. Jh.s. Der Megalithismus
unter Palmen erfährt außerhalb der Insel, angeregt
durch europäisch-amerikanische Ausstellungskata-
loge (Feldman 1985; Nias 1990; Barbier 1998),
erste monographische Reiseführer (Eberlein 1998)
und die nationale Tourismusförderung des indo-
nesischen Staates (Sukendar 1996), eine bis dato
unerreichte Wertschätzung. Eine solche Entwick-
lung vermittelt auch den Menschen auf Nias neue
Rezeptionsbilder ihrer eigenen Kultur. Was sich
gegenwärtig vollzieht, ist der Schritt von einer
gelebten zu einer erlebten Kultur, ein Wandel der
im folgenden anhand von vier Faktoren gedeutet
werden soll.
Wandel der Megalithkultur im
20. Jahrhundert
Politisierung
Angeregt durch das umfangreiche ethnographi-
sche und geographische Werk E. Schröders (1917)
erschienen die ersten Arbeiten über die Mega-
lithkultur auf Nias in den 30er Jahren des 20.
Jh.s (Heine-Geldern 1928; Schnitger 1939: 145 —
164). Das bedeutet, dass die Megalithkultur erst in
dem Moment von wissenschaftlicher Seite wahr-
genommen wurde, als ihr Wandel durch äußere
Einflüsse bereits sehr weit fortgeschritten war.
Dieser Einfluss ging vor allem von der protes-
tantischen Kirche in Vertretung der Rheinischen
Missionsgesellschaft aus, die seit 1865 auf der
Insel missionierte. Zur christlichen Überzeugungs-
arbeit gehörte die Unterbindung der in den Augen
der Missionare als Idolatrie geltenden Verehrung
der Ahnen und Schutzgeister in Form geschnitzter
Holzfiguren (adu zatua bzw. adu hörö). Als deut-
lichstes äußeres Bekenntnis zum Christentum galt
es, wenn die Konvertiten die Bilder ihrer Ahnen
und Schutzgeister aus ihren Häusern entfernten
(Fries 1938: 11, 13). Umgekehrt halfen die Mis-
sionare bei dieser christlichen Säuberungsarbeit
tatkräftig mit. So rühmt sich der Missionar J. Noll
(1930: 303), an einem Tag zusammen mit seinen
Helfern 2000 Götzenbilder aus einem Haus ent-
fernt zu haben. Die Figuren der Ahnen und Schutz-
geister sind auf diese Weise vollständig aus der
religiösen Lebens weit der Menschen von Nias ver-
schwunden. Heute erfolgt ihre Reproduktion allein
unter dem Gesichtspunkt einer marktorientierten
Souvenirkunst im Süden der Insel (Abb. 7). Dage-
gen lebt die Tradition der religiösen Holzplastik
im Kontext der Kirche durch die Anfertigung von
Kreuzen, christlichen Figuren, Kerzenleuchtern,
Tabernakel und Ambo fort. Diese Entwicklung
wäre an sich weniger bemerkenswert, wenn nicht
ungeachtet dessen die megalithischen Denkmäler
in vielen Fällen an ihren angestammten Plätzen
das 20. Jh. überdauert hätten. Es sind nur wenige
Fälle bekannt, wonach ein Steinmonument auf-
grund der christlichen Überzeugung entfernt wor-
den wäre. Der Missionar H. Sundermann berichtet
von einem steinernen “Götzenbild” in Dahana in
Nordostnias, das der Dorfhäuptling von seinem
Hof entfernen und vergraben ließ, nachdem er zum
Christentum übergetreten war (1898: 457 f.). Auf
den ersten Gedanken verwundert es, dass nicht
mehr Megalithen, vor allem den anthropomorphen,
ein ähnliches Schicksal widerfuhr, da sie doch in
den Augen der Missionare ein, den Holzfiguren
vergleichbares, idolatrisches Übel hätten darstellen
müssen. Drei Gründe, dass es dazu nicht ge-
kommen ist, lassen sich anführen. Erstens mag
der Unterschied zwischen einem beseelten Bild,
wie es einstmals die Ahnenfiguren verkörperten,
und einem steinernen Denkmal, das keine kul-
tische Handlung implizierte, auch für die Mis-
sionare bedeutsam gewesen sein. Zweitens mag
dazu ihre eigene, aus der europäischen Herkunft
erklärbare, positive Einstellung gegenüber Denk-
mälern beigetragen haben. Drittens, und dies als
hauptsächlicher Grund, sind es die Einwohner von
Nias selbst, welche bis zum heutigen Tage den
Megalithen einen Stellenwert beimessen, der es
nicht erlaubt, Teile oder Ganzheiten davon aus
der Gemeinschaft zu entfernen. Die Absage an ein
hölzernes Ahnenbildnis spielt sich in der Privat-
sphäre einer Familie innerhalb eines Hauses ab,
die Steine vor dem Haus zu beseitigen bedeutet
hingegen einen Eingriff in die öffentliche Sphäre
der Dorfgemeinschaft. H. Sundermann liefert dazu
ein Beispiel aus dem Dorf Toemöri. Nachdem es
zwar gelungen war, den kranken Dorfhäuptling
anlässlich seiner Taufe zum Christentum dazu zu
bewegen, sämtliche hölzernen “Götzen” aus sei-
nem Haus zu entfernen, mussten es die Missionare
dennoch zulassen, dass die steinerne osa osa-Fi-
gur, die an sein Verdienstfest erinnerte, unter ein
anderes Haus gestellt wurde, da, wie der Häuptling
selbst sagt, “man sich schäme vor den Leuten
von Dahana [das Nachbardorf], denselben [die
osa osa-Figur] wegtragen zu lassen” (Sundermann
1885: 286 f.).
Die Megalithen sind das sichtbare soziale Bin-
deglied zwischen dem öffentlichen und dem pri-
vaten Bereich eines Dorfes, zwischen den Gene-
rationen einer Familie und den Mitgliedern der
Gemeinschaft. An der Zahl und dem Aussehen der
Megalithen, welche gleichbedeutend sind mit der
Anthropos 96.2001
In der Vergangenheit wurden die Megalithen
bei der Dorfverlegung an ihrem alten Platz belas-
sen. Während von den verlassenen Häusern auf-
grund des vergänglichen bzw. wiederverwendba-
ren Baumaterials bald nichts mehr erhalten blieb,
zeugen heute noch die imposanten Steinsetzun-
gen an Orten wie Hiligoe, Bitaha, Hilina’a und
Onowaembo Goemi in Nordnias sowie Tetegewo
und Lahusa in Mittelnias von der bedeutungsrei-
chen Vergangenheit. Für die Bewohner der neuen
Dörfer gewinnen diese Plätze mehr und mehr
an Denkmalwert, was sich in Bemühungen nie-
derschlägt, sie als zugängliche Anlagen zu pfle-
gen. Mittlerweile überwiegt jedoch die Tendenz,
die bedeutendsten der Steinmonumente, auch aus
Angst vor deren Diebstahl, an die Stelle des neuen
Wohnortes zu versetzen. Dort werden sie gut sicht-
bar und unverrückbar auf einem Zementsockel
vor dem Haus, der Kirche oder Schule neu in
Szene gesetzt (Abb. 5). Häufig erfüllt dadurch
der gleiche Stein zum zweiten Mal seine Be-
gleitfunktion bei einem häuslichen oder dörfli-
chen Gründungsakt. Der Besitz der Megalithen
wird als traditionelles Recht auf Ansehen und
Abstammung verteidigt, was so weit führen kann,
dass sie bei Besitzstreitigkeiten lieber zerschlagen
Zahl und der Bedeutung der veranstalteten Feste,
lässt sich das Ansehen der Familien aber auch
das eines Dorfes ablesen. Zugleich sind sie die
einzigen Gedächtnisstützen in der ansonsten nur
mündlich tradierten Erinnerung an die Vergangen-
heit. Die soziale Gewichtung der Megalithen hängt
zudem mit ihrer religiösen Erfahrung zusammen.
Die Furcht vor den Ahnen verbietet es bis heute,
ihnen ihren Stein wegzunehmen. Aus der sinnlich-
sichtbaren Darstellung einer sozial und religiös
kodifizierten Weitsicht konstituiert sich die Macht
der Steine auf Nias. Als Merkmale zur Verortung
der eigenen Identität sind die Megalithen deshalb
vielerorts zu einem Politikum geworden. Und dies
nicht obwohl, sondern gerade weil die Zahl ih-
rer Errichtungen in den letzten Jahrzehnten stark
zurückgegangen ist.
Die “Politisierung der Steine” hat im 20.
Jh. auch dadurch an Bedeutung gewonnen, dass
die holländische Kolonialregierung zunächst viele
Dörfer zum Umsiedeln zwang und danach das
Fortschrittsdenken vielerorts den Umzug von den
abgelegen Plätzen in den Bergen hinab ins Tal und
an die neu gebauten Straßen bewirkte. Damit rück-
ten die Megalithen ins Spannungsfeld zwischen
traditionellem und modernem Lebensraum.
Anthropos 96.2001
114
Dominik Bonatz
werden als sie einer der streitenden Parteien zuzu-
gestehen.8
Tradition und Innovation
In den traditionellen Dörfern bleibt die Rolle der
Megalithen unmittelbar mit Rang und Ansehen
der Familien verbunden, vor deren Häusern sie
stehen. Im Besitz des heutigen Bürgermeisters
(.kepala desa) befindet sich in der Regel die nach
Größe und Aussehen bedeutendste Gruppe an Me-
galithen. Damit wird zugleich angezeigt, dass der
Bürgermeister aus der Familie des ehemaligen
Häuptlings (salawa) stammt und seine Position,
dem demokratischen Prinzip der Wählbarkeit sei-
nes Amtes zum Trotz, als gesetzmäßiges Erbe
verstanden wird. Die anderen Familien rangieren
mit ihren Steinen deutlich sichtbar unter dieser
Position (vgl. Abb. 1), doch bekunden sie damit
in gleicher Weise ihre ortsgebundene Tradition.
Verlässt aber eine Familie ein Dorf oder stirbt
sie aus, so bleiben anstelle der Häuser häufig
allein die Steine zurück. Da heute die Ausdün-
nung der Dörfer insbesondere im Norden der Insel
voranschreitet, entstehen vielerorts Baulücken mit
Steingruppen davor (Abb. 2). Im Süden dagegen,
wo mit Ausnahme einiger verlassener Königshäu-
ser kaum ein Haus endgültig abgerissen wird,
führen Renovierungen und Neubauten zuweilen
noch zur Errichtung neuer Steinmonumente. Ein
rezentes Beispiel für ein ganzes Dorf, das in
traditioneller Bauweise neu gegründet wurde, ist
Bawogosali in den 40er Jahren des 20. Jh.s (Mar-
schall 1976: 46). Den Bau der Häuser begleiteten
zahlreiche Steinsetzungen, die erstmalig in diesem
Gebiet von verschiedenen Dorfmitgliedern mit fi-
gürlichen Reliefs versehen wurden. In den Dar-
stellungen vermischen sich traditionelle Elemente
mit modernen, wozu der bis dahin unbekannte
Gebrauch von Inschriften zählt (Abb. 8). Aufgrund
sozialer Permutationen im Gemeinschaftswesen
sind Ikonizität und Individualität zu neuen Maß-
stäben der Megalithkunst in Südnias geworden.
Soziale Hierarchien können dank neuer Verdienst-
8 So geschehen in Ko’endrafö, als das Dorf nach der indone-
sischen Staatswerdung mit zwei anderen Dörfern unter dem
kirchlichen Einheitsnamen Hililaza vereinigt wurde. Eine
noch bei Schröder 1917 (Abb. 135) abgebildete Steingruppe
wurde damals im Streit zwischen zwei Brüdern um das
Erbe zerschlagen. Deshalb kann nun der aus der ehemali-
gen Häuptlingsfamilie stammende Bürgermeister in Hililaza
darauf hinweisen, vor seinem neuen Haus die einzige
erhaltene und damit sein Amt legitimierende Steingruppe
zu besitzen.
möglichkeiten überwunden werden, so dass sich
das Prestige neuer Verdienstgruppen auch in der
Errichtung eigener Denkmäler niederschlägt. So
liegt das Verdienst eines ehemaligen Angehö-
rigen der Aristokratie in Hili’amaetaniha darin, der
Gruppe aus Tänzern und Tänzerinnen für touris-
tische Darbietungen ein neues Daseinsrecht ver-
schafft zu haben. Das Denkmal, das daran erinnern
soll, stellt ihn und seine Frau in der traditionellen
Festtracht dar (Abb. 9). Immer häufiger jedoch
wird der Prestige wert solcher Steine in Frage ge-
stellt und werden die Kosten für ein Fest als zu
hoch erachtet. Alternative Prestigeobjekte, wie das
Haus aus Beton und das Wellblechdach, der Fern-
seher oder ein Motorrad, verdienen mittlerweile
in den Augen der meisten mehr gesellschaftliche
Anerkennung, um darin auch in der Zukunft zu
investieren.
Reproduktion und Vermarktung
Ein wichtiger Impuls zur Erhaltung und Pflege
der Megalithkultur geht von indonesischen und
ausländischen Interessen an der touristischen Ver-
marktung von Nias aus. Im Mittelpunkt der Wer-
bestrategie steht der Süden der Insel, von des-
sen angeblicher kultureller Einzigartigkeit auch
in den Schulen der anderen Inselregionen gelehrt
wird. Anlässlich eines Kulturfestivals, das 1990 in
Südnias stattfand, ließ der Gouverneur von Sumat-
ra eine eigene Stele neben die zu Beginn des 20.
Jh.s errichtete Steingruppe vor dem Königshaus
in Bawömataluo aufstellen. Dieser Festakt, und
damit einhergehend die Stiftung von 40 Millionen
Rupias zur Erhaltung der Dorfstruktur, stellen eine
bewusste Anerkennung der Megalithtradition dar.
Auf diese Weise trägt das angesichts der allge-
meinen Beachtung gesteigerte Selbstbewusstsein
der Bevölkerung im Süden von Nias dazu bei, sich
und das gesamtniassische Erbe neu darzustellen.
Die Kunst der Reproduktion tritt dabei nirgendwo
so deutlich in Erscheinung, wie in der Herstel-
lung von Holzfiguren nach traditionellem Muster
(Abb. 7), wofür Vorlagen von überall her ver-
wendet werden. Einzelne Familien haben daraus
bereits einen Neben- oder Haupterwerb gemacht.
Hauptkriterium für die Qualität der eigenen Arbeit
ist, ob sie sich gut verkauft. Unter diesem Ge-
sichtspunkt gewinnt für die Handwerker im Süden
auch die Kunst aus der Mitte und dem Norden
von Nias an Bedeutung, da sie den Bedarf und
die Erwartung der Käufer deckt. Umgekehrt hängt
der Fortbestand des neuen Kunstgewerbes von den
überwiegend am Tourismus orientierten Absatz-
Anthropos 96.2001
Abb. 8: Zwei Generationen alte Stele in Bawögosali, Südnias. Abb. 9: Rezent errichtete Stele in Hili’amaetaniha, Südnias.
möglichkeiten ab (Mittersakschmöller 1988; Ya-
mamoto 1997). Das Verhältnis zur eigenen Kultur
ist dadurch mehr und mehr zu einem Faktor
geworden, der von außen bestimmt wird; durch
die ideenreiche Verarbeitung von Vorlagen aus
anderen Teilen der Insel und durch die besondere
Anerkennung dieser Region innerhalb und außer-
halb von Nias. Hierin liegt zugleich eine Gefahr
für die Zukunft. In Südnias reproduziert sich das
traditionelle Gesellschaftsbild wahrscheinlich nur
so lange, wie seine Wertschätzung und Vermark-
tung anhält. Auch die Megalithkultur droht deshalb
mehr und mehr zu einer Fassade zu werden, hinter
der sich der moderne Einfluss verbirgt.
Während im Norden der Insel bislang keine
Tendenzen zur Vermarktung der Megalithkultur zu
erkennen sind, haben die Einwohner in Mittelnias,
im Gebiet der Flüsse Gomo und Tae, mittlerweile
ein ambivalentes Verhalten im Umgang mit ihrem
megalithischen Erbe entwickelt. Einerseits wird
dieser geprägt durch den traditionellen Status-
wert der Megalithobjekte, anderseits durch ihren
neuen Marktwert als Kunstobjekte. Im ersteren
Fall werden die als sozial wertvoll erachteten
Skulpturen, insbesondere die osa osa-Figuren, von
den Familien sorgfältig gehütet, im letzteren Fall
werden sie an Kunsthändler verkauft, die dafür
immer höhere Preise zahlen. Aus diesem Grund
verschwinden mehr und mehr Skulpturen aus ih-
rem ursprünglichen Kontext in den traditionellen
Dörfern, um in Privatbesitz oder auf den inter-
nationalen Kunstmarkt zu gelangen. Eine weitere
Folge dieser zweiseitigen Entwicklung ist die rei-
henweise Reproduktion von oso osa-Figuren und
neuer Phantasiegebilde in Zement, mit denen die
eigenen Häuser und Gräber geschmückt oder die
zum Verkauf angeboten werden. Der soziale Stel-
lenwert, der von der modernen Kunstproduktion
ausgeht, ist nicht zu unterschätzen. Eröffnet sich
damit doch die Möglichkeit, das eigene Ansehen
mit traditionellen Mitteln neu auszuschmücken
und zusätzlich mit den gleichen Mitteln Geld zu
verdienen.
Im Gomo-Gebiet wirken drei Faktoren auf die
rezente Rezeption der Megalithkunst. Zum Ersten
die in der Mythologie begründete und von allen
Einwohnern von Nias anerkannte Ursprungsrolle
(Thomsen 1979), zum Zweiten der starke, denk-
Anthropos 96.2001
116
Dominik Bonatz
Abb. 10: Gekacheltes Grab mit Zementfigur in Böhöwösi,
Nordnias.
malhafte Eindruck, den die teilweise zu Ruinen-
stätten gewordenen Megalithdörfer hinterlassen,
und zum Dritten die Vermarktung der Megalith-
kunst innerhalb und außerhalb des Gebietes. All
dies hat das Bewusstsein für die eigene Tradition
bestärkt. Ein starres Festhalten an der Tradition,
wie wir es im Norden vorzufinden glauben, wird
dadurch verhindert, dass sich die Megalithkultur
in Mittelnias gegenwärtig selbst reproduziert, was
insofern ihren intakten Zustand charakterisiert.
Akkulturation
Akkulturationsprozesse treten in Nias am deutlichs-
ten in Erscheinung, wo indigene Vorstellungen
und Verhaltensweisen in christliche Glaubens- und
Lebensregeln einfließen. Von anhaltender Wirkung
ist die Brücke, die zwischen der Megalithkultur
und dem christlichen Bestattungswesen geschlagen
wurde. In vorchristlicher Zeit lagen die meisten der
Bestattungsplätze - Erdgräber oder Baumbestat-
tungen - außerhalb der Dörfer. Allein im Norden
und in der Mitte der Insel war es herausragenden
Persönlichkeiten, vor allen den Häuptlingen, Vor-
behalten, innerhalb des Dorfes bestattet zu werden.
Häufig galt dies nur für den Schädel des Verstor-
benen, der getrennt vom Körper unter einer Stein-
pyramide oder in einer Steinurne beigesetzt wurde
(Schröder 1917: Abb. 214, 217). Hinter dieser reli-
giösen Praxis zum magischen Beistand eines Dor-
fes standen zugleich pragmatische Überlegungen
zum Schutz der politisch bedeutsamen Toten, denn
nicht selten wurden die außerhalb gelegenen Grä-
ber von Feinden geplündert, um an die begehrten
Schädeltrophäen zu gelangen. Seit der Christiani-
sierung finden jedoch mehr und mehr Bestattungen
innerhalb der Dörfer statt. Eine Ursache hierfür
mag darin liegen, dass durch die Präsenz der Toten
in ihren Gräbern ein Ausgleich für die entfernten
Ahnenfiguren, die ehemals als beseelte Substitute
der Verstorbenen in den Häusern allgegenwärtig
waren, hergestellt werden konnte. Seitdem bilden
die christlichen Gräber und Megalithen ein kon-
stitutives Ensemble zur Potenzierung des kollek-
tiven Ahnengedenkens. Die Gräber liegen häufig
vor oder neben den von mehreren Generationen
errichteten Steingruppen (Abb. 6). Das Gedenken
an die Toten findet somit im Einklang mit der
Anerkennung der Vorfahren statt. Nicht weniger
bedeutsam ist der Prestigefaktor, der sich mit der
Anlage eines neuen Grabes vor der Steingruppe
und im Blickfeld des Wohnsitzes aus wirkt. An-
sehen und Reichtum spiegeln sich in den noch
zu Lebzeiten ersparten Kosten für ein möglichst
monumentales und bunt gekacheltes Grab wider.
Zur Individualisierung des Gedächtnisses verhel-
fen Fotografien der Verstorbenen und aus Zement
hergestellte Figuren, die motivisch in der Tradition
der Megalithkunst stehen (Abb. 10). Als Grabplas-
tiken treten somit die Megalithen neu in Erschei-
nung, wobei es weniger die Form der Denkmäler
als ihre Funktion ist, die sich verändert hat. Der
akkulturative Wandel hat aus der Megalithkunst
eine Sepulkralkunst gemacht.
Ähnliche Prozesse können, wie oben angedeu-
tet, in der Mitte von Nias beobachtet werden, wo
die ein- oder zweiköpfigen osa osa-Figuren in Ze-
ment reproduziert und zum Schmuck der Hausein-
gänge, des Wohnraums oder wiederum der Gräber
aufgestellt werden. Die ursprüngliche Bedeutung
der Bildwerke stellt sich dadurch ein, weshalb es
auch keine Bedenken gibt, sie Gewinn bringend zu
verkaufen. Akkulturation führt nicht zum Verlust
materieller Güter, sondern zu ihrer Neubewertung,
worin auf Nias einer der wichtigsten Faktoren im
Wandel der Megalithkultur am Ende des 20. Jh.s
zu sehen ist.
Anthropos 96.2001
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien)
117
Die Megalithkultur am Ende des
20. Jahrhunderts
Als erkennbares Resultat der im vorherigen be-
schriebenen Faktoren im Wandel der Megalith-
kultur lässt sich am Ende des 20. Jh.s die ver-
änderte Position des kulturellen Individuums, des
Einwohners von Nias, heraussteilen. Für diejeni-
gen, die im Umfeld der megalithischen Dörfer le-
ben, existiert der Megalithismus heute nicht mehr
als soziale Handlungsnorm, sondern als Form der
Anschauung. Aus Partizipienten sind Rezipienten
geworden. Aus der Distanz des Betrachters gewin-
nen die Megalithen für den Menschen auf Nias
eine neue Bedeutung. Im Kontext der modernen
Gesellschaft verhelfen sie weniger zur Artikula-
tion denn zur Verortung der kulturellen Identi-
tät. Das bedeutet, dass heute Steine nicht mehr
errichtet werden müssen um kulturell zu han-
deln, sondern, dass sie da sind, um über Kultur
nachzudenken. Die Megalithkultur ist zu einem
historischen Phänomen und damit auch in den
Augen der Einwohner Nias zum Gegenstand der
subjektiven Bewertung geworden. Die Position der
Einheimischen und die des Kulturanthropologen
sind sich somit einen Schritt näher gekommen.
Gespräche über Kultur können von beiden Seiten
geführt werden, das haben uns die Gespräche auf
Nias gezeigt.
Die Bewertung von Kultur als eines histori-
schen Prozesses führt zwangsläufig zur subjektiven
Auswahl indikativer Kulturmerkmale. Dies gilt
auch für die Megalithkultur auf Nias, deren Merk-
male unter zeitgemäßen Gesichtspunkten ausgefil-
tert werden. Auf diese Weise treten weniger die
bleibenden als die neuen Werte zutage, welche
den Erhalt der Megalithkultur für die Zukunft si-
chern können. In diesem neuen Bewertungssystem
nehmen Kunst- und Denkmalspositionen der Me-
galithen den wichtigsten Raum ein - Positionen,
welche es m. E. ganz allgemein erfordern, im
geisteswissenschaftlichem Konzept von Megalith-
kulturen überdacht zu werden.
Das Projekt konnte Dank der finanziellen Unterstützung
der Fritz-Thyssen-Stiftung in Köln durchgeführt werden.
Für eine kritische Lektüre des Manuskripts sei P. Johan-
nes Hämmerle in Gunungsitoli/Nias herzlich gedankt.
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Indonesia in the Collections of the Barbier-Mueller
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Eberlein, Bernd
1998 Nias vor Sumatra-Indonesien. Reiseführer mit Landes-
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1990 The Importance of Gold Jewellery in Nias Culture. In:
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 119-140
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis
der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Abstract. - This article examines the political system of Yapese
society in the western Caroline Islands as well as the relation-
ship of gender-specific kinship and political groups in that area.
Rank, class, and status form the basis of the yapese “caste sys-
tem,” which is still alive today. The landowning patrilineages
and the council of chiefs are also powerful political institutions.
In contrast to these male-dominated groups the matriclans are
of a very different type (considering responsibilities, locality,
and spirituality). This article compares these two different types
of kinship groups and their way of exercising power as well
as analysing gender relations in Yapese society in general.
[Micronesia, Caroline Islands, Yap, power, kinship, political
system, gender]
Corinna Erckenbrecht, Dr. (1992), Studium der Ethnologie,
wissenschaftlichen Politik und Ur- und Frühgeschichtlichen
Archäologie an der Philipps-Universität Marburg und der Al-
bert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg. - Berufliche Tätigkeiten als
Ethnologin neben Fehre und Forschung sowie Erwachsenen-
bildung hauptsächlich im musealen Bereich (Rautenstrauch-
Joest-Museum für Völkerkunde, Köln). - Regionale Schwer-
punktforschungen in Ozeanien (Australien, Mikronesien); the-
matische Schwerpunkte: Geschlechterforschung, Religion, Ver-
wandtschaft. - Veröffentlichungen u. a.: Traumzeit. Die Re-
ligion der Ureinwohner Australiens (Freiburg 1998); s. auch
Zitierte Fiteratur.
1 Einleitung
Yap gehört mit seinen vier eng zusammenliegen-
den Hauptinseln und seinen fast ausschließlich
östlich gelegenen Außeninseln, von denen 11 be-
wohnt sind, zu der Inselgruppe der Karolinen im
Westpazifik. Insgesamt werden offiziell 134 Inseln
in bis zu 600 Meilen Entfernung zur Hauptinsel
Yap gezählt, die meisten von ihnen kleine bis
kleinste Korallenatolle. Sie alle zusammen bilden
den Staat Yap, der seit 1978 gemeinsam mit den
Einzelstaaten Chuuk (Truk), Pohnpei (Ponape) und
Kosrae zu den Föderierten Staaten von Mikro-
nesien zusammengeschlossen ist. Die vier Haupt-
inseln (“Yap Proper”), die vermutlich vulkanischen
Ursprungs sind, werden von einem schützenden
Saumriff umgeben.1 Innerhalb des Saumriffs lie-
gen außerdem die kleinen Inseln Tarang1 2, Pekel,
Bi(y) und Garim.3
Die vier eng aneinander liegenden Hauptinseln,
die nur durch schmale, teils künstliche Kanäle von-
einander getrennt liegen, sind Yap, Gagil/Tamil
(auch Tomil), Maap und Rumung, von denen Ru-
mung die kleinste und abgeschiedenste Insel ist.4
1 Manchen Quellen zufolge wird Yap auch als die höchste
Erhebung eines unterseeischen Bergrückens angesehen. An-
gaben zu diesem Punkt variieren mitunter je nach Quelle.
Vgl. z. B. die verschiedenen Intemetpräsentationen Yaps
(beginnend bei der offiziellen Website des “FSM Visitors
Board”), die dazu jeweils unterschiedliche Aussagen ma-
chen.
2 Diese Insel war vor der Jahrhundertwende das Heim des
irischstämmigen Seefahrers und Koprahändlers David Dean
O’Keefe, der seinerzeit entscheidenden Einfluß auf den
Steingeldhandel der Yapesen ausübte (vgl. z. B. Klingman
and Green 1993).
3 Die bekanntesten “Outer Islands” sind Ulithi, Woleai und
Fais, für die auch einzelne ethnologische Forschungen
vorliegen.
4 Die Bewohner von Rumung haben sich durch das Zerstören
einer verbindenden Brücke von den übrigen yapesischen
Inselteilen abgeschottet, um ihre Traditionen vor westlicher
Modernisierung zu schützen. Ein Besuch dort ist nur mög-
120
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Alle Landesteile zusammen bilden eine Landfläche
von 101 km2 * * und beherbergen rund 10 000 Ein-
wohner, was mehr als zwei Dritteln der Gesamt-
bevölkerung des Inselstaates entspricht. Haupt-
ort ist Colonia, der als Einkaufs- und Verwal-
tungszentrum gilt, und auch schon deutschen wie
japanischen Kolonialherren als Hauptsitz diente.
Colonia liegt an der Chamorro Bay, einer kleinen
Bucht, die nach den Einwohnern von Saipan in den
Marianen, den Chamorro, benannt ist, welche in
der deutschen Kolonialzeit zur Arbeit an der trans-
pazifischen Kabelstation hierher gebracht worden
waren. Abgesehen von der Hauptstadt Colonia lebt
die überwiegende Zahl der yapesischen Einwohner
in kleinen Dörfern, die an den Küstenrändern der
Inseln verteilt liegen. Im Gegensatz zu dieser von
über 100 Dörfern malerisch gesäumten Küstenlinie
ist das Innere des Landes größtenteils unbewohnt,
da es aus unfruchtbarem Boden besteht.5 Wirt-
schaftlich ist der Fischfang und der Anbau von
Taro von herausragender Bedeutung, aber auch
Yams, Süßkartoffel, Brotfrucht, Kokospalme und
Banane sowie die Schweinehaltung tragen zum
Lebensunterhalt bei. Besonders wichtig ist die
Betelnuß, die überall auf Yap wächst, und die von
allen Yapesen gleich welchen Alters mit Hingabe
gekaut wird.6
In ihrer eigenen Sprache bezeichnen die Ya-
pesen ihr Land als Wa’ap, was auch heute noch
geläufig ist. Es wird vielfach in Veröffentlichun-
gen, Broschüren, Landkarten so oder auch Waqap
geschrieben. Die Bezeichnung “Yap” geht nach
einer Überlieferung auf ein frühes Mißverständnis
lieh, wenn man Verwandte hat, die einen einladen oder mit
hinübernehmen. Unter den Jugendlichen von Rumung, die
Telefon, Femsehanschluß und Videogeräte wünschen, stößt
diese selbstgewählte Isolation auf Widerstand.
5 Unbesiedelt heißt jedoch nicht besitzerlos. Selbst der un-
bedeutendste, unfruchtbarste Flecken Erde ist auf Yap im
Besitz einer bestimmten Patrilineage oder einer Einzelper-
son.
6 Jeder, ob Mann oder Frau, trägt stets ein Täschchen bei sich,
das die nötigen Utensilien enthält: Betelnüsse, einen Behäl-
ter mit Kalkpulver und Blätter vom Pfefferstrauch. Ältere
Menschen benutzen zusätzlich noch einen Stößel (pounder),
um die harte Betelnuß etwas zu zerstampfen oder zu zer-
drücken, bevor sie gekaut wird. Das Kauen der Betelnuß hat
eine leicht berauschende, aber auch leicht phlegmatisch
machende Wirkung. Bei sozialen, aber auch politischen
Ereignissen wie etwa den Dorfversammlungen spielt die
Betelnuß eine große Rolle. Führen lange Diskussionen zu
keinem Ergebnis oder finden sich keine Lösungen für ein
Problem, so wendet man sich der Tasche (basket) zu und es
wird erst einmal gemeinsam Betelnuß gekaut. Danach wird
sich schon eine Lösung finden lassen, so die Einstellung der
Yapesen. Daher die allgemeine Redewendung “The wisdom
is in the basket”: des Rätsels Lösung, die große Weisheit -
sie ist in der Betelnuß-Tasche zu finden.
zurück, bei dem ankommende Fremde die Yapesen
nach dem Namen ihrer Insel fragten und dabei auf
das Land zeigten. Die Yapesen in ihren Booten
interpretierten diese Handbewegungen als Frage
nach ihren (hochgehaltenen) Paddeln und antwor-
teten mit “Yap”, das einheimische Wort für Paddel.
Auf Yap selbst werden heutzutage neben Eng-
lisch fünf Sprachen gesprochen: yapesisch, fais,
ulithisch, woleai und satawalesisch. Bedingt durch
innerkarolinische Migrationsbewegungen hört man
auf Yap auch chuukesisch, palauisch, ponapesisch
oder, seltener, das marianische Chamorro. Etliche
ältere Yapesen sprechen außerdem japanisch.
Auffälligstes Merkmal der yapesischen Kultur,
das auch über die Landesgrenzen hinaus bekannt
ist, ist das Steingeld. Die bis über Mannshöhe
großen Aragonitscheiben mit meist einem, in sel-
tenen Fällen auch zwei Löchern, wurden in der
Vergangenheit im 400 Kilometer entfernten Pa-
lau in den dortigen “Bergwerken” in den Rock
Islands abgebaut. Diese vormünzlichen Zahlungs-
mittel dienten und dienen im praktischen Sinn als
Ausgleichszahlungen und Dienstleistungen, im all-
gemeinen symbolisieren sie aber Macht, Prestige
und Reichtum ihrer Eigentümer.7 Dörfer sowie
Einzelpersonen können Steingeld besitzen, das gut
sichtbar vor einzelnen Häusern, in den Dörfern
entlang der Männer- oder Versammlungshäuser,
als sogenannte “Steingeldbanken” aufgereiht ist.
Bis in die 90er Jahre unseres Jh.s wurde das
Steingeld auch von modernen Banken wie der
“Bank of Hawaii” als Sicherheit akzeptiert.
In einem vorkolonialen Zeitraum, der heute
nicht mehr genau eingrenzbar ist, bestand ein
weites Netz an Wirtschafts- und Kulturkontakten
im westpazifischen Raum, dessen politisches und
wirtschaftliches Zentrum Yap war. Man spricht
von einem “Yap Empire”, das den yapesischen
Einflußbereich im Osten bis weit in die Zentralka-
rolinen, im Westen und Norden bis zu den Philip-
pinen und nach Japan ausgedehnt haben soll. Die
Tatsache, daß den Einwohnern von Yap trotz sehr
langer und wechselvoller Kolonialzeit ihr Land
noch selbst gehört und sie über politische Souve-
ränität mit einer eigenen Regierung verfügen, trägt
zu einem unterschwelligen kulturellen und natio-
nalen Stolz bei. Auch ihre kulturellen Traditionen,
die sich, wie die Yapesen stets betonen, von denen
der Nachbarinseln deutlich unterscheiden und sich
weniger schnell ändern als dort, tragen mit zu
dem Gefühl bei, etwas Besonderes zu sein. Nicht
umsonst gilt Yap als die Kultur der Westkaroli-
7 Für die beste aktuelle Zusammenstellung zu dem Thema
Steingeld siehe Lautz 1999.
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
121
nen, die am beharrlichsten an ihren traditionellen
Werten festgehalten hat und Wandel nur langsam,
eingebettet in traditionelle Strukturen, zugelassen
hat.
Die Karolinen, darunter auch Yap und Ulithi,
wurden im 16. Jh. von portugiesischen und spani-
schen Seefahrern entdeckt. 1686 begann offiziell
die spanische Kolonialzeit in den Karolinen, die
nach dem damals amtierenden König Karl II. von
Spanien ihren Namen erhielten. De facto blieb die
spanische Kolonialherrschaft, die sich insgesamt
mehr auf die Marianen und Guam konzentrierte,
jedoch über lange Zeit relativ wirkungslos auf
die Lebens- und Wirtschaftsweise der Yapesen.
Einflußreich in wirtschaftlicher Hinsicht waren die
Deutschen, die 1869 den ersten permanenten Sitz
des Hamburger Handelshauses Godeffroy unter
Leitung von Alfred Tetens auf Yap errichteten.
Das wichtigste Handelsprodukt war Kopra. 1874
proklamierte Spanien offiziell die politische Ober-
hoheit über Yap, woraufhin die Deutschen 1876
ein Kriegsboot in die Region entsandten, um ihre
Interessen zu wahren. Als die deutsch-spanischen
Auseinandersetzungen um Yap eskalierten, vermit-
telte Papst Leo XIII 1886 eine Einigung zwischen
Bismarck und dem spanischen König: Yap und die
Karolinen wurden politisch Spanien zugesprochen,
jedoch mit weitreichenden Handelsmöglichkeiten
für die Deutschen.
Im Jahr 1899, als Spanien infolge des spanisch-
amerikanischen Krieges finanziell ruiniert war,
wurde die Inselgruppe an Deutschland verkauft,
und die deutsche Kolonialzeit auf Yap begann.
Sie äußerte sich in neuen Maßnahmen hinsichtlich
der Infrastruktur (Kanal- und Straßenbau, Anlage
von Wehrtürmen) und des Wirtschaftssektors, wo-
bei der Koprahandel weiterhin die herausragende
Rolle spielte. Geostrategische Bedeutung erhielt
Yap außerdem durch die wichtige transpazifische
Kabelstation, die 1905 fertiggestellt wurde. Ein
besonderer Dom im Auge der Kolonialherren war
der Steingeldhandel und die Steingeldfahrten der
Yapesen, in denen die Deutschen keinen rationalen
Sinn entdecken konnten. Sie versuchten, den Stein-
geldhandel zu unterbinden und die Yapesen zur
Kopraproduktion anzuhalten, was ihnen jedoch nur
teilweise und nur unter Zuhilfenahme drastischer
Erpressungsmaßnahmen gelang.8
8 Berühmt-berüchtigt war die Aktion der Deutschen, die
Steingelder durch die Bemalung mit den Buchstaben “K.B.”
(für Kaiserliches Bezirksamt) in den Augen der Yapesen zu
entwerten, und die Bezeichnung erst wieder zu entfernen,
wenn die Yapesen ausreichend Kopra lieferten.
Zu Beginn des Ersten Weltkrieges 1914 besetz-
ten die Japaner Yap und erhielten die Insel 1919
durch die Versailler Verträge als Völkerbundman-
dat übereignet. Damit ging Yap ab 1920 faktisch
in japanisches Kolonial- und Verwaltungsgebiet
über, und die einheimische Bevölkerung kam mit
der japanischen Kultur und Sprache in Berührung.
Diese Kolonialepoche zog eine zahlenmäßig starke
japanische Besiedlung der Hauptinseln Yaps und
eine intensive landwirtschaftliche Bebauung nach
sich. Phasenweise lebten bis zu 100 000 Japaner
in Mikronesien, wohingegen die Zahl der einhei-
mischen Insulaner nur 40 000 betrug. Die neu-
en Kolonialherren betrieben eine intensive tropi-
sche Landwirtschaft und bauten u. a. auch Zucker-
rohr an. Zudem wurden Phosphat und Bauxit ab-
gebaut.
Im Jahr 1945, nach dem Sieg der Amerikaner
im Pazifik, ging Mikronesien treuhänderisch in
US-amerikanische bzw. in einigen Teilen in die
Verwaltung der Vereinten Nationen über (“Trust
Territory of the Pacific Islands”, abgekürzt auch
“TTPI”). Ab 1947 gehörten die Karolinen offiziell
zu den “U.S. Trust Territories”. Die Inselstaaten
Yap, Chuuk, Pohnpei und Kosrae ratifizierten 1978
die Konstitution der Föderierten Staaten von Mi-
kronesien (’’Federated States of Micronesia”, im
folgenden auch “FSM”) und haben seit 1979 ihre
eigene gewählte Volksvertretung (Kongreß) und
Regierung. 1982 Unterzeichneten die Vertreter der
FSM zusätzlich einen “Compact of Free Associa-
tion” mit den USA. Es handelt sich also bei den
Föderierten Staaten von Mikronesien mit seinen
607 Inseln und einer Landfläche von rund 700 km2
um einen relativ jungen Bundesstaat mit begrenz-
ter Unabhängigkeit, der von seiner Staatsverfas-
sung her - und auch in seiner ideellen Ausrichtung
- an den USA orientiert ist.
Die Karolinen und insbesondere Yap haben in
der deutschsprachigen ethnologischen Forschung
eine eher geringe Rolle gespielt, obwohl es sich
um ein ehemaliges deutsches Kolonialgebiet han-
delt, in das neben anderen Zielen die Hambur-
ger Südsee-Expedition führte (1908-1910). Hat-
te diese Expedition im ersten Jahr hauptsäch-
lich Melanesien mit Neu-Pommern (das heutige
Neubritannien), der St.-Mathias-Gruppe und den
Admiralitäts-Inseln aufgesucht, so widmete man
sich ab Mitte des Jahres 1909 verstärkt dem mi-
kronesischen Inselbereich. Wilhelm Müller (Wis-
mar) (1881-1916) verbrachte im Rahmen dieser
Expedition neun Monate auf Yap und trug sei-
ne Ergebnisse in zwei Bänden zusammen, die
als die erste zusammenhängende wissenschaftliche
Monographie über Yap bezeichnet werden kann.
Anthropos 96.2001
122
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Hans Fischer (1981: 70) charakterisierte sie daher
auch als “eine der besten Publikationen in den
‘Ergebnissen der Südsee-Expedition”’.
Die beiden Bände, die 1917, d. h. ein Jahr
nach Müllers frühzeitigem Tod auf Java veröffent-
licht wurden, enthalten eine Vielzahl ethnologisch
und linguistisch interessanter Informationen, die
auch heute noch als Hintergrundmaterial heran-
gezogen werden können. Müllers Werke sind auf
Yap heute noch bekannt, obgleich eine komplette
englischsprachige Übersetzung fehlt, und es wird
immer wieder nach ihm und seinen Büchern ge-
fragt. Ausschnitte aus den beiden Bänden kur-
sieren als fotokopierte Texte auf Yap, wobei die
Illustrationen von Dorfanlagen, Hausdekora-
tionen oder Tatauierungsmustern besonders be-
gehrt sind.
Auch frühere ethnographische bzw. koloniale
Quellen wie zum Beispiel die von Arno Senfft
(1900, 1903, 1904, 1905, 1906, 1907), dem deut-
schen Bezirksamtmann auf Yap, oder von Jo-
hann Stanislaus Kubary (1880, 1885, 1889, 1895;
zus. mit A. Tetens 1873), dem polnischstämmigen
Ethnographen und Verbindungsmann für das deut-
sche Handelshaus Godeffroy in Mikronesien, er-
brachten viel ethnographisches Material, das Mül-
ler zum Teil miteinbezog und diskutierte. Während
der deutschen Kolonialzeit hat es davon abgese-
hen jedoch keine nennenswerten ethnologischen
Arbeiten über Yap gegeben. Etliche Studien aus
der heutigen Zeit, die als ergänzendes Quellen-
material herangezogen werden können, beleuchten
die deutsche Kolonialzeit in den Karolinen aus
historischer Sicht (so z. B. Ballendorf et. al. 1991;
Ballendorf 1996; Hempenstall 1978).
Die US-amerikanische Dominanz im Westpa-
zifik nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg führte zu er-
sten ethnologischen Aktivitäten von amerikani-
scher Seite in Gestalt der “Coordinated Investi-
gation of Micronesian Anthropology” (CIMA).9
David M. Schneider (1918-1995), später als ein-
flußreicher Theoretiker der Verwandtschaftsethno-
logie an der Universität von Chicago international
bekannt, war einer der ersten, der bereits in den
40er - hier im Rahmen von CIMA - und in
den 50er Jahren ethnologische Forschungen auf
Yap betrieb. Er widmete sich vor allem demo-
graphischen, aber auch verwandtschaftsethnologi-
schen und soziostrukturellen Fragestellungen. Da-
vid Labby, ein weiterer US-amerikanischer Wis-
senschaftler, der auf Yap forschte, beschäftigte sich
ebenfalls mit verwandtschaftsethnologischen und
9 Einen interessanten wissenschaftlichen Rückblick auf diese
Zeit bieten Kiste und Marshall 1999.
zum Teil auch gesellschaftspolitischen Themen.
Das bedeutendste Werk zur Analyse der yapesi-
schen Gesellschaft aus neuerer Zeit stammt von
Sherwood G. Lingenfelter, einem amerikanischen
Ethnologen, der Ende der 60er Jahre (und Ende
der 70er Jahre) zusammen mit seiner Familie meh-
rere Jahre auf Yap lebte und intensive Forschun-
gen zu verwandtschaftsethnologischen, soziopo-
litischen und akkulturativen Fragen betrieb. Er
veröffentlichte seine umfangreichen Ergebnisse in
dem Buch “Yap: Political Leadership and Culture
Change in an Island Society” (1975) - eine Pu-
blikation, die heute noch vor Ort als die “Bibel
von Yap” bezeichnet wird.10 Später publizierte er
Forschungsergebnisse über die Auswirkungen der
US-amerikanischen Verwaltung und des typisch
amerikanischen Lebensstils auf die gesellschaft-
liche Situation Yaps, wobei er insbesondere die
gewandelten Rollenvorstellungen bezüglich Ehe
und Familie untersuchte.
Trotz ethnologischer Beschäftigung mit der
gesellschaftspolitischen Struktur Yaps lassen alle
genannten Autoren eine konkrete Korrelation
zwischen der politischen Struktur und dem Ge-
schlechterverhältnis in ihren Werken vermissen.
Die bedeutendsten Veröffentlichungen von Schnei-
der, Labby und Lingenfelter, die sich ausführlich
mit der Sozialstruktur der yapesischen Gesell-
schaft auseinandersetzen und auf längeren Feld-
forschungsaufenthalten beruhen, verweisen nur
an ganz wenigen Stellen auf die matrilinearen
Abstammungs- und Verwandtschaftsgruppen als
solche und die Rolle der Frauen innerhalb dieser
Strukturen. Eindeutig liegt bei allen Autoren der
Schwerpunkt eher auf einer Untersuchung der
soziopolitischen Struktur der Gesellschaft und der
Klärung des komplizierten Systems von Rang und
Status sowohl unter Dörfern bzw. Landesteilen
von Yap als auch unter Einzelpersonen sowie
Familien. Allenfalls wird in strukturalistischer Ma-
nier auf yapesische Frauen in ihrer gesellschafts-
weiten Austauschfunktion hingewiesen (vgl. vor
allem Labby 1976).
Ein Grund dafür mag sein - so viel sei hier
vorangestellt -, daß der Dreh- und Angelpunkt
des politischen Rangsystems der Landbesitz ist,
nach dessen Größe, Lage und Qualität jedweder
gesellschaftlicher Status von Einzelpersonen, Fa-
milien und Lineages bemessen wurde und wird.
Da Frauen, abgesehen von einzelnen Tarofeldern
oder Kokospalmen und dem Grund und Boden,
auf denen diese wachsen, in der Regel kein Land
10 Mündliche Mitteilung C. Mugunbey 10.08.1999, Wynyan,
Yap.
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
123
in größerem Maß stab besitzen können - denn dies
ist stets Grappeneigentum der Patrilineage sind
sie, so scheint es zumindest bei diesen Autoren,
aus dem politischen Rangsystem als Akteure aus-
geschlossen.
Wenden wir uns daher einer konkreten Quel-
lenanalyse zu, die die relevanten ethnosoziologi-
schen wie gynozentrischen Forschungsergebnisse
vorstellt und die matrilinearen Deszendenzgruppen
sowie deren Einflußbereiche im Gegensatz zu den
landbesitzenden Patrilineages herausarbeitet.
2 Themenspezifische Quellenanalyse
Die erste zusammenhängende ethnologische Ar-
beit über Yap wurde, wie bereits erwähnt, von
Wilhelm Müller durchgeführt und 1917 publiziert.
Müller lebte vom 18. Juni 1909 bis zum 09. April
1910 auf Yap und unternahm in dieser Zeit um-
fangreiche ethnographische Studien. Sie reichen
von akribischen Beschreibungen der materiellen
Kultur inklusive Skizzen, Karten und Fotografien
bis hin zur Aufzeichnung oral tradierter Mythen
und Legenden. Seine linguistischen Studien, in
denen er das Vokabular, die Grammatik und die
Etymologie der yapesischen Sprache erforschte,
sind ebenfalls herauszuheben. Bei seinen eigenen
Forschungen war er stets um Vergleiche, Richtig-
stellungen und Querverweise zu linguistischen und
ethnologischen Arbeiten anderer Autoren bemüht,
um dadurch ein exakteres, fehlerfreieres Bild der
yapesischen Sprache und Gesellschaft zu erhal-
ten.11
Bei seiner Arbeitsweise vor Ort, die im Gegen-
satz zu der extensiven swrvey-Methode des ersten
Flamburger Expeditionsjahrs bereits einer statio-
nären Feldforschung glich, stützte sich Wilhelm
Müller hauptsächlich auf die Vertreter der einhei-
mischen “geistige[n] Elite” (1917: viii), die er als
Informanten gewinnen wollte. Vier hochgestellte
Persönlichkeiten im Rang von “Oberpriestern” und
“Häuptlingen” (viii) waren bereit, mit ihm zusam-
menzuarbeiten.11 12 Es befand sich keine Frau in
11 Dabei bezog er sich auf die ihm zur Verfügung stehende
Literatur von Christian (1899), Hernsheim (1883), Miklu-
cho-Maclay (1877, 1878), Salesius (1906), Senfft (1903,
1905, 1907) und Volkens (1901); siehe auch Literaturliste
in Müller 1917.
12 Die auf Yap zu dieser Zeit tätige Kapuziner Mission stellte
ihm außerdem einen Übersetzer zur Verfügung, der auch
bei den Niederschriften und Transkriptionen der Lied- und
Mythentexte helfen sollte. Müllers eigene Kenntnisse der
yapesischen Sprache waren jedoch so weit entwickelt,
daß er seinen Übersetzer kontrollieren und die Antworten
meist ohne Rückübersetzung verstehen konnte.
seinem Informantenkreis, die ihm über das Leben,
die Tätigkeiten und die Entscheidungsbefugnisse
von Frauen auf Yap zu jener Zeit hätte berich-
ten können, obgleich Müller sich auch bemühte,
gelegentlich Stellungnahmen über das Leben der
Frauen und ihre Arbeit in seine Ausführungen
einzuflechten.
Während die Darstellung der materiellen Kul-
tur und die Transkription oraler Literatur, die
den zweiten Band von Müllers Veröffentlichun-
gen füllen, ein exzellentes Zeugnis seiner um-
fangreichen ethnolinguistischen Forschungen ab-
geben,13 so sind die ethno soziologischen Darbie-
tungen aus heutiger Sicht eher dürftig. Das Ka-
pitel über “Gesellschaft und Familie” (216-274)
beginnt z. B. recht unvermittelt mit einem Ab-
schnitt über Totemismus, ohne dieses religiöse wie
soziale Phänomen überhaupt zu erklären. Auch
die weiteren Teile über Familie, Ehe und z. B.
“Hetärentum” fallen recht knapp aus. Hinweise
auf die soziale Stellung der Frauen in der yape-
sischen Gesellschaft finden sich nur versteckt in
gänzlich anderen Kapiteln wie z. B. in Kapitel III.
“Gewerbe und Handel - 1. Arbeit und Handwerk”
(92 ff.), das - ebenfalls sehr unvermittelt - mit der
Überschrift “Stellung der Frau” beginnt, oder dem
kurzen Abschnitt über die “Dauer der Ehe” (229).
In beiden Fällen scheint es Müller ein Anliegen
zu sein, die bis dato äußerst negativ beurteilte Stel-
lung der Frau in ein ausgeglicheneres Verhältnis zu
setzen. Einige kurze Auszüge aus diesen Kapiteln,
die auch die Denk- und Ausdrucksweise jener Zeit
veranschaulichen, mögen dies belegen:
Sowohl von Senfft [1903) wie von P. Salesius [1906]
und auch von Volkens [1901] wird die Frau als die
eigentliche Arbeiterin auf Yap hingestellt. Vor allem
P. Salesius schildert die Stellung des Weibes in den
schwärzesten Farben. Mir scheint diese Behauptung vor
einer vorurteilsfreien Beobachtung nicht standzuhalten.
Überarbeitet haben sich vermutlich, solange die Insel
bevölkert ist, weder ein Yapmann noch eine Yapfrau.
... Das Verhältnis zwischen den Arbeitsleistungen der
beiden Geschlechter liegt vielmehr so, daß der Frau im
wesentlichen die Sorge um die alltäglichen Bedürfnisse
der Familie zufällt, während die Tätigkeiten der Männer
weit differenzierter sind und ihre Erzeugnisse, einmal
hervorgebracht, einen längeren Zeitraum überdauern
können. Ohne weiteres ist aber zuzugeben, daß die
13 Dies ist auch heute noch insofern interessant, als einige
Gesänge, die die yapesischen Tänze begleiten, sprach-
geschichtlich so alt sind, daß die Menschen, die diese
Liedtexte heute singen, sie inhaltlich nicht mehr verstehen
können (Tanzaufführungen am 14.08.1999 in Colonia und
mdl. Mitteilung J. Fillmed 7.8.1999, Colonia, Yap).
Anthropos 96.2001
124
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Berührung mit der europäischen Kultur, vor allem die
Einführung eisernen Handwerkszeuges, weit mehr den
Männern als den Frauen Nutzen und Erleichterungen
gebracht hat (92).
Über die Stellung der Frau in der Ehe schreibt
Müller (229):
Über die Dauerhaftigkeit der Ehe und über die Stellung
der Frau innerhalb der ehelichen Gemeinschaft sind die
härtesten Urteile gefällt worden, deren Berechtigung
ich für den ersteren Punkt nur nach großen Abstrichen
unterschreiben kann, für den letzteren aber durchaus
bestreiten muß. Die Yap-Ehen sind genau so glücklich
und genau so haltbar wie anderswo auch.
Dies sind fast schon die einzigen Textstellen,
in denen sich Müller mit der Situation der yapesi-
schen Frauen und dem Verhältnis der Geschlechter
auseinandersetzt. Er fällt ein eher allgemeines,
zusammenfassendes Urteil, das auf seinen Beob-
achtungen im Laufe des gesamten Aufenthaltes
beruht. Tiefergehende Untersuchungen und ge-
zielte Ermittlungen zu den Themen Geschlechter-
beziehungen und Geschlechterstatus hat er jedoch
nicht angestellt, so daß seine Ausführungen eher
als ein Stimmungsbild zu betrachten sind denn
als ein nachprüfbares Ergebnis selbst ermittelter
Aussagen.
2.1 David Schneiders “doppelte Deszendenz”
Nach Beendigung der deutschen sowie der japa-
nischen14 Kolonialzeit in den Karolinen im Jahre
1945 ging Yap treuhänderisch in US-Verwaltung
über und wurde 1947 offiziell zum “US Trust
Territory of the Pacific Islands” erklärt. David
M. Schneider führte von 1947 bis 1948 im Rah-
men des Forschungsprogramms CIMA, das vom
“Pacific Science Board of the National Research
Council” finanziert wurde und mit Unterstützung
des Peabody Museums der Flarvard University
stattfand, seine Feldforschung auf Yap durch. In
der Folge publizierte er zahlreiche Studien über
die yapesische Gesellschaft (1949, 1953, 1955,
1957, 1962, 1967, o. J.), die von einer detaillierten
Kenntnis und einem hohen theoretischen Niveau
zeugen. Während sich seine kürzeren Abhandlun-
gen mit demographischen und gesundheitspo-
litischen Faktoren beschäftigten - Yap erlebte
14 Ethnologisches Material aus der japanischen Kolonialzeit
ist so gut wie nicht vorhanden. Erst in den 80er Jahren
dieses Jh.s ist eine entsprechende Forschungs- und Publi-
kationstätigkeit zu verzeichnen (vgl. Aoyagi 1982; Atsushi
1980; Ushijima 1986, 1987).
während und nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg eine
Zeit des dramatischen Bevölkerungsrückgangs-,
konzentrierten sich seine größeren Werke auf die
soziopolitischen Strukturen der yapesischen Ge-
sellschaft. Er führte insbesondere den Zusammen-
hang zwischen den patrilinearen Lineages und den
matrilinearen Sibs (bzw. Clans) aus und sprach
von einer doppelten Deszendenz {double descent)
auf Yap (1962). Dabei wertete er die matrilineare
Deszendenz gegenüber der patrilinearen insofern
auf, als er ersterer, also der matrilinearen Seite,
eine größere Bedeutung durch die gegebene und
allgemein anerkannte biologische Verwandtschaft
beimaß. Schneider (1962:6 f.) führte dazu wie
folgt aus:
Where the patrilineage is in no sense a group related
by biological ties, or ties believed to be biological,
matriclan members are explicitly related through ties
which are held to be of biological nature. The biolog-
ical relationship of clansmen is based on the belief in
common descent from a particular founding ancestress,
and the immediate connection with that ancestress is, of
course, “demonstrably” through the mother.
Schneider schränkt die seiner Meinung nach
ausschließlich biologisch relevante Verwandtschaft
innerhalb der Matriclans zwar etwas ein (z. B.
beim Thema der Adoption), sieht in ihnen aber
immer noch einen stärkeren inneren Gruppenzu-
sammenhalt als bei den Patrilineages, obgleich
Matriclans keine räumlich faßbare Einheit dar-
stellten. Eine Patrilineage charakterisiert Schnei-
der hingegen als in erster Linie durch einen ge-
meinsamen sakral legitimierten Ahnen bzw. einen
“ancestral ghost” (1962: 13 f.) miteinander ver-
bunden. Sie stelle vor allem eine landbesitzende
Einheit (property Holding unit) dar, deren räumli-
che Ausweitung auf die Dorfgrenzen beschränkt
sei (1962: 13). Innerhalb eines Dorfes existierten
mehrere Patrilineages, die bestimmte Landanteile
(aber auch See-, Riff- und Fischrechte) jeweils für
sich beanspruchten. Der “ancestral ghost”, durch
den sich ihre Mitglieder miteinander verbunden
fühlten, sei einzig bezogen auf die jeweilige Pa-
trilineage, so daß er auch nur für die Zwecke
dieser Patrilineage agieren könne, also personell
und räumlich eine klar umrissene Funktion habe.
Der Matriclan hingegen sei nicht räumlich orga-
nisiert. Er beziehe sich auf blutsverwandte Mitglie-
der, die aufgrund der herrschenden Patrilokalität
in verschiedenen Landesteilen wohnen könnten,
zumindest aber auf verschiedene Dörfer verteilt
seien. In einem Schaubild (Abb. 1) dargestellt er-
geben sich für Patrilineages und Matriclans fol-
gende räumliche Strukturen:
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
Abb. 1: Räumliche Verteilung der Patrilineages und Matriclans
(nach Schneider 1962: 13 f.; © C. Erckenbrecht 1999).
Patrilineages sind also bei David Schneider
sakral legitimierte Abstammungsgruppen, die lo-
kal fixiert sind und innerhalb einer Dorfeinheit
existieren und agieren. Sie sind fest an das Land
gebunden, das ihnen gehört, und das ihren sozia-
len Status und ihre Rangzugehörigkeit innerhalb
des Dorfes und der Gesamtgesellschaft auf der
Insel definiert. Insofern haben Patrilineages eine
ähnliche Struktur wie die allgemeine politische
Organisationsform auf Yap, wie Schneider betont.
Rang, Status und Kastenzugehörigkeit bestimmten
den sozialen Status aller Menschen, ihrer Familien,
der Lineages und Dörfer auf der gesamten Insel
und werden durch den Landbesitz definiert. Dem-
zufolge werden bestimmte Lineages zu führenden
politischen Gruppen bzw. deren Vertreter zu den
vorrangigen politischen Akteuren (= chiefs). Aus
ihnen bilde sich der Rat der Häuptlinge (council of
pilung). Die einzelnen chiefs agierten entsprechend
zum Vorteil ihrer eigenen Lineage oder ihres ei-
genen Dorfes, so wie die Mitglieder einer Lineage
stets nur in ihrem eigenen Interesse handelten, und
hätten nicht unbedingt das Wohlergehen der ge-
samten Gemeinschaft, über Dorf- und Ranggren-
zen hinweg, im Auge. Sie seien in erster Linie von
dem alles bestimmenden Rang- und Statusdenken
auf Yap getragen (Schneider 1962: 13 ff.).
Einen ganz anderen Charakter haben nach
Schneider hingegen die Matriclans, die völlig un-
abhängig von Rang- und Statusdenken aufgebaut
seien und in ganz anderer Art und Weise funktio-
nierten. Sie fassten konzeptionell alle Mitglieder
zusammen, die aus ein und derselben mütterlichen
Linie stammten. Dies werde mit der Redewendung
umschrieben “we are of the same belly” oder, wie
es mir selbst gegenüber auf Yap geäußert wurde,
“we are the same blood”.15
Laut Schneider (1962:6) gab es zur Zeit sei-
nes Forschungsaufenthalts 30 bis 40 mit Namen
15 Mündliche Mitteilung A. Marlee 15.8.1999, Kadai, Yap.
125
versehene, exogame matrilineare Clans (genung),
die sich auf eine weibliche Schöpferfigur oder
Kulturheroin (founding ancestress) bezogen. Es
wird auch erwähnt, daß ein genauer Ursprungsort
benannt werden könne, aus dem der Mythologie
zufolge diese Kulturheroin herstamme und daher
auch der Matriclan dort seinen sakralen Mittel-
punkt besitze. Dies könnte uns Hinweise auf die
zumindest ideelle Bewertung der weiblichen Linie
bzw. der Matriclans geben, die demnach nicht
nur sozial, sondern auch sakral in der yapesischen
Gesellschaft und Werteordnung verankert wären.
Entscheidend für Matriclans ist laut Schneider dar-
über hinaus, daß sie ihren Mitgliedern Solidarität
und Hilfe zukommen ließen, und zwar unabhängig
von deren Rangposition; d. h. sie übernähmen eine
Funktion, die die Patrilineage nicht leiste bzw.
nicht leisten könne, denn die Mitglieder einer
Patrilineage seien untereinander ungleich insofern,
als sie in ihrer Rangposition exakt voneinander
abgestuft seien und jeweils unterschiedliche Posi-
tionen einnähmen. Ihr Verhalten untereinander sei
daher von entsprechenden Respektsbezeugungen
geprägt und habe eher formellen Charakter. Ganz
anders das Verhalten der Mitglieder im Matriclan,
so Schneider (1962: 21):
The essence of matrilineal kinship on Yap is that of
solidarity and loyalty unqualified by considerations of
rank. The symbols of such solidarity and loyalty are
those of common descent, expressed in the phrase ‘we
are of the same belly’ ...
Weiterhin bleibt aber zu bedenken, daß die ein-
zelnen Personen in gleichem Maße Mitglied eines
Matriclans wie auch Mitglied der Patrilineage sind
und bleiben. Für die Frauen schildert Schneider
(1962: 9) diesen Zusammenhang so:
... that a woman belongs to the patrilineage of her
birth and retains rights in it whether she marries or not,
whether she has children or not, and that by virtue of
her rights and her close connection with her children,
the children are therefore “close” to her brother and the
land which he uses. It is said that a woman is “born of
the land” just as a man is, and that this is the essence
of her right to make claim on her brother’s food and
land ...
Das komplexe Wechselverhältnis zwischen Ge-
schlechtszugehörigkeit, Deszendenz, Wohnfolge-
regelung, Land und Landbesitz sowie Rang und
Status wird in diesen Ausführungen deutlich. Wäh-
rend die Struktur der Patrilineages und die Struktur
des politischen Systems auf Yap sich auffallend
ähneln, wie hier gut ersichtlich, stellen die matrili-
nearen Clans ein grundsätzlich anderes Ordnungs-
system dar (Schneider 1962: 19). Schneider sagt
Anthropos 96.2001
126
Corinna Erckenbrecht
einführend daher auch, daß das Vorhandensein
eines Verwandtschaftss^teras innerhalb einer Ge-
sellschaft nicht unbedingt bedeute, daß auch nur
eine Kategorie von Verwandtschaftsgrade« auf-
treten müsse, sondern es auch gänzlich andere
Typen von Verwandtschafts- oder Abstammungs-
gruppen innerhalb dieses Systems geben könne
(1962: 1).
Bei seiner sehr detaillierten Analyse wird expli-
zit nichts über die soziale Stellung und die politi-
sche Macht der Frauen selbst innerhalb dieses Sy-
stems gesagt. Dies muß mißtrauisch stimmen, denn
Matriclans können ja durchaus auch Verwandt-
schaftsgruppen sein, in denen sich wiederum die
Männer zusammenfinden. Tatsächlich ist in allen
genannten Publikationen die soziale und politische
Rolle von Frauen innerhalb der und in Bezug auf
diese Abstammungs- und Verwandtschaftsgruppen
ausgeklammert. Das Leben der Yapesinnen bzw.
ihre strukturellen (Deszendenzgruppen) und so-
zialen (Familie, Frauenhaus) Zusammenschlüsse
werden in der verwandtschaftsethnologischen Li-
teratur kaum bis gar nicht angesprochen. Auch
die allgemeine soziale und religiöse Position der
Matriclans und die positive Bewertung der ma-
trilinearen Seite, die damit verbunden sein könn-
te, wird nicht erörtert. Untersuchungen zur Rol-
le der ¿»/«^bezogenen Verwandtschaft (Matriclan)
im Gegensatz zur /««¿/bezogenen Verwandtschaft
(Patrilineage), die im Prinzip beide gleichermaßen
starr und unabänderlich sind, sowie deren emische
Werteinschätzungen werden völlig vernachlässigt.
Nur indirekt ist daher in der Literatur auf ei-
ne Statusposition der weiblichen Linie im ganz
allgemeinen Sinne und/oder eine von Müttern,
Frauen und Töchtern im besonderen zu schließen.
Der tatsächliche Status und die politischen Parti-
zipationsmöglichkeiten yapesischer Frauen in der
sozialen Praxis werden aus diesen Untersuchungen
nicht ersichtlich.
Ähnliche Probleme, wenn auch in abge-
schwächter Form, ergeben sich bei Schneiders
Manuskript “Social and Political Structure and
Property in Yap” (o. J). Schneider bringt hier
eine durchstrukturierte Beschreibung des sozio-
strukturellen und politischen Systems und hebt die
beiden Verwandtschaftsgruppen der Patrilineage
(tabinaaw) und der Matrilinie (genung), d. h. der
matrilinearen Sibs bzw. Clans heraus. Tabinaaw16
definiert Schneider hier als “group of men related
patrilineally [who] trace their ancestry to a com-
mon known progenitor in the recent past” (3).
16 Die Schreibweise dieses einheimischen Begriffs variiert je
nach Autor und jeweiliger Publikation.
Hier fehlt also schon der “Geist der/des Ahnen”
(iancestral ghost), den er noch in seinem Artikel
über die doppelte Deszendenz als Spitze oder
Zentrum der Patrilineage ansah. Statt dessen steht
die klar belegbare Abstammung von einem allseits
bekannten Vorfahren in der jüngsten Vergangen-
heit - also eine biologische Verwandtschaft - im
Vordergrund. Voraussetzung, um der tabinaaw an-
zugehören, sei die Geburt in diese Gruppe und die
patrilokale Residenz. Benannt seien die tabinaaw
nach jenem Stück Land im eigenen Besitz, das den
höchsten Rang habe. Dieser Name - als Emblem
auch der Gruppe - beinhalte in seiner Bedeutung
sowohl das Land als auch die Häuser, die auf
dem Land stehen sowie die Menschen, die auf ihm
leben.
Die Matrisibs hält Schneider (o. J.: 4) hingegen
für weniger wichtig. Sie seien eine “non-local
group whose major functions are the regulation of
marriage and the control of certain lands associated
with the Status of district chief’.
Hier wird bereits deutlich, daß Frauen als Mit-
glieder einer Matrisib über Landfragen und die
Ernennung und die Arbeit der chiefs mitbestimmen
können.17 Zwar vertreten die Männer als chiefs
nach außen hin ihre Distrikte, Dörfer und Line-
ages, fällen Entscheidungen und betreiben damit
Politik im weitesten Sinne, wer jedoch diese Posi-
tion innehaben darf, entscheiden indirekt auch die
matrilinearen Sibs und in ihnen auch die Frauen.18
Insgesamt wird bei Schneider jedoch nicht hin-
reichend deutlich, wie die Rekrutierungsprinzipien
der jeweiligen Verwandtschaftsgruppen ausgestal-
tet sind, und wie etwaige geschlechtsspezifische
Machtpositionen in diesen Verwandtschaftsgrup-
pen funktionieren (siehe 3.1).
Diese komplizierte Verzahnung von geschlechts-
spezifischer Macht kann auch zu unbewußten Miß-
verständnissen und Widersprüchen in der Litera-
tur führen, wie es z. B. bei den Beiträgen des
Wiener Ausstellungskatalogs “Strahlende Südsee.
Inselwelt Mikronesien” (Weiss et al. 1996) ge-
schah. Hier wurde bezüglich der Außeninseln
von Yap auf die dortigen größeren Möglichkeiten
der Frauen, Macht auszuüben und Entscheidun-
gen mit zu beeinflussen, hingewiesen, und dies
einer eher untergeordneten Stellung der Frauen auf
den Yap-Hauptinseln gegenübergestellt (Petrosian-
Husa 1996). Selbst wenn die Männer in ihren
Versammlungen bestimmte Entscheidungen träfen,
17 Dies stimmt mit den Aussagen überein, die ich auf Yap
selbst gesammelt habe (siehe 3.2).
18 Mündliche Mitteilung Agnes Marlee 16.8.1999, Kadai, und
Denitha Palemar 17.8.1999, Colonia, Yap.
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
127
so sei dies auf den Außeninseln nicht ohne die Bil-
ligung der Frauen oder ihr Wohlwollen möglich.
Doch handelt es sich wirklich um einen Wider-
spruch zu der Situation auf “Yap-Proper”? Kann
nicht auch die Situation auf den Yap-Hauptinseln
in der Praxis so ausgestaltet werden, daß Frauen
direkt und indirekt entscheidenden politischen Ein-
fluß geltend machen können? Liegt hier ein Wis-
sensdefizit vor, das auf einer einseitigen Beschäf-
tigung mit patrilinearer Deszendenz und männ-
licher politischer Machtausübung fußt? Dies soll
in der abschließenden Diskussion erörtert werden.
Wenden wir uns jedoch noch den zwei weiteren
wichtigen Autoren, David Labby und Sherwood
Lingenfelter, zu.
2.2 Das Austauschsystem nach David Labby
Auch David Labby, ein US-amerikanischer Wis-
senschaftler, der in den 70er Jahren auf Yap
forschte, beschäftigte sich mit der soziopolitischen
Struktur der yapesischen Gesellschaft und hoffte,
wie der Titel seines Buches “The Demystification
of Yap” (1976) bereits anzeigt, eine Enträtselung
der komplexen yapesischen Gesellschaftsstruktur
zu erreichen.19 Er unterschied ebenfalls die patri-
lokale, landbesitzende Gruppe, die sich über ein
ganz bestimmtes Areal (estate) definiere, und die
matrilinearen Sibs, Subsibs bzw. Clans (1976: 31).
Als Marxist sah Labby einen dialektischen Zu-
sammenhang zwischen den Menschen und dem
Land, d. h. zwischen dem Clan (personell) und
dem estate (materiell), der die Beziehung zwischen
den Menschen reziprok ausgestalte. Das yapesi-
sche Verwandtschaftssystem operiere gleichzeitig
in zwei Richtungen, so Labby: Einerseits werde
durch die Clanexogamie ein Austausch von Men-
schen vollzogen, d. h. die landbesitzende Gruppe
erhalte jeweils neue Mitglieder hinzu bzw. gebe
Mitglieder ab; andererseits erhalte das Land, das
ja diese Gruppen räumlich und personell definiere,
Menschen bzw. gebe sie ab. Labby (1976: 32)
formuliert dies in seinen eigenen Worten so:
On the one hand, the people, genetically continuous in
the clan, gave up one piece of land and took another.
On the other hand, the land, holding a continuous social
19 Seinen Anspruch, einen entscheidenden Beitrag zur Enträt-
selung des komplexen Verwandtschaftssystems von Yap zu
leisten, untermauert er mit der 7. Feuerbach-These von
Karl Marx (in englischer Übersetzung): “All social life is
essentially practical. All mysteries which lead theory to
mysticism find their rational solution in human practice
and the comprehension of this practice” (zit. in Labby
1976: 114).
identity, gave up one group of people, those of one
clan, and took another, those of another clan. The people
exchanged land, and the land exchanged people.
Und zusammenfassend heißt es weiter: “Yape-
se culture was created and perpetuated through
these two processes, the first defining the people
and the second defining the land” (32). In einem
Schaubild läßt sich diese Austauschfunktion, die
Labby zwischen den Menschen und dem Land
sieht, folgendermaßen darstellen:
Abb. 2: Austausch zwischen dem Land und den Menschen
(nach Labby 1976: 31).
Wie bei David Schneider wird hier auch bei
Labby das Problem der Begriffsdefinitionen deut-
lich (siehe 3.1). Labby verwendet den Begriff
“clan” und sieht diese Abstammungsgruppe als
landbesitzende Einheit, obwohl inhaltlich offen-
sichtlich dieselbe Gruppe wie Schneiders Patrili-
neage gemeint ist. Auch ist Labbys Schema inso-
fern problematisch, als das Land streng genommen
keine Clans, also ganze Gruppen, abgibt und emp-
fängt, sondern immer nur Einzelpersonen, die ein-
heiraten oder wegheiraten. Interessant an Labbys
Forschungen ist jedoch der Ansatz, Austauschbe-
ziehungen zwischen dem Land und den Menschen
näher zu untersuchen und beide in ihrer Funk-
tion als reziproke Bezugseinheiten zu analysieren.
Anthropos 96.2001
128
Corinna Erckenbrecht
2.3 Sherwood Lingenfelter: Das politische System
Yaps
Abschließend seien an dieser Stelle die Ergebnisse
der theoretischen wie empirischen Arbeiten von
Sherwood Lingenfelter vorgestellt. Lingenfelter,
der das politische System und die verwandtschaft-
lichen Strukturen der yapesischen Gesellschaft
durch intensive stationäre Feldforschungen gründ-
lich durchleuchtet hat, publizierte, wie erwähnt,
mehrfach zu diesem Thema (1969, 1974, 1975,
1977a/b, 1979, 1991a/b, 1993, 1997).20
Der Autor entschlüsselt detailliert die uns nun
schon bekannte Struktur der landbesitzenden pa-
trilinearen Gruppen (tabinaw) und der matrili-
nearen Sibs (genung). Er charakterisiert letzte-
re als “named, exogamous, nonlocalized, totemic
kin groups” (1975:32 f.), die sich jeweils auf
eine Ursprungsmythe und auch auf einen ganz
bestimmten Ort auf Yap bezögen, der wieder-
um mit dieser Mythe in enger Verbindung stehe.
Hierbei sehen wir sehr schön die Bezüge, aber
auch Widersprüche zu Schneiders Ergebnissen, der
die Matrisib (bei Schneider “clan”) als in erster
Linie blutsverwandtschaftlich deßniert einschätzt,
und erst in zweiter Linie von einer gemeinsamen
Ursprungsmythe und auch einem gemeinsamen
Ursprungsort der Mythe spricht. Beide Autoren
stimmen bezüglich der nicht lokalisierten Form der
Matrisib überein (s. Abb. 1).
Nach Lingenfelter (1975: 32) mangelt es den
Matrisibs jedoch prinzipiell an einer formalen Or-
ganisationsform und Führerschaft, und sie spielen
seiner Einschätzung nach in der Gesellschaft nur
eine untergeordnete Rolle. Er definiert weiterhin
die Subsibs, d. h. die Untergruppen der Matrisib,
als “unnamed, exogamous, nonlocalized group of
matrilineal kinsmen who hold membership in a
common sib and who have a known genealogical
relation” (1975: 33).
Diese Subsibs sind laut Lingenfelter sogar noch
relevanter als die Sibs, da sie in der sozialen Praxis
eine wesentlich wichtigere Funktion einnähmen.
Sie verbänden ihre Mitglieder untereinander in
konkreter und praktischer Weise, indem sie ihnen
Rat und Hilfestellung leisteten und in jeder Si-
tuation und Lebenslage ansprechbare Institutionen
seien, die den Betroffenen mit Rat und Tat zur
Seite stünden.
20 Das Manuskript seines wichtigsten Buches (1975) wurde
übrigens von einem prominenten Yapesen, der viele Jahre
als “Assistant Ethnographer” auf Yap tätig gewesen war,
Korrektur gelesen (vgl. Kiste and Marshall 1999). Zu
Fran(cis) Defngin siehe auch Treide und Treide 1997 und
Vorwort in Sherwood Lingenfelter 1975.
Während die Bedeutung der matrilinear de-
terminierten Einheiten also eher einen praktischen,
alltäglichen Nutzen (Helfen, Teilen, Unterstützen)
haben, dreht sich, wie schon angeklungen, in der
Patrilinie alles um den Landbesitz und um die
Vererbung dieses Landes. Frauen können alleine,
als Gruppe oder auch als etwaiger Familien- oder
Haushaltsvorstand in der Regel kein Land besit-
zen, abgesehen von einzelnen Tarofeldern oder
Gärten, die ihnen speziell übereignet, gegeben oder
vererbt worden sind. Sie können jedoch nicht das
Land der Verwandtschafts- bzw. Abstammungs-
gruppe besitzen, oder wie Lingenfelter schreibt:
“Females do not hold title to estates. ‘They own
the land under their foot’ meaning that in reality
they possess the land of their husbands and in
bearing children they are able to pass that land
on to their children” (1975: 27).
Frauen sind also vom primären Statuserwerb
oder von der Bekleidung eines hohen Ranges, der
sich am Landbesitz orientiert, ausgeschlossen. Sie
sind indirekt Miteigentümerinnen des Landes ihrer
Herkunfts-Patrilineage, und sie und ihre Kinder
werden durch Heirat wiederum indirekt Miteigen-
tümer/in/nen des Landes einer neuen Patrilineage
sein, was durch die Redewendung “they own
the land under their foot” sehr gut wiedergege-
ben wird. Auch können Frauen im Gegensatz zu
Männern aufgrund der Patrilokalität ihre Rang-
bzw. Kastenzugehörigkeit verbessern, indem sie
“höher” einheiraten (Hypergamie). Diese Möglich-
keit der vertikalen sozialen Flexibilität, die sich
nur für die Frauen ergibt, wird in der folgenden
Diskussion noch einmal angesprochen werden.
3 Diskussion
Die Quellenanalyse verdeutlicht, daß durch die
oben diskutierten Forschungsergebnisse die Ver-
wandtschaftsstruktur sowie die politische Struktur
der yapesischen Gesellschaft im Kern erfaßt wur-
den und nun eine klare Vorstellung von der yape-
sischen Sozialorganisation existiert. Viele Fragen,
die vor allem die Interaktion und Interdependenz
der Geschlechter sowie die Möglichkeit der poli-
tischen Partizipation anhand verwandtschaftlicher
Gruppenstrukturen betreffen, bleiben jedoch offen.
Zunächst muß die Anwendung der Terminologie
und damit einhergehend die bisherige klassische
Forschungsmethodik mit ihrer androzentrischen
Fixierung kritisch hinterfragt werden. Innerhalb
des bestehenden soziologischen wie politischen
Systems bedarf es einer Untersuchung der weiteren
Funktion der matrilinearen Verwandtschafts- und
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
129
Abstammungsgruppen (Matriclans) und ihrer Wir-
kungsweise auf die politische Entscheidungsfin-
dung sowie auf das Geschlechterverhältnis. Auch
der Gegensatz zwischen der landbesitzenden Grup-
pendefinition (Patrilineage) und der blutsverwandt-
schaftlichen Gruppendefinition (Matrisib) ist von
Relevanz. Weiterhin besteht Klärungsbedarf da-
hingehend, welchen sozialen, politischen (und
auch religiösen) Status Frauen in der yapesischen
Gesellschaft besitzen bzw. erreichen können und
worin ihre Möglichkeiten der politischen Partizipa-
tion und Machtausübung bestehen. Darüber hinaus
interessiert die Frage, welche gesellschaftspoliti-
sche Rolle die Flexibilität (sozial) sowie die Mobi-
lität (räumlich) spielt, die durch Patrilokalität und
Hypergamie ermöglicht werden. Und schließlich
muß das Verhältnis der Geschlechter in marita-
ler Hinsicht, bezüglich der geschlechtsspezifischen
Arbeitsteilung in Ehe und Gesellschaft, in topogra-
phischer Beziehung (Frauen- und Männerhäuser)
sowie in seinen grundsätzlichen Prozessen des
Kulturwandels untersucht werden.
3.1 Kritik der Forschungsansätze und
Terminologien
Wie schon in der themenspezifischen Quellen-
analyse angeklungen, müssen die wissenschaftli-
che Terminologie und die Widersprüchlichkeiten,
die sie produziert haben, einer kritischen Dis-
kussion unterzogen werden. Dies betrifft auch
die bisherige Art der Forschungsmethodik und
der Themenwahl, die uns einseitig gewichtetes
und teilweise ausschnitthaftes Material erbrachten.
Einer kritischen Prüfung muß insbesondere die
Anwendung der Terminologie bei David Schnei-
der unterzogen werden, der in problematischer
Weise verwandtschaftsethnologische Begriffe und
Kategorien verwendet, ohne sie exakt geklärt zu
haben. Dies betrifft hauptsächlich die Verwendung
der Begriffe “lineage” und “clan”, die bei ihm
in unterschiedlicher Art und Weise benutzt wer-
den. Diese Begriffe sind in der Wissenschaftsge-
schichte, wie allgemein bekannt, immer wieder
neu diskutiert und definiert worden und haben in
den wissenschaftlichen Diskursen der einzelnen
Länder wie den USA oder Großbritannien ganz
andere Bedeutungen erhalten wie etwa in Deutsch-
land oder Australien. So schreibt E. W. Müller
ganz richtig, daß die verwandtschaftsethnologi-
schen Begrifflichkeiten immer aus dem Kontext,
aus dem heraus sie benutzt wurden, erklärt werden
müssen (vgl. in Hirschberg 1999: 205). Während
“clan” in der älteren US-amerikanischen Literatur
traditionell eher für matrilineare Gruppenzusam-
menschlüsse benutzt wurde (im Gegensatz zum
patrilinearen gens), so ist der Begriff “clan” bspw.
in Australien in Anwendung auf die Sozialstruktur
der australischen Aborigines eher mit einer patrili-
nearen Einheit verknüpft. Hier hat der patrilineare,
patrilokale Clan darüber hinaus oft totemistische
oder religiös-mythische Bezüge und schließt neben
den konsanguinalen auch die affinalen Verwandten
mit ein (vgl. Erckenbrecht 1988).
Auch die Ansicht, daß ein Clan meist eine
größere Einheit darstelle als eine Lineage, in der
die Abstammung von realen Vorfahren immer klar
bekannt sei, findet in der Literatur meist allgemein-
gültige Anwendung. Daß gegenüber einer Lineage
die Obereinheit eines Clans etwas diffuser und we-
niger scharf umrissen sei, stimmt bspw. für Schnei-
ders Ausführungen über die yapesische Verwandt-
schaftsorganisation nicht, da er die Mitgliedschaft
im Matriclan eindeutig durch Blutsverwandtschaft
belegt sieht. Auch erblickt er im Zentrum einer
Lineage genauso wie beim Matriclan eine sakrale
Macht und definiert, im Falle Yaps, die Patri-
lineage zunächst als nicht biologische Verwandt-
schaftsgruppe, da der mythische Bezug zu den
Vorfahren ausschlaggebend sei. Schneider hat in
seinen allgemeinen theoretischen Arbeiten zur Ver-
wandtschaftsethnologie (1968, 1984) herausgear-
beitet, daß Verwandtschaft nicht unbedingt etwas
mit Biologie - oder genauer gesagt: mit Blut -
zu tun haben muß, sondern daß blutsverwandt-
schaftliche Kriterien oft ethnozentrische Konstruk-
te sind, die anderen Gesellschaften und Kulturen
übergestülpt werden (vgl. auch Hauser-Schäublin
1991, 1996). Insofern hat Schneider zu einer
wesentlichen Erweiterung des vormals enger ge-
faßten Forschungsansatzes in der internationalen
kinship-Debatte beigetragen. Dennoch schießt er
bei der Definition der yapesischen Lineage zu weit
über sein Ziel hinaus, indem er behauptet, die
Patrilineage sei in keinster Weise als eine biologi-
sche Abstammungsgruppe zu verstehen, während
er im Gegenzug den Clan ausschließlich über die
Biologie definiert. Und das, obwohl Schneider
selbst auch erwähnt, daß sich der Matriclan auf
eine Kulturheroin und ein mythisches Schöpfungs-
zentrum beruft. Diese Vermischung verschiedener
Begriffe und ihrer nicht mehr differenzierbaren
Definitionen, die am Ende austauschbar erschei-
nen, trägt letztlich mehr zur Verwirrung als zur
Klärung einer möglichen doppelten Deszendenz
und ihrer Charakteristika auf Yap bei.
Diskutieren wir das System der Patrilineages
und Matriclans und Schneiders Ansatz der dop-
pelten Deszendenz anhand Lingenfelters Ergeb-
Anthropos 96.2001
130
Corinna Erckenbrecht
nisse hier kritisch weiter. Lingenfelter sieht das
wesentliche Kriterium bei der Unterscheidung der
beiden Deszendenzgruppen, wie Schneider auch,
in der Zuordnung zum Land einerseits (Patrilinea-
ge, tabinaw) und in der mütterlichen Linie, d. h.
der Zuordnung zu der blutsverwandtschaftlichen
Abstammung (dem Matriclan, genung) anderer-
seits. Das Verhältnis der Menschen untereinander
sei durch diese beiden entscheidenden Zugehörig-
keitskriterien geprägt: “girdien e tabinaw”, “peo-
ple of one land” und “girdian e genung” “people
of one belly” (1997: 323). Kommentarlos fügt Lin-
genfelter an dieser Textstelle an, die Deszendenz-
regelung auf Yap sei matrilinear. Diese Aussage
muß stutzig machen, wird Yap in der gesamten
Literatur bislang doch als patrilinear bezeichnet.
Obgleich m. E. hier nur ein Formulierungsfehler
vorliegt, kann man an diesem Beispiel sehr schön
sehen, wie relativ verwandtschaftsethnologische
Analysen sein können, wenn sie auf selektiertem
Material beruhen. Nimmt man nur die Matriclans
zur Hand, so ist die yapesische Gesellschaft si-
cherlich als matrilinear zu bezeichnen; folgt man
den Patrilineages, so ist Yap patrilinear. Da der
Landbesitz der Patrilineage das ausschlaggebende
Kriterium auch für den politischen Status ist, der
in der yapesischen Gesellschaft errungen werden
kann, wurde, so meine These, in der Vergan-
genheit die Patrilinearität einseitig hervorgehoben.
Ein androzentrisch gefärbtes Forschungsinteresse
von Wissenschaftlern aus westlichen Kulturen, die
an den politischen Strukturen und der Art und
Weise interessiert waren, wie diese in der yape-
sischen Gesellschaft durch die Männer öffentlich
artikuliert wurden, führte zu einseitig gewichteten
Forschungsergebnissen.21 Hätte man die Macht-
strukturen untersucht, die den Matriclans zur Ver-
fügung standen, wäre die yapesische Gesellschaft
als matrilinear oder zumindest als bilinear in die
ethnologische Fachliteratur eingegangen.
Jeder Yapese verfügt zeit seines Lebens über
die Mitgliedschaft in beiden Gruppen, dem Land
seines Vaters und dem Matriclan seiner Mutter,
so Lingenfelter und Schneider unisono. Insofern
unterstützen Lingenfelters Aussagen die doppelte
Deszendenz nach David Schneider. Die Matriclans
führen ihre Herkunft letztlich auf eine gemein-
same weibliche mythische Ahnherrin zurück, ob-
gleich der zeitgenössische Zusammenhalt durch
biologisch-blutsverwandtschaftliche Kriterien er-
folgt. Zur Frage der biologischen, räumlichen oder
21 Vergleich zur Forschungssituation in Australien siehe
Erckenbrecht 1997.
mythischen Zugehörigkeit zur Patrilineage führt
Lingenfelter des weiteren aus, daß die Zuordnung
zwar über das Land definiert werde, andererseits
aber jeder wisse, daß damit letztlich auch die
konkrete männliche Linie jener Personen gemeint
sei, die das Land zuvor besessen hätten. Eine
auch biologisch determinierte Deszendenz sei da-
mit durchaus impliziert, obwohl sie nicht offiziell
als Kriterium genannt werden würde. Formal gelte
das Land als Ordnungskriterium bzw. Rekrutie-
rungskriterium der Patrilineage,22 niemand spreche
jedoch ausdrücklich von der Linie der konkreten
männlichen Vorfahren. Daher sei zwar eine bio-
logisch bekannte Abstammung Voraussetzung für
die Mitgliedschaft in der Patrilineage, im Denken
der Menschen spiele jedoch der eher bildliche
Bezug zum Land die herausragende Rolle.23
Dies führt uns zu der allgemeinen Diskrepanz
zwischen der yapesischen Auffassung von Ver-
wandtschaft, Politik und Machtstrukturen, wie sie
im Denken der Menschen vor Ort verhaftet ist,
und den Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der wissen-
schaftlichen Erforschung und Publizierung nach
westlichen Vorstellungen. Das betrifft auch die po-
litische Struktur der yapesischen Gesellschaft, wie
sie sich in dem Kastensystem und dem Allianzsy-
stem der Dörfer niederschlägt. Die Allianzsysteme,
soviel hier in Kürze, stellen hierarchische Macht-
strukturen dar, sind ihrer tatsächlichen Funktion
nach aber auch Kommunikationsnetzwerke, die
konkrete Handlungsmöglichkeiten und -kanäle in
vielen verschiedenen für Yap typischen Lebens-
situationen bieten (so z. B. bei Gemeinschaftsar-
beiten, Ausgleichszahlungen, Beerdigungen und
Festen, Versorgung von Witwe[r]n oder Adop-
tionen). Bei der Erforschung des Gesamtaufbaus
dieser Allianzsysteme und damit verbunden auch
dem allgemeinen Aufbau der Ranghierarchie und
des Kastensystems ergibt sich laut Lingenfelter
eine Schwierigkeit: Das Rangsystem der Dörfer
in öffentlichen Versammlungen und Diskussionen
exakt und wahrheitsgetreu zu ermitteln ist fast
unmöglich, da auf Yap nicht offen über die Klas-
sifizierung rangniedriger Dörfer gesprochen werde
bzw. gesprochen werden könne. Daher sind die
von ihm entworfenen Schemata (vgl. 1975: 138 f.)
anschließend bestritten worden, obwohl sie nur das
wiedergeben, was ihm in einer gemeinschaftlichen,
22 Dabei können allerdings auch Personen durch Wohnsitz-
änderung und die Bewährung als effizientes ökonomisches
Mitglied die Zugehörigkeit zur Patrilineage legitimieren
(Lingenfelter 1993: 151).
23 Mündliche Mitteilung von Sherwood Lingenfelter 17.11.
1999.
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
131
offenen Diskussion angegeben worden war.24 An-
hand dieses Beispiels wird deutlich, auf welch
weichem Boden angeblich harte Daten stehen, die
die hierarchischen Empfindungen einer Kultur in
konkrete Schemata pressen wollen.
Auch in bezug auf die Matriclans ergeben sich
solche forschungsspezifischen Mängel. Wichtig ist
hier ja die Frage, ob unter dem Matriclan ledig-
lich ein gedankliches Konstrukt verstanden wird,
das eine Gruppe von Menschen aufgrund ihrer
mütterlichen Abstammung (oder der gemeinsamen
Mythologie) verbindet, oder ob es sich um eine
tatsächlich bestehende Gruppe von a) Männern
und Frauen, b) Männern oder c) Frauen handelt,
die dann auch die sozialen Akteure bzw. Akteurin-
nen in diesen Matriclans sind. Für die yapesischen
Männer, so ist aus allen bisherigen Publikationen
ersichtlich, ist sicherlich das Prinzip der weib-
lichen Abstammung das herausragende Kriteri-
um, doch fällt auf, daß die Matriclans stets nur
aus Sicht westlicher Forscher betrachtet wurden.
Selbst Wissenschaftler wie Sherwood Fingenfelter
geben unumwunden zu, daß alles, was sie wüßten,
ausschließlich von Männern geäußert worden sei,
so daß keine Aussagen darüber getroffen werden
könnten, in welcher Weise Frauen ihren Zusam-
menhalt innerhalb (und außerhalb) der Matriclans
definierten.25
Es liegt auf der Hand, das hier ein großes
Forschungsdefizit besteht. Mit Berechtigung kann
z. B. der Frage nachgegangen werden, ob hier
eine grundsätzliche, in der yapesischen Gesell-
schaft ideologisch untermauerte Geschlechterun-
gleichheit zugrunde liegt, die sich über das Ge-
gensatzpaar “Fand - Blut” (sprich: Patrilineage -
Matriclan) definiert. Kann daher tatsächlich von
einer, auch wertfrei gemeinten doppelten Deszen-
denz gesprochen werden, oder haben die Matri-
clans bspw. eine so geringe Bedeutung, daß sie
sich in einer alltäglich-praktischen Funktion er-
schöpfen? Interessant ist in diesem Zusammen-
hang, daß bei der Eintragung “kinship and gen-
der” in der “Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural
Anthropology” (Bamard and Spencer 1996) mit
der herkömmlichen Tradition der Verwandtschafts-
ethnologie streng ins Gericht gegangen wird. Sie
sei, so die Kritik von Anthony Good, dem Autor
des Beitrags, zumeist chauvinistisch ausgerichtet
gewesen und habe die Zusammenhänge zwischen
Verwandtschaft und gender geflissentlich über-
24 Mündliche Mitteilung von Sherwood Lingenfelter 17.11.
1999.
25 Er spricht daher bezeichnenderweise bei der Definition der
Mitglieder eines Matriclans von “kinsmen“ (s.o.).
sehen. Ähnlich kraß fällt in diesem Zusammen-
hang auch sein Urteil über bestimmte einseitige
Sichtweisen und Voreingenommenheiten aus, die
an die yapesische Situation denken lassen: “...
when ethnographers look at kinship practices rath-
er than social structure, they frequently discover
that whereas ‘official kin’ are indeed predominant-
ly male, ‘practical kin’ are far more likely to be
female” (Good 1996: 317).
3.2 Patrilineage und Matriclan - Verharrung und
Mobilität
Das yapesische Gesellschaftssystem unterteilt die
Menschen, wie gesehen, in hierarchische Gruppen
(Kasten), die untereinander kaum durchlässig sind.
Die wichtigste Unterteilung ist die in Landeigentü-
mer (pilung = those who give the word) und Land-
lose (pimilngay = those who run to do it).26 In-
nerhalb dieser Unterteilung werden weitere Rang-
stufen vergeben, die noch einmal in rangniedrig
und ranghoch differenzieren. Ausschlaggebend ist
- im Falle der Landbesitzer - die Größe, Lage,
Qualität (und auch Geschichte und Überlieferun-
gen bezüglich) des Landes, auf Seiten der Land-
losen die persönlichen Verdienste, Ambitionen und
Möglichkeiten, den Status zu erhöhen. In früheren
Zeiten gab es freie Landlose und “versklavte”
Landlose, die in einem ständigen Abhängigkeits-
status verharrten. Oberstes Kriterium für Rang und
Kaste ist und bleibt das Land, in dessen Besitz die
Patrilineage als Gruppe ist. Da Frauen innerhalb
der Patrilineage zwar leben, arbeiten und sozial
agieren, sie jedoch, wie erwähnt, weder als Einzel-
ne noch als Gruppe Eigentümerinnen des Landes
sein können, fehlt ihnen ein wichtiges Kriterium,
um Rang und Status zu erwerben bzw. sich über
diesen Landbesitz zu definieren. Zwar sind und
bleiben sie Mitglied der Patrilineage, in die sie hin-
eingeboren wurden, und tragen dadurch indirekt
den hohen - oder weniger hohen - Status dieser
Patrilineage mit. Selbst bei Heirat, bei der sie zu
der Familie und auf das Land des Mannes bzw.
dessen Patrilineage ziehen, bleiben sie weiterhin
Mitglied ihrer Herkunfts-Patrilineage und können
sich auch darauf berufen.
Andererseits sind sie die einzigen, die ihren
Rang, Status und ihre Kastenzugehörigkeit durch
die Ehe verändern können. Heiraten sie in eine
höherrangige Familie oder Lineage (Hypergamie),
so können sie ihren Rang verbessern, erhöhen,
in der Leiter des Kastensystems emporklettern.
26 Sinngemäße Übersetzung durch Lingenfelter (1997: 323).
Anthropos 96.2001
132
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Diese Möglichkeit haben de facto nur die Frauen,
die, obgleich es nicht gerne gesehen wird, einen
Mann aus einer höheren Kaste heiraten können,
wohingegen rangniedrige Männer kaum eine Frau
aus einer höheren Kaste gewinnen können. Für die
80er Jahre stellte Lingenfelter noch fest: “Mar-
riages of high-caste women to low-caste men were
completely prohibited, and few have ever desired
or dared to break this rule” (1997: 323).
Das heißt, daß Frauen unter gewissen Umstän-
den die Möglichkeit gegeben ist, ihre Herkunftska-
ste zu verlassen, wohingegen Männer in der Kaste
und in dem Rang verharren, in die bzw. in den
sie hineingeboren wurden. Trotz eines festgefüg-
ten Rangsystems ist also gerade den Frauen die
Möglichkeit der Flexibilität und der Verbesserung
ihres Status gegeben.
Neben ihrer Mitgliedschaft in der Patrilineage
sind die Frauen, wie erwähnt, auch Mitglieder in
den Matriclans oder Matrisibs, also in den matri-
linearen Verwandtschaftsgruppen, die einen völlig
anderen Charakter haben als die Patrilineages. Die
Matrisibs - und mehr noch die Subsibs - sind in
erster Linie praktische Solidar- und Hilfsgemein-
schaften für jedwede Lebenslage und funktionieren
unabhängig von jedem Rangdenken. Zudem sind
die Matriclans aber auch - und hier wiederum die
Frauen in den Matriclans - ausschlaggebend für
die Bestimmung der “chiefs”, die die politischen
Entscheidungen nach außen hin treffen. Insofern
können Frauen indirekt großen politischen Ein-
fluß ausüben. Es könne nichts gegen ihren Wil-
len unternommen werden, äußerten mir gegen-
über Frauen aus Yap; sie entschieden letztlich,
was gemacht werde, auch wenn ihre Rolle in der
Öffentlichkeit eher untergeordnet erscheine.27 Ihre
politische Bedeutung muß in Zusammenhang mit
- und in Abhängigkeit von - der sozialen und
politischen Bedeutung der Matriclans in Zukunft
noch herausgearbeitet werden.
Das yapesische Gesellschaftssystem mag durch
seine Kasten, die allen Individuen ihren festen
Platz zuweisen, starr und unflexibel wirken. Auch
die Eigentumsverhältnisse, die jedem Stück Land,
jedem Stein, aber auch dem Meer, den Fischen
darin bis hin zu den Korallen des Saumriffs einen
festen Besitzer zuweisen, können restriktiv er-
27 Mündliche Mitteilung D. Palemar, 17.08.1999, Colonia,
Yap. Von mir auf Yap gesammelte Aussagen einzelner
Frauen lassen noch keine abgesicherten wissenschaftlichen
Schlußfolgerungen zu. Dennoch muß hier betont werden,
daß in der Auswahl der chiefs die Matriclans eine ent-
scheidende Rolle spielen, da nur solche Männer chiefs
werden können, die aus der korrekten weiblichen Linie,
dem “richtigen” Matriclan, stammen.
scheinen.28 Dennoch ist ein großes Maß an Fluk-
tuation innerhalb der yapesischen Gesellschafts-
ordnung möglich. Es ist in erster Linie die Patrilo-
kalität, die die Frauen in neue Familien und damit
auch in andere Dörfer und Inselbereiche bringt.
Die Frauen haben dadurch eine entscheidende
Funktion als “Ventilatoren” für die Gesellschafts-
struktur, da sie die Zusammensetzung der Dörfer
und Familien durchmischen. Dies geschah in frü-
heren Zeiten, d. h. vor Einführung der amerika-
nischen Verwaltung, über geringere Distanzen, da
yapesische Frauen eher selten ihre Dörfer verlie-
ßen. Erst durch die Einführung des obligatorischen
Schulbesuchs der Jugendlichen besteht die Mög-
lichkeit, mit jungen Menschen anderer Dörfer und
Landesteile zusammenzukommen (vgl. 3.5). Aber
auch wenn Ehen traditionell gerne innerhalb des
Dorfes oder im Umkreis weniger Dörfer geschlos-
sen wurden, so hatten Frauen doch prinzipiell
die Möglichkeit der Mobilität. Durch wegheira-
tende weibliche Verwandte ergab sich zudem ein
Referenzgefüge, das entfernte Verwandte, Fami-
lien und Dörfer zu einem integrativen Bestandteil
eines eigenen Netzwerks für yapesische Frauen
machte.
3.3 Ehe und geschlechtsspezifische Arbeitsteilung
Untersuchen wir nun das Verhältnis der Geschlech-
ter, die Arbeitsteilung und die Balance der Macht-
positionen in der yapesischen Ehe. Verglichen
mit aufwendigen Festen und Zeremonien in ande-
ren Kulturen wurden (und werden) Ehen in der
yapesischen Gesellschaft in informeller Art und
Weise geschlossen.29 Zunächst geht eine Phase
des gegenseitigen Kennenlernens und des Wer-
bens voraus, in der die zukünftigen Partner erpro-
ben, füreinander zu sorgen und Verantwortung zu
übernehmen. Gegenseitige geschlechterspezifische
Geschenke wie Fisch und Betelnuß seitens der
Männer sowie Gemüse, Blumen und frisch ge-
28 Ein gutes Beispiel hierfür ist der Wiederaufbau des im
Zweiten Weltkrieg zerstörten Gemeinschaftshauses in dem
Dorf Kadai. Die wichtigste Grundlage, die Plattform, auf
der solch ein Gemeinschaftshaus steht, ist aus Korallen-
blöcken hergestellt. Da Kadai, das in der Ranghierarchie
der Dörfer recht niedrig steht, selbst keine Korallenblöcke
besitzt, mußte es diese bei anderen Dörfern gegen eigene
Produkte oder Dienstleistungen eintauschen. Der langwie-
rige Austauschprozeß und der Wiederaufbau des Hauses
nahm zwei mühevolle Jahre in Anspruch.
29 Durch Einführung des Christentums hat sich die Form der
Eheschließung hinsichtlich kirchlicher Hochzeiten verän-
dert, jedoch herrschen traditionelle Vorstellungen weiterhin
vor, wie die weiteren Ausführungen zeigen werden.
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
133
steckte Blumenketten seitens der Frauen wer-
den bei heimlichen Treffen - meistens nachts
- ausgetauscht. Öffentliche Zuneigungsbekundun-
gen waren und sind in Yap selten. Erst wenn
sich eine Bindung als einigermaßen tragfähig und
dauerhaft erweist, werden die bisherigen heim-
lichen Treffen aufgegeben. Der offizielle Schritt
zur Bekanntgabe der Verbindung ist die Tatsa-
che, daß man sich tagsüber in der Öffentlichkeit
gemeinsam zeigt und den Vater des Bräutigams
aufsucht.30 Danach findet ein Austausch von Mu-
schelgeld zwischen den beiden beteiligten Fami-
lien statt, d. h. der Vater des Bräutigams geht
zum Vater der Braut und überreicht ihm das auch
als “Frauengeld” bezeichnete Muschelgeld mit der
Bitte, dessen Tochter als Braut für seinen Sohn
behalten zu dürfen. Da die Liaison normalerweise
schon im Vorfeld bekannt geworden ist, kommt
ein solches Anliegen für den Vater der Braut nicht
völlig überraschend, und er willigt meist ein. Erst
wenn die Verbindung stabil verläuft und das erste
Kind geboren ist, wird eine offizielle “Hochzeits-
feier” abgehalten, die im Kern einen reziproken
Güteraustausch zwischen den beteiligten Familien
darstellt.
Prinzipiell bestanden und bestehen Exogamie-
vorschriften hinsichtlich der Patrilineage und des
Matriclans, innerhalb derer jeweils nicht geheiratet
werden darf. Ein Ehepartner muß also sowohl
außerhalb der eigenen Verwandtschaftsgruppe der
Patrilineage als auch außerhalb des Matriclans
gefunden werden. Des weiteren herrscht Kasten-
endogamie vor, so daß beide Ehepartner idea-
lerweise aus der jeweils eigenen Kaste stammen
sollten. Dennoch sind Ausnahmen möglich, in-
dem es Frauen aus einer niedrigstehenden Kaste
unter Umständen möglich ist, “höher” zu heira-
ten (s.o.). Zwar bestand die Ansicht, möglichst
innerhalb eines Dorfes zu ehelichen, doch wur-
den auch bewußt Ehen zwischen verschiedenen
Dörfern geschlossen, um politische Allianzen zu
stärken. Generell hatten und haben die Frauen
aber, auch wenn sie von Zuhause fort heirateten,
immer die Möglichkeit zurückzukehren und Unter-
stützung und Zuflucht bei ihrer Herkunftsfamilie
zu finden.
Familiengründungen erfolg(t)en in der Regel
nach der offiziellen Bekanntgabe der Ehe. Schwan-
gerschaften, die durch voreheliche sexuelle Be-
30 Als Beleg, wie bedeutungsvoll diese Praxis auch heute noch
ist, mag die Tatsache dienen, daß ich als Besucherin nicht
mit einem alleinstehenden yapesischen Mann das Haus
seines Vaters betreten konnte. Dies hätte bedeutet, ich wäre
als Braut vorgestellt worden. Daher mußte vorab telefoniert
und meine Person erklärt werden.
Ziehungen entstanden, führ(t)en dann in den mei-
sten Fällen auch zur tatsächlichen Eheschließung.
Allerdings waren und sind diese Ehen sehr instabil.
Führt die Schwangerschaft nicht zur Ehe, so ist
die Situation für beide Elternteile schwierig. Die
Mutter wird das Kind in dessen eigenem Interesse
nie vollständig dem Vater entziehen, insbesonde-
re wenn dieser einer höheren Kaste entstammen
sollte, da das Kind davon später profitieren würde.
Denn der Vater sowie dessen Familie ist verpflich-
tet, mit für das Kind zu sorgen, wenn die Mutter
den Kontakt nicht vollständig abbricht. Tut sie
dies dennoch, so ist sie ganz alleine für das Kind
verantwortlich, wobei ihr aber ihre eigenen Eltern
helfen werden. Sie kann ihr Kind aber auch bei
ihren Geschwistern wie ein Adoptivkind aufziehen
lassen; Adoption ist auf Yap weit verbreitet und
gesellschaftlich akzeptiert. Im Falle einer Tren-
nung der Eltern wächst das Kind also zunächst bei
seiner Mutter, deren Geschwistern oder bei seinen
Großeltern auf, wohingegen es die späteren Jahre
bis zum Erwachsenenalter bei seinem Vater und
dessen Familie verbringen kann.
Besondere Bedeutung kommt dem Namensge-
bungsprozeß zu, der in der Regel erst ein Jahr
nach Geburt des Kindes erfolgt. Da das Kind (ob
Junge oder Mädchen) durch seinen Namen auch
die offizielle Aufnahme in die Patrilineage erhält,
die mit weitreichenden Privilegien verbunden sein
kann, war und ist dies auch ein politischer Akt.
Zwischen den beiden Ehepartnern bestand in
ökonomischer Hinsicht traditionell eine klare Auf-
gaben- und Arbeitsteilung. Während Frauen für die
Arbeit in den Yams- und Tarogärten, für das Wohn-
haus, die Kindererziehung, die Versorgung mit
frischem Gemüse, das Kochen und die handwerk-
liche Herstellung von kleineren Gegenständen wie
Körben etc. zuständig waren, sorgten die Männer
für die Versorgung mit Fisch (Fischfang innerhalb
und außerhalb des Saumriffs), Kokosnüssen und
Früchten und übernahmen die härtere Land- und
Gartenarbeit, wenn z. B. neue Tarofelder angelegt
und das Land dafür hergerichtet werden mußte.
Diese traditionelle Aufgabenverteilung hat sich
heute durch die Einbindung in die Geldwirtschaft
und die Möglichkeit, Essen, materielle Güter und
Dienstleistungen gegen Dollars zu kaufen, stark
verändert (siehe Kap. 3.5).
Den Idealtypus geschlechterspezifischer Rol-
lenverteilung gibt Lingenfelter (1997: 325) folgen-
dermaßen wieder:
A [ideal Yapese] woman should go to her taro patch and
garden early every morning to weed, plant, cultivate,
and obtain food for that day. Her garden should be well
134
Corinna Erckenbrecht
tended and free of weeds, and she should provide a
variety of yams, sweet potatoes, and other vegetable
crops to add interest to her family’s diet. She should
cook each morning and evening ... She should be
generous and offer food to her husband’s visitors or
others who ... stop at the household.
Productive and successful men are as much admired
as hardworking women. A poor fisherman makes a poor
husband. Fishing is a man’s primary occupation, and any
meal without fish means a man is not doing an adequate
job. If a man is a good fisherman, he will not only get
enough for his wife and children, he will be able to
share with others as well. Yapese also speak highly of
men whose homes are kept in good repair and whose
boat or canoe is always ready for use.
Grundsätzlich besteht für die Yapesen die sym-
bolische Einheit einer Ehe und Familie darin,
daß der Mann das Land zur Verfügung stellt,
auf dem gelebt und gewirtschaftet werden kann,
und die Frau ihre Fruchtbarkeit, die die Familien-
gründung ermöglicht. Durch diese zwei Grund-
bedingungen und die Autorität sowie Autarkie
der Frauen in Hinsicht auf Haushalt, Gartenbau
und Kindererziehung ergibt sich eine annähernd
ausgewogene Balance der Geschlechterrollen in
der Ehe. Männer repräsentieren durch ihr Land
und durch ihre verbale Vertretung nach außen ihre
Familien, Frauen tragen die Verantwortung für den
inneren Zusammenhalt der Familien. Die einen
stärken “nach außen”, die anderen stärken “nach
innen”.
Eine Gegenüberstellung von geschlechtsspezi-
fischen Beiträgen in der yapesischen Ehe ergibt
Tabelle 1.
Insgesamt läßt sich sagen, daß die Frauen bei
der Subsistenzsicherung durch ihre Gartenarbeit
und die beständige Produktion von Gartenerzeug-
nissen das ökonomische Rückgrat der Familie
bildeten. Sie galten als “strength of the family”. Ihr
ökonomischer Beitrag war der verläßlichere und
bedeutendere. Schätzungen zufolge lieferten Frau-
en bis zu 80% der täglichen Nahrungs Versorgung
einer yapesischen Familie, wohingegen Män-
ner lediglich 20% beitrugen (Lingenfelter (1993:
155).
Die tägliche Essenszusammenstellung besteht
in der Regel aus Fisch mit Taro in allen sei-
nen Variationen, und diese beiden grundsätzlichen
Bestandteile symbolisieren für die Yapesen auch
generell das Zusammenarbeiten der Geschlechter
in der Wirtschaftseinheit Ehe. Der Fisch steht
für den Mann, Taro für die Frau. Betrachten wir
dieses interdependente Verhältnis der Geschlechter
nun in Hinblick auf die topographische Verteilung
geschlechterspezifischer Räume.
Tab. 1: Geschlechtsspezifische Beiträge in der yapesischen Ehe
Frauen Männer
Fruchtbarkeit Fand
Innerfamiliäre Autorität Außerfamiläre Repräsentanz
Haus: Führung des Haushalts, Ord- nung im Haus und an den Kochstellen außerhalb des Wohnhauses; Pflege des Grund- stücks Haus: Bereitstellung und Instand- haltung des gemeinsamen Wohnhauses, Durchführung von Umbaumaßnahmen, bau- liche Instandhaltung
Garten: Arbeit im Tarofeld, gärtneri- sche Produktion von Gemüse (Taro, Yams, Süßkartoffel) Garten: Schwere Gartenarbeit (wie Anlage eines neues Tarofelds oder grundsätzliche Instand- haltung der Felder)
N ahrungs Verarbeitung: Kochen (separat für Mann bzw. Familie) an der/den Kochstelle/n außerhalb des Wohnhauses Nahrungsbeschaffung: Fisch, Kokosnüsse, Früch- te etc., Instandhaltung des Kochhauses/der Kochhäu- ser; Aufsicht über Haustiere (z. B. Schweine)
Handwerkliche Herstellung von Kleidung (Fendentuch, Grasrock) und Körben etc. Bereitstellung und Instand- haltung der benötigten Werk- zeuge
Kinder: Konkrete Kinderaufsicht und -erziehung Kinder: Verantwortung für Erziehung und Ausbildung
3.4 Männerhäuser - Frauenhäuser
Auch heute noch stellen Männerhäuser, die zum
großen Teil entlang der Küste mit freiem Blick auf
das Meer gelegen sind, ein malerisches Marken-
zeichen der yapesischen Inselkultur dar. Abge-
sehen von baulichen Verschiedenheiten gibt es
mehrere Arten von Männerhäusern, die nach ihrer
Funktion getrennt sind. Sie dienen unterschied-
lichen Altersklassen als Versammlungsort. Zum
einen gab und gibt es Häuser für die männlichen
Jugendlichen und Heranwachsenden, die hier ihre
Freizeit verbrachten, zum anderen für die erwach-
senen Männer, die bei Angriffen und sonstigen
kriegerischen Auseinandersetzungen das Dorf ver-
teidigen konnten und mußten. Dies war auch der
Grund für die Küstenlage, denn Gefahr drohte
im Fall der Fälle am ehesten von der Seeseite
her. Auch Vorbereitungen für größere Seefahrten
und Fischzüge wurden hier gemeinsam getroffen.
Und drittens gab es Häuser, in denen sich nur die
bereits alten oder älteren Männer versammelten.
Zwischen diesen Häusern - und damit zwischen
diesen drei Altersgruppen - gab es vielfache Inter-
dependenzen, da ohne den Rat oder die Weisung
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
135
der älteren Männer eigenständige Aktionen der
jüngeren Männer nicht üblich oder möglich waren.
Nicht alle der einstmals auf Yap existierenden
Männerhäuser sind heute noch erhalten. Etliche
sind im Laufe der Zeit verfallen und/oder nicht
mehr in Gebrauch, wobei auffällige Steinhalden
an Landzungen Hinweise auf ehemalige Standor-
te von Männerhäusem geben können. Einige der
Männer- und Versammlungshäuser sind heute für
den aufkommenden Tourismus auf Yap besonders
hergerichtet und dienen mehr oder weniger nur
noch als Sehenswürdigkeit für Touristen. Etliche
werden aber auch heute noch in ihrem ursprüngli-
chen Sinn genutzt.
Weniger bekannt ist, daß es auf Yap außer den
Männerhäusem auch in jedem Dorf Frauenhäuser
gab, die die Männer nicht betreten durften. Sie gal-
ten als Rückzugsort für die Frauen, die sich minde-
stens einmal im Monat während ihrer Menstruation
dorthin zurückzogen und diese Zeit gemeinsam mit
anderen Frauen verbrachten. Auch junge Mädchen
lebten mit Einsetzen der Menarche für den Ablauf
eines Jahres im Frauenhaus, wobei ihnen die älte-
ren Frauen je nach Gelegenheit Gesellschaft leiste-
ten. Dabei wurden Geschichten erzählt, Tänze ge-
lernt und getanzt, frische Grasröcke31 hergestellt,
und die jungen Frauen wurden in Körperhygie-
ne, Maßnahmen bei Schwangerschaft, Geburt und
in der Kindererziehung unterrichtet. Die Frauen
waren während der Zeit ihres Aufenthaltes im
Frauenhaus auch von allen häuslichen Pflichten
entbunden und mußten nicht für ihre Familien
sorgen.32 Dies ist besonders erwähnenswert, da
die Arbeit auf den Tarofeldem und das Kochen
für die ganze Familie, berücksichtigt man noch
31 Der knielange Grasrock war traditionell das einzige Beklei-
dungsstück der Frauen. Der Oberkörper blieb nackt, und nur
in manchen Fällen wurde eine Halskette oder ein Halsband
getragen. Die kunstvoll aufgestellten Frisuren schmückte
ein Zierkamm, der auch heute noch gerne getragen wird.
(Eine Strafe stellte es dar, den Kopf geschoren zu bekom-
men. Aber nicht, weil man dann eine Glatze zur Schau
stellen mußte, sondern weil man die prachtvollen Zierkäm-
me, die auch als Prestigeobjekte galten, nicht mehr tragen
konnte.) Obwohl Jeans und T-Shirt heute auch zur Norm
gehören, sind Frauen - meist ältere Frauen, aber auch junge
Mädchen - doch noch oft lediglich mit einem knielangen
Rock bekleidet. Mädchen von den “Outer Islands” tragen
Lavalavas.
32 Wollten ihre Männer oder Kinder in dieser Zeit mit ihnen
kommunizieren, so mußten sie sich in einiger Entfernung
aufstellen und herüberrufen. Für sie tätig sein konnten
die Frauen aber nicht. Mündliche Mitteilung A. Marlee
16.08.1999 Kadai, Yap. Erwähnenswert ist in diesem Zu-
sammenhang auch, daß im Gegensatz zu den Yap-Hauptin-
seln Frauenhäuser auf den Außeninseln weiterhin existieren
und dort aktiv in ihrer traditionellen Form genutzt werden.
das tropische Klima Yaps, für die Frauen durch-
aus harte Arbeit war. Die Tarofelder sind enge,
sumpßge, dichtbewachsene Gartengrundstücke, in
denen einem die Hitze und die Moskitos sehr stark
zusetzen. Auch das Hantieren mit dem Messer
und das Ausschneiden der dicken Knollenfrüchte
ist körperlich sehr anstrengend und erfordert eine
gewisse Muskelkraft. Bezüglich der Zubereitung
wird auf Yap traditionell, wie auch meist heu-
te noch, außerhalb des Wohnhauses gekocht. Es
existier(t)en außerdem mehrere Kochstellen, auf
denen für die Frau des Hauses, den Ehemann und
die Kinder sowie die Frauen oder Mädchen, die
ihre Menstruation hatten, jeweils separat und/oder
nacheinander gekocht wurde. Dies war eine lang-
wierige und ebenfalls recht anstrengende Arbeit,
die in ihrem Umfang je nach Größe der Familie
oder Anzahl der Gäste, die bewirtet werden muß-
ten, variierte.
Während meines Aufenthaltes auf Yap (August
1999) sprach ich mit einer älteren Frau über die
Zeit, als noch Frauenhäuser existierten. Es sei eine
sehr schöne Zeit gewesen, so meine Gesprächs-
partnerin, die sie wegen der Erleichterung, die die
Existenz von Frauenhäuser bedeutet hätte, sehr
vermisse. Mehrmals seufzte sie: “I miss those
times.” Die wichtigste Funktion der yapesischen
Frauenhäuser war die Tatsache, daß Frauen die
Zeit ihrer Menstruation dort verbrachten und auch
Geburten dort stattfanden. Frauen sollten nach
traditionellen yapesischen Vorstellungen während
ihrer Periode und bei der Geburt von Kindern nicht
in ihren Wohnhäusern bleiben.33 Heute haben sich
die Dinge auch in dieser Hinsicht stark gewandelt.
Zum einen ist es den Frauen erlaubt, während der
Menstruation im Haus zu bleiben und sich in der
Öffentlichkeit zu zeigen, was früher undenkbar
gewesen wäre. Und auch die Kinder werden heute
zum großen Teil im Krankenhaus in Colonia auf
die Welt gebracht. So kommt es, daß die Gründe
für die Existenz der Frauenhäuser nach und nach
weggefallen sind und sie heute gesellschaftlich
keine Funktion mehr besitzen.
Dies bedeutet aber auch, daß Frauen nun an
öffentlichen Veranstaltungen teilnehmen können,
obwohl sie möglicherweise gerade ihre Periode
haben. Während meines Aufenthaltes auf Yap fan-
den Feierlichkeiten zum 49. Jahrestag der “Yap
Cooperation Association” (YCA), der Einkaufs-
zeile Colonias, statt, und es wurden vor einer
beträchtlichen Zahl von Zuschauern viele Tänze
33 Eine Diskussion über geschlechtsspezifische Reinheits- und
Unreinheitsvorstellungen, die sich hier anschließen müßte,
kann in diesem Rahmen nicht geleistet werden.
Anthropos 96.2001
136
Corinna Erckenbrecht
aufgeführt. Auch an dieser Feier hätten die yapesi-
schen Frauen während ihrer Menstruation zur Zeit
der Frauenhäuser nicht teilnehmen können, weder
als Tänzerinnen, Sängerinnen noch als Zuschaue-
rinnen. Agnes, meine Gesprächspartnerin, konnte
sich über den Umstand, daß Frauen heutzutage
offiziell an allen Anlässen teilnehmen können,
ohne daß jemand ahnt, daß sie vielleicht gerade
ihre Periode haben, nicht genug amüsieren.
Die Wichtigkeit des Themas Menstruation für
yapesische Frauen darf nicht unterschätzt werden.
Viele ihrer Gespräche drehen sich um dieses The-
ma, ja, es ist fast ein Politikum. Nach Aussagen
von Judith Lingenfelter, die ebenfalls auf Yap
ethnologische Forschungen betrieb (1981), konnte
sie erst dann das Vertrauen der Yapesinnen gewin-
nen bzw. deren ablehnende Haltung ihr gegenüber
überwinden, als sie Diskussionen über Menstrua-
tion ernst nahm und gezielte Falschaussagen oder
Unterstellungen in einem konfrontativen Gespräch
offensiv widerlegen konnte.
Frauenhäuser scheinen also wegen des Weg-
falls von Meidungsvorschriften bei der Menstrua-
tion gesellschaftlich überflüssig geworden zu sein.
Doch fehlt nun auch die Möglichkeit, von häusli-
chen Verpflichtungen auszuspannen. Das mir in
dieser Hinsicht mitgeteilte Bedauern findet offen-
sichtlich auch einen Widerhall auf männlicher Sei-
te. Yapesische Männer berichteten, daß ihre Frau-
en früher zufriedener und ausgeglichener gewirkt
hätten. Dies brachten auch die Männer direkt mit
der Existenz der Frauenhäuser in damaliger Zeit in
Verbindung.34 Offensichtlich sind sich beide Ge-
schlechter darüber bewußt, was mit der Aufgabe
der Frauenhäuser alles verloren gegangen ist.
3.5 Kulturwandel und Wandel der Geschlechter-
rollen
Die deutsche und japanische Kolonialzeit läute-
te einen Kulturwandelprozeß auf Yap ein, der
sich nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg mit dem Be-
ginn der amerikanischen Verwaltung fortsetzte,
und der heute aufgrund von Globalisierungspro-
zessen (Tourismus, Bildungszugang, Internet) ra-
pide fortschreitet. Mit Beginn der amerikanischen
Verwaltung war zunächst die Einführung demokra-
tischer politischer Institutionen und der Beginn des
Schulsystems nach amerikanischem Vorbild von
herausragender Bedeutung. Als die Amerikaner,
die weder die Sprache noch die (politische) Kultur
34 Mündliche Mitteilung Sherwood Lingenfelter 15.11.1999.
Yaps verstanden, 1946 die Yapesen aufforderten,
politische Vertreter zu wählen, die ihre Interessen
gegenüber der amerikanischen Verwaltung vertre-
ten sollten, war dies für die Yapesen zunächst
ein sehr ungebräuchlicher Vorgang. Sie lösten den
Konflikt dadurch, daß sie kurzerhand ihre tradi-
tionellen chiefs, die diese Position aufgrund von
Rang, Status und Prestige innehatten, zu Vertretern
wählten. Als mit den Jahren regelmäßig Wahlen
stattfanden und Exekutive von Legislative getrennt
werden sollte, war dies schon schwieriger zu lösen.
Hinzu kam, daß ab 1956 Freiwillige des ameri-
kanischen Peace Corps und ab 1962 ausgebildete
amerikanische Lehrer für zwei Jahre nach Yap
kamen, um dort die Schulbildung zu verbessern.
Ab den 70er Jahren hatten fast alle yapesischen
Kinder und Jugendlichen intensiven englischspra-
chigen Schulunterricht genossen und konnten auf
“High Schools” und “Colleges” auf Yap bzw. auf
Pohnpei oder Hawaii ihre Schul- und Ausbildung
vervollkommnen. Einzelne gehen heute auch in
die USA, sofern dort persönliche Anknüpfungs-
punkte durch Familienangehörige bestehen, und
besuchen Colleges oder Universitäten. Dies führte
nicht nur zu einer Veränderung des politischen
Systems und des politischen Denkens auf Yap,
sondern änderte auch konkret Lebenseinstellungen
und Rollenvorstellungen. Hinzu kommt die Ent-
wicklung einer modernen Geldökonomie auf Yap,
die Arbeits- und Verdienstmöglichkeiten eröffnet.
Der größte Arbeitgeber auf Yap ist heute die
Regierung selbst, aber auch die Fischereiindustrie,
das Dienstleistungsgewerbe, der Einzelhandel und
der Tourismus sind wichtige Arbeitgeber.
Bezüglich der Veränderung des Geschlechter-
verhältnisses und des Wandels der Geschlechter-
rollen haben vor allem zwei Dinge in den letzten
zwanzig bis dreißig Jahren großen Einfluß ausge-
übt. Das ist zum einen der Zugang zu Bildung
und Ausbildung, wie oben beschrieben, und zum
zweiten der Zugang zu Arbeits- und Verdienstmög-
lichkeiten, die ehemals eher Männern, in heutiger
Zeit aber auch Frauen offenstehen. Auch der Ein-
fluß der Medien nach Einführung des Fernsehens
und des Videorecorders ist nicht zu unterschätzen.
Hier werden Bilder anderer Länder und Kulturen,
aber auch andere Rollenvorstellungen vermittelt,
die den yapesischen Vorstellungen konträr wi-
dersprechen, deren tatsächlicher Wahrheitsgehalt
jedoch nicht für alle Yapesen überprüfbar ist. Es
werden außerdem neue finanzielle wie emotionale
Bedürfnisse geweckt, die von den entsprechenden
Partnern nicht immer erfüllt werden können. Auf-
grund all dieser Faktoren entstanden und entste-
hen heute neue Formen des Zusammenlebens,
Anthropos 96.2001
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen
137
des Lebensablaufes, des Arbeitsalltags und der
geschlechterspezifischen Rollenverteilung.
Am bedeutsamsten ist heutzutage sicherlich,
daß Männer - und Frauen - nun in ihrem Ar-
beitsalltag nicht mehr uneingeschränkt ihren tra-
ditionellen Arbeiten verpflichtet sind (oder auf-
grund von Zeitmangel ihnen nicht mehr nachgehen
können), sondern daß, im Fall der Männer, diese
tagsüber an ihrer Arbeitsstelle beschäftigt sind
und mit ihrem Lohn Essensvorräte und Dienst-
leistungen erwerben können, die ehemals die Frau-
en zum Lebensunterhalt beisteuerten. Die Män-
ner kaufen nun im Supermarkt Reis, Getränke,
Corned Beef u. a. ein und können durch diese
Waren den kompletten Lebensunterhalt der Fami-
lie übernehmen. Ihre Zeit für häusliche Pflichten,
etwa für Instandhaltungsarbeiten am Haus bzw.
Boot oder für ihren Einsatz in den Tarofeldern,
ist dadurch aber knapper bemessen. Auch verbrin-
gen Männer unter Umständen ihre Freizeit und
ihren Feierabend mit Arbeitskollegen - wobei der
Alkohol eine Rolle spielt -, so daß ein gemein-
sames häusliches Leben mitunter völlig entfällt.
Dies bedauern und kritisieren yapesische Frauen,
da das gemeinsame Gestalten der Freizeit und
die Diskussion und gegenseitige Hilfestellung bei
Problemen trotz Geschlechtertrennung in vielen
Bereichen gerade von Frauen - wie auch prin-
zipiell von den Männern - sehr geschätzt wird.
Durch den Kauf von Nahrungsmitteln wie etwa
Reis wird den Frauen zwar die harte Arbeit in
den Tarofeldem abgenommen, sie begeben sich
dadurch aber auch in ein Abhängigkeitsverhältnis
zu ihrem Ehemann, das vorher nicht existierte.
Das heißt, daß das Vorhandensein und das gezielte
Einsetzen von Geld zur Haushaltsunterstützung
auch zu einer Verschiebung der geschlechtsspezi-
fischen Arbeitsteilung führt, die den Frauen zwar
Erleichterung, aber auch Abhängigkeiten bringen
kann.
Andererseits ist es den Frauen heutzutage eben-
falls möglich, ein Arbeitsverhältnis einzugehen,
das sie in den Besitz von Geld bringt. Sie kön-
nen in Läden, in Hotels, als Büroangestellte, als
Lehrerinnen oder Taxifahrerinnen arbeiten, um nur
einige Beispiele zu nennen. In offiziellen politi-
schen Positionen höheren Ranges arbeiten in der
Regel keine Frauen, jedoch können sie auch re-
gierungsnahe Organisationen an exponierter Stelle
vertreten. All diese Tätigkeiten sind insbesondere
für junge Frauen attraktiv, die ihre Schulbildung
in Pohnpei oder Hawaii erhielten und nach ihrer
Rückkehr nach Yap wenig Lust verspüren, wie-
der die ungeliebte Arbeit in den Tarofeldern zu
übernehmen. Auch werden junge Frauen durch
den Wegfall der Frauenhäuser nicht mehr in frau-
enspezifische Wissensgebiete eingewiesen. Junge
yapesische Frauen sind daher gerne bereit, den
Lebensunterhalt entweder selbst durch kaufbare
Lebensmittel oder durch die finanzielle Unter-
stützung des Partners möglich zu machen. Durch
den eigenen Gelderwerb können Essensvorräte und
Konsumgüter angeschafft und eine gewisse Unab-
hängigkeit vom Einkommen des Mannes erreicht
werden. Frauen erwerben dadurch auch soziale
Kompetenzen und lernen öffentlich aufzutreten,
was älteren Yapesinnen, die kaum je ihr Dorf
verließen, nicht möglich war. Die jüngeren Frauen
werden dadurch fast ebenso mobil wie im klassi-
schen Rollenverständnis yapesische Männer.
Der Kulturwandel birgt sowohl Nachteile als
auch Vorteile für beide Geschlechter. Heutzutage
gibt es viele Yapesinnen und Yapesen, die sprich-
wörtlich in zwei Welten wandeln: Sie leben in
den Dörfern und erkennen traditionelle Verhal-
tensrichtlinien an, andererseits sind sie aber in
die moderne Arbeitswelt eingespannt und verän-
dern dadurch ihren tatsächlichen Lebensstil und
Arbeitsalltag. Noch heute spielt der Zustand ih-
res Tarogartens eine wichtige Rolle für das An-
sehen einer Frau, ebenso wie die Erfolge beim
Fischen für einen Mann. Andererseits sind viele
neue Tätigkeitsgebiete und -möglichkeiten hinzu-
gekommen. Auch Rollenverteilungen, in denen die
Frau einer Erwerbstätigkeit in öffentlichen Äm-
tern nachgeht und der Mann Zuhause bleibt, das
Grundstück pflegt und dem Fischfang nachgeht,
sind heute möglich.
Lingenfelter ist in einer zusammenfassenden
Analyse der Ansicht, daß die zunehmende Ein-
bindung in die Geldökonomie den Frauen letztlich
Nachteile in der familiären Machtbalance gebracht
hat. Frauen würden in eine ökonomisch minder-
wertige Position abgedrängt und ihrer traditio-
nellen Machtmöglichkeiten beraubt. Er schreibt
(1993: 172):
It has been argued that the changes introduced by edu-
cation and economics place women in Yapese society
at significant disadvantage to men in the traditionally
defined division of labor and the balanced exchange of
the products of labor. In particular, wage employment
offers men the opportunity to gain a dominant position
in marital economic exchanges and to supplant the role
of the wives in a number of significant areas.
Dieses Urteil kann m. E. nicht so eindeutig
gefällt werden, da auch den Frauen heute die
Möglichkeit zur Selbständigkeit, zur Eigen Ver-
antwortung und zur Mobilität gegeben ist. Eher
erscheinen beide Bevölkerungsteile noch auf der
138
Corinna Erckenbrecht
Suche, wie idealtypische Rollenvorstellungen von
yapesischen Männern und Frauen in der heutigen
Zeit und in der Zukunft aussehen sollten. Und die
Diskussion darüber wird noch anhalten.
4 Zusammenfassung und Ausblick
Die Quellenanalyse und die anschließende Diskus-
sion haben gezeigt, wie das politische
System, die Sozialstruktur, die Deszendenz- und
Wohnfolgeregelungen das Verhältnis der Ge-
schlechter im allgemeinen und die soziale Po-
sition sowie die Möglichkeiten der politischen
Partizipation der Geschlechter im besonderen in
der yapesischen Gesellschaft beeinflussen. Die
drei relevantesten Autoren wurden mit ihren
Forschungsansätzen vorgestellt und anschließend
einer kritischen Analyse unterzogen. Die wich-
tigsten ethnosoziologischen Strukturmerkmale des
Verwandtschafts- bzw. Gesellschaftssystems wie
die (Kriterien der) Kasteneinteilungen und die
Deszendenzgruppen der landbesitzenden Patrili-
neages sowie der blutsverwandtschaftlichen Ma-
triclans wurden dabei diskutiert. Hierbei zeigten
sich theoretische, empirische wie terminologische
Schwächen, die Wissens- und Forschungsdefizite
offenbarten. In einem ersten Versuch wurden da-
her frauenspezifische Mobilitäts- und Flexibilitäts-
möglichkeiten in der bisher als streng hierarchisch
und patrilinear organisierten yapesischen Gesell-
schaft sowohl sozial wie räumlich aufgezeigt,
und auch die Form der Geschlechterbeziehungen
in politischer, sozialer wie familiärer Hinsicht
untersucht. Eine Darstellung der akkulturativen
Wandlungsprozesse in historischer wie zeitge-
nössischer Hinsicht schloß diese Ausführungen
ab. Traditionelle Vorstellungen sind heute, wie
geschildert, immer noch virulent und haben das
idealtypische Bild einer yapesischen Frau oder
eines yapesischen Mannes noch nicht entscheidend
verändert. So wird auch heute noch die Frau
gerne mit dem Steingeld verglichen, das in der
Fremde erworben an ein Haus gebracht wird und
dort fest verbleibt, wohingegen der Mann eher
dem Muschelgeld gleiche, das in der Gesellschaft
zirkuliert.
Eine umfassende Analyse spezifisch yapesi-
scher Geschlechterkonstruktionen und die prakti-
sche Ausformung der Geschlechterrollen auf der
politischen, sozialen, familiären wie religiösen
Ebene ist, wie die bisherigen Ausführungen ge-
zeigt haben, überfällig. Diese Analyse, die auch
durch die Einbettung in einen west- und zentral-
karolinischen Vergleich eine weitere interessante
Stoßrichtung erhalten kann, sowie die Untersu-
chung der geschlechtsspezifischen Implikationen
des gegenwärtigen Kulturwandelprozesses werden
in Zukunft die spannendsten Themen der Ethnolo-
gie Mikronesiens bleiben.
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 141-156
The Social Construction of Gender
Female Cannibalism in Papua New Guinea
Ilka Thiessen
Abstract. - In Papua New Guinea, gender identity has been
described as strict segregation and oppression of women.
However, cannibalism can give us new insights into a gender
identity. Culture creates boundaries that imply division, though
“sameness” is experienced. This social experience is projected
onto the body. In the act of cannibalism, substance and power
are exchanged. Gender identity reflects then an ideology, not
a body function. [Papua New Guinea, cannibalism, gender,
substance, power, sameness and difference]
Ilka Thiessen, Ph. D. 1999, London School of Economics,
presently Research Affiliate at the Department of Anthropology
at the University of Manitoba, Canada. Her main research
interest is gender and social change in the Former Yugoslavian
Republic of Macedonia. Publication: The Essence of Being.
Procreation and Sexuality in Mid-Century Macedonia. In P.
Loizos and P. Heady (eds.), Conceiving Persons. Ethnographies
of Procreation, Fertility, and Growth (London 1999).
In Papua New Guinea, gender identity has been
described as the strict segregation and oppression
of women. However, the imagery of cannibalism
can give us new insights into a gender identi-
ty in which gendered substances are exchanged.
Culture creates boundaries that imply division,
though “sameness” is experienced. This social
experience is projected onto the body. In the
act of cannibalism, substance and power are ex-
changed, and women and men cooperate for the
common goal of transcendence. The differences
between the sexes, then, cannot be understood
within the framework of hierarchy (direct power
monopoly). Gender identity reflects an ideology,
not a body function. Gender identity in Papua
New Guinea is only a momentary condition of a
person, determined by the quantity of gendered
substances with which a person has contact. The
control of these substances is the only moment in
which gender identity is fixed. It is this control,
monopolized by men in Papua New Guinea, that
gives the impression of strict segregation.
This paper explores why in some parts of Papua
New Guinea (PNG) women are believed to eat
their dead kinsmen. The title “Female Cannibalism
in Papua New Guinea” suggests two things: first,
women and their gender identity are related to
the act of cannibalism, more precisely, necroph-
agy;1 and second, cannibalism is a meaningful
theme in many PNG societies. In others, canni-
balism itself is not particularly important, though
a gender image can be identified that often relates
to cannibalism.
Cannibalism, therefore, is first examined as a
cultural and historical embodiment in symbols,
myths, or rituals, or as the physical act itself.
But rather than interpret the act of cannibalism as
such, I present a different image of gender identity
in PNG that contrasts with the notion of fixed
gender identity. Consequently, cannibalism as an
actual observed behavior and the question of why
some people practice cannibalism and some do
1 The term “gender” has come to be used to distinguish
socially ascribed sex-linked attributes from physiological
sex (Rubin 1975). According to this distinction, gender is a
socially constructed division of the sexes that denies many
similarities between the physical makeup and abilities of
men and women. As such, gender is a social category.
142
Ilka Thiessen
not are of little interest. However, cannibalism’s
recounted past, present, or mythical existence in
relation to female imagery is of concern. The
question is, why are women in PNG believed to eat
their dead kinsmen?2 The answer I suggest is that
cannibalism can be seen as a substance transfer
or transformation between corpse and consumer.
The symbolic cannibalistic image or the physical
act then becomes a defining characteristic of what
it means to be female or male in these societies.
I do not intend to give an all-inclusive picture of
cannibalism or gender images in PNG since I do
not concentrate on a single society. Instead, an
“ideal type” is demonstrated to compound a range
of apparently related forms. Thus the phenome-
non of female cannibalism provides a different
understanding of gender imagery. In many eth-
nographies these images are described as extreme
segregation of the sexes and the subordination of
women.
The main argument of this article is based on
Gillian Gillison’s account of the Gimi-speaking
people in the Eastern Highlands Province of PNG.
Her assertions resonate strongly in other Eastern
Highlands and Central Highlands ethnographies
as well. Gillison noted extreme forms of sexual
segregation and antagonism plus an exclusive as-
sociation of the act of cannibalism with women
(1983: 33). The style of symbolism and the im-
plications must be seen as more important than
has formerly been appreciated. These male-female
oppositions are connected with specific ideas about
cannibalism and dominance in the Highlands, re-
volving around ideas of exchange of substance and
power and the reproductive cycle.
Women are seen as uniquely nurturing and able
to make children, plants, and pigs grow through an
intense projection of themselves. Men are severely
threatened by this. Male initiation cults serve to
separate men from female potential. This danger
is symbolized in a purely female substance: men-
strual blood. If a man comes into contact with this
substance - and especially if he eats it -, “his body
(by implication equivalent to his penis), symbol-
ically retraces the path travelled by what he ate,
is taken back inside the female and [is] devoured
... The eater ‘places himself back inside the fe-
male’ where he becomes the ‘child,’ her ingested
‘food’” (Gillison 1980: 150). However, menstrual
blood carries a very ambivalent symbolic load:
2 The term “women” includes uninitiated boys or low-status
men (Gillison 1993: 70 f.), who were not seen as “male”
but as belonging to the “women’s houses.” This means that
they are looked on as men with too many feminine qualities.
although it may be seen as the ultimate threat
to men, it is also a powerful promoter of health
and growth. Similar ambivalence is found in all
kinds of female imagery. The act of cannibalism
and male initiation rituals aim to resolve such
ambiguity, yet in doing so they reveal it. “Fixed”
male-female identities are, in fact, created. In the
transfer of substances it becomes apparent, either
through eating the male corpse or expelling female
substances in the cult context, that substances of
the opposite sex are present. The female cannibal
becomes male by eating male substance (the male
corpse), and at initiation the male initiate is de-
feminized, implying that female substances were
initially present.3 Through these acts, substances
are manipulated. Ideas about substances are used
to differentiate what would otherwise remain the
same: ego and alter (see Lévi-Strauss 1969).
Harrison (1989) argues that for the Avatip, it
is the threat of people’s “secular equality” (same-
ness) to the permeable boundaries of their society
that calls for “ritual hierarchy” (differentiation) in
warfare. Such ritual hierarchy restores individual
power and autonomy, whereas secular equality
stands outside the context of warfare. Neither
concept, though, should be understood as exclusive
to a specific social group (i.e., men or women):
both are present in everyone, male or female.
The moment of action determines whether the
individual responds with equality or hierarchy.
Gender imagery, then, might not be seen as ex-
clusive, at least not for the PNG case under discus-
sion. Fluctuation between ego and alter (between
female and male imagery) might be the reality,
a reality of permeable boundaries whose nature
is apparently disguised. Distinctions between ego
and alter seem to be necessary for identification.
There is an attempt to regulate fluctuations be-
tween alter and ego to create a social reality that
implies separation, despite an apparent sameness.
Hertz (1973), in his essay titled “The Pre-Emi-
nence of the Right Hand,” argues that the slight bi-
ological preponderance of the right hand in no way
justifies the fundamental polarity between left and
right: it is the social experience that is impressed
onto the physiological. This means that the social
experience of separation finds its expression in the
belief that men and women, biologically speaking,
are absolutely different. Social experience thus
includes, as Yanagisako and Collier (1987) rightly
3 The aim of ritual cannibalism is to have men entering the
spirit world; women “bear” men into the ancestral world
through their act of cannibalism and thus eat male corpses
only.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
143
suggest, a fundamental inequality. As systems of
values (with evaluation), social systems are sys-
tems of inequality. Assuming that it is difficult or
impossible to see the social consequences arising
from “natural” differences or to expect a “natural”
world of equality, one has to explain, not why
there is inequality, but rather how it is articulated.
Gayle Rubin (1975) has suggested that societal
inequalities can be understood as taboos against
sameness. For women and men, this means taboos
that exacerbate the biological differences between
them and thereby create genders. Seen from the
standpoint of nature and the diversity of its species,
women and men are far closer to each other than
either is to anything else.
In the case of PNG, I believe it is the manipula-
tion of substances through cannibalism - symbol-
ically, mythically, and perhaps even practically -
that creates gender. The notion of gender is far
more fluid than much Western imagery suggests,
causing ambivalence to be more apparent.
In this article, the example of the Gimi given
by Gillian Gillison is contrasted with specific
idioms of masculinity. Notions of the body and
its internal and external substances are connected
to the idiom of cannibalism and to gender identi-
ty. Special consideration is given to the ultimate
female substance, menstrual blood. What it means
to be female, detached, or consumed is explored,
and the account concludes with an examination of
what it means to be the same and to be different in
PNG, following Henrietta Moore’s suggestions in
her 1993 paper, “The Differences within and the
Differences between.”
Cannibalism: What Does It Represent?
This article examines female necrophagy of men.
Although there are three main theories about can-
nibalism discussed in the literature, I do not deal
with them at length because they have little or
nothing to say about gender issues. The first is a
utilitarian model in which cannibalism overcomes
a protein deficiency in cases where animal protein
is scarce, as with the ancient Aztecs, which is
discussed by Michael Hamer (1977) and Marvin
Harris (1977). Derek Freeman (1964) gives an-
other explanation: cannibalism, like warfare, can
be seen as an act of innate human aggression.
^ third theory is advanced by Arens (1979) in
his book “The Man-Eating Myth.” Arens denies
that cannibalism has been and continues to be
a customary form of behavior in any society;
cannibalism, he argues, is simply a statement about
primitivity of the “other” (that is, women as “in-
ternal other”).
Whether or not cannibalism actually does occur,
the reported acts or beliefs can be seen as a form
of ontology in which the bodies of consumer and
consumed serve as mediums of cultural concep-
tion. Whatever the case may be, an interpretation
at a metaphoric, symbolic, and ideological level
is possible. Mortuary cannibalism by women can
come to represent a general concept of gender
identity throughout the Highlands of PNG.
Superior Female Powers
Because girls mature earlier than boys, in many
PNG societies the female body is seen as endowed
with superior biological powers (Herdt 1987: 170-
172). This idea influences the cultural conception
of male gender identity formation and has direct
bearing on the practice of mortuary cannibalism
by women. Women are seen as naturally equipped
with all the necessary reproductive functions,
whereas men have yet to achieve manhood. In
the cannibal act, women and their male “meal”
both share a reproductive task, but it is through
women that the male corpse becomes reproductive.
As Gillison (1980) reports, women eat the dead
bodies of men in order to release their individual
spirits, enabling them to join the collective body
of ancestral spirits in the forest.
Reproduction as such can be understood as a
way of transferring fertility and regenerating social
identity - in other words, connecting ego and
alter by using female particularity. The problem
that arises is how ego best avoids becoming alter,
drawing on resources that lead to a complete
incorporation and possibly not to a social identity
of its own. An extreme form of incorporation
can be found in the idiom of cannibalism. In
mortuary cannibalism, the dead and their social
identity and procreative powers are dissolved into
the ancestral world through their incorporation by
women, becoming a male source of fertility.
In some societies pig feasts are held, where
pork can be seen to represent the deceased. Both
instances, pig feast and cannibalism, reflect a spe-
cific notion of life and death as a transaction:
Death requires the transfer of the spirit into the world
of ghosts, and such a transfer, like any other, can be
effected only by means of an exchange, in this case, a
sacrifice of pigs ... What is fascinating to note here
is that the Gimi people say that this is what they
also used to do, before women invented cannibalism.
They therefore explicitly see cannibalism as a kind of
Anthropos 96.2001
144
Ilka Thiessen
short-circuiting by women of what men would otherwise
have managed differently; but this is allowed, because
(a) it is in revenge for men’s theft of the flutes used
in initiations, and (b) cannibalism in any case releases
men’s soul; it therefore obviates the need for pigs (A.
Strathern 1989: 128).
Thus, cannibalism could be identified as a sym-
bolic recognition of female procreative powers and
a possible female autonomous status, whereas it is
the exchange (of pigs) that represents male auton-
omous status. Sharing in consumption permeates
the boundaries between ego and alter, between
women and the deceased. Through the act of ritual
exchange, it is men who fulfil the cultural act of
differentiation.
Mortuary cannibalism, therefore, can be seen
as a cultural system of symbolism and ritual,
providing a model of, and for, specific behavior of
men and women that seems to facilitate the proper
flow of life-generating substances and power. It is
a strong statement about the sources of life and
death as perceived in many societies of PNG, as
well as a way to control them.
Male Control and Substance Exchange
The female body is understood as the source of
biological life. Biological life has to be culturally
created and regulated by controlling the flow of
substances (i.e., food rules). Life, social identity,
human transformation, and descent into the ances-
tral world are all connected to the female body.
However, the proper flow of substances is regu-
lated by men even though, as in the Gimi case, they
claim cannibalism was invented by women. Wom-
en’s perceived role in reproduction allows them
access to vital substances (for example, to semen
through intercourse or through the consumption
of a corpse on its way to the ancestral world).
Women’s access to the substances is threatening,
though, and must be curtailed by men so it does not
become uncontrolled consumption, giving women
autonomy over life and death. Men’s task is to
control the transfer of substance.
Transfer of substance includes external sub-
stance regulation of food prohibitions and transfer
of bodily substance through interpersonal contact
of mother and child or husband and wife. What
differentiates men and women in PNG societies is
the negative encoding of female substances, which
are considered pollutants. Pollution goes back to
menstrual blood and fertile fluids mirroring an
uncontrolled incorporation by women and contam-
inating everything with which females come into
contact, including garden products and children. In
contrast, men’s spirit is seen as positive fertiliza-
tion of clan territory.
This opposition is reflected and reproduced in
the act of mortuary cannibalism, which aims to
control incorporation and the continuation of social
life. “Food” consumption and its regulation creates
social relationships (Meigs 1984), that is, a con-
trol of substance exchange. These acts of control
distinguish alter from ego; and it is the domain
of exchange that distinguishes men from women,
separating what was joined through cannibalism.
Women’s autonomous consumption is transformed
into an exchange in which cannibalism serves male
ends.
Cannibalistic transfer of vital substance means
that when women eat a dead man’s body, internal-
izing his flesh, they are preparing his bones (the
symbol of a man’s essence) to return to the forest
spirit world to fertilize nature (Gillison 1983). But
such cannibalistic acts must always be controlled
by men so that it does not turn into the asocial
(female) principle described by Poole (1992) for
the Tamam-Witch, who destroys the ritual im-
portance of the male substance and transforms it
into female substance. Bimin-Kuskusmin control
the asocial female principle not only through a
substitution of substance but also by adjusting
bodily balances through proper intake of substance
quantities.
The cannibalistic consumption of male parts of either
male or female corpses is believed to strengthen the
hard, strong, internal, ritually significant “male anato-
my” of either men or women. Such acts also weaken
the soft, weak, external, ritually unimportant “female
anatomy” of persons of either sex. Conversely, the
anthropophagic consumption of female parts weakens
the “male anatomy” and strengthens the “female anat-
omy.” Similarly, male or female foods strengthen male
or female parts of the anatomy of humans, respectively
... (Poole 1983:9).
What Does Cannibalism Symbolize?
To understand the cultural logic behind these ideas
of life, death, and reproduction is to understand
what cannibalism represents. Substance exchange
creates life, leads to death, and ultimately regener-
ates society. The idiom of exchange is seen as be-
ing monopolized by men in many PNG societies. It
appears that although women’s reproductive power
is recognized in the notion of consumption, men
in ritual exchange direct the reproductive energy
of women to a “good” end for society.
Anthropos 96.2001
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145
The question remains “whether rituals reflect
social relationships, or act so as to mask or deny
them[?]” (Lindenbaum 1983: 99). In other words,
is it ritual exchange carried out by men that
induces the regeneration of the male corpse, or
does it only mask women’s autonomy in their act
of consumption?
The Example of the Gimi
Gillison (1993) states that for the Gimi “exchange
has a profoundly sexual origin and meaning; and,
conversely, that the sexual relation is a transaction
of which one party ... is symbolically unaware,
or ‘still a child,’ and, therefore, innocent of the
disastrous outcome” (xv; emphasis in original).
This outcome is the first gift, the firstborn child of
ancient time, who is born as dead blood, menstrual
blood. Gimi men try to reclaim the “child” that
women stole from them. “When a man goes . . .
to his wife to induce birth, to ‘wake the child’ so
it does not ‘stay asleep and die inside the mother,’
he becomes the true husband by gently dislodging
the child from the Moon’s embrace - offering
the Moon a second course in place of the child”
(215).4
Exchange
Ritual transactions, understood in this way,
exclude women from exchange, symbolizing
their subordinate female sexual identity (Rubin
1975: 195). Men exchange, making life possible,
to gain back the “child” stolen by women. Gillison
(1993) sees in Gimi ritual and myth “the notion
that death can be overcome or delayed if only it
could be decided which sex invented it” (xviii).
“By satiating the Moon, the husband stops the
cannibalism and induces between Moon and fetus
the kind of soporific embrace a woman extends to
nurtured objects. The one who mothers a man’s
unborn child, in this sense, is not his wife but the
mythic father he divides and conquers inside her”
(220).
4 The Moon is the woman’s primordial first husband; he
‘“throws his giant penis out of the sky’ and copulates with
[all women], making their blood flow. Both sexes refer to
menstrual blood as ‘dead womb blood’ and as ‘the same
as a firstborn child,’ suggesting that it signifies not only
penetration by the moon but also a stillbirth, the lifeless
residue of a child” (Gillison 1993: 11).
Autonomy
What is not as obvious at first glance is that
Gimi men, in their struggle with women, grant
them an equal status. Although it is the Moon
they pacify with exchange, it is women who
appear to be cannibals since the Moon is never
seen, and they appear to own the flute because
of their seamless union with the Moon (Gillison
1993: 346). This subtle recognition of women’s
possible autonomous status is expressed in men’s
fear that women could take back that which, in
the symbolism of myth, once belonged to them.
Sacred bamboo flutes, hidden from women in
men’s houses throughout the Eastern Highlands,
are said to have been invented and once played by
women. One woman
was supremely independent and lived without a hus-
band. One night her haunting music woke a small boy
asleep in the men’s house. The boy ... stole her flute.
Robbed of her “bird,” the woman began to menstruate
and lost her independence ... If men fail to keep this
secret, their myths warn, ... women will “take back”
the flutes and regain their ancient autonomy (Gillison
1993:5).
Besides the image of women’s autonomy
through the previous ownership of the flutes, it is
their role in cultivation that gives women another
kind of autonomy. Gimi believe that “the vigour
and fruition of all nurtured life ... depend upon
exclusive attachment to, or symbolic incorpora-
tion by, individual female caretakers” (Gillison
1980: 147). New life can be created only if it is
bound to women, and although it is supposed to be
men’s semen alone that creates the fetus, the fact
that women’s nurturing ability is necessary for
the continuation of social life contradicts men’s
dominance in social life. Men, therefore, have to
reappropriate their dominance in order to prevent
an overly intensive attachment of life to women,
as this inhibits independent social life. Through
sexual intercourse a man places a living part of
himself (his semen) into a woman to create life;
the woman, for her part, instead of giving life,
kills this life, his potential child, by giving it back
as menstrual blood. The male fear of menstrual
blood is a fear of being devoured by women. It
suggests
that female and male have too great an affinity, are too
easily brought together and unified. Menstrual blood
originates inside women but is associated with the
wounding penis/the retained “food’Vthe cannibal meal:
it represents the destruction of the boundary between
Anthropos 96.2001
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Ilka Thiessen
male and female, the end of men’s separate existence in
the world (Gillison 1980: 150).
Men’s fear itself, as I argue above, exhibits wom-
en’s potential to dominate social life.
Male Intervention
Mortuary cannibalism and menstrual blood annul
the separation of women and men. Men’s rituals
(mainly initiation cults or marriage rituals) thus
try to prevent the male body from becoming a
permanent part of the female body, as this would
mean they would no longer be separate, no longer
alive. The way this has to be understood, however,
is that without menstrual blood there would be no
fertility. Female cannibalism plays on this notion:
women must destroy so men can create life.
The flute might be seen as a symbolic penis,
giving the first women an androgynous status.
When men stole the flute, males and females
became differentiated. Women, “wounded” in such
a way, began to menstruate. In other words, men-
struation was caused by the loss of the penis.
However, with the penetration of another penis,
the penis of woman’s first husband, the Moon is
said to cause menstrual flow as well. When a wom-
an is penetrated by her husband she again loses
something that has already been inside her. Her
husband, then, takes control of her androgynous
potential.
The relationship of women to cannibalism has
to be understood as a reassessment of the male
element women once possessed. By eating corpses,
women internalize once again the stolen penis
and feminize the dead man’s body.5 Ultimately
men must intervene ritually, by feeding to women
portions of pigs anatomically identical to the man’s
body and feeding to women identical female parts
of their male “meal” (the pig is equated with the
female domain). Such male intervention forces the
spiritual essence of the man into the male ancestral
world; he is “recycled.” After the cannibalistic act,
the dead man’s bones are buried in the forest, and
their dissolution “enriches his clan forest, giving
rise to new life forms in the way semen engenders
life in a woman’s body”(Gillison 1993: 101). Gimi
men then have to face an insoluble contradiction:
though it is men who intervene into the absolute
female attachment and detachment, so preventing
self-destruction, they do not control life cycle
5 “... man’s whole body functioned as a penis: by ‘going
inside’ women cannibals (Gillison 1983: 39).
processes. Men must go “inside” women to create
life. Men may have created a “vessel” in the name
of self-perpetuation, yet they never overcome the
danger of being devoured, the danger of being
“kept in.”
Requisition
What does it mean to be female? An essential
maleness is characterized by the secret of the
flutes; to know about the flutes is to be a man.
Why is it that men claim the flutes were originally
female? I might suggest from the images pres-
ented that women are the original source of the
flute/child/male body. Could it be that to be a man
means to be originally female? Or is everything
male?
Though men “use” women’s procreative power
and pansexually create themselves, the stealing of
the flutes reasserts that women could easily gain
this power back for themselves, showing that
The combination of male and female characteristics
in the male is the secret of male dominance; their
combination in the female is men’s doom ... From this
perspective, sexual antagonism is a conflict over who
controls the indivisible power to reproduce the world,
a power which resides in the body ... The contested
issue is whether women’s power to “absorb the male”
- to negate body boundaries through cannibalism and
menstruation - surpasses men’s ritual power to release
the male spirit and to elevate it through the absorption
of female elements (Gillison 1980: 171; emphasis in
original).
Is it the male element (men’s pig ritual) or the
female element (women’s consumption/incorpora-
tion) in the act of cannibalism that helps the dead
men to transcend into the ancestral world?
Conflict and Cooperation
It seems that female cannibalism may be both an
expression of conflict between men and women
and an unspoken cooperation between them.6 It
6 Men claim cannibalism was entirely women’s idea (Lin-
denbaum 1979:22; Berndt 1962:271; Gillison 1993:70).
Gillison reports complaints by men about women who let
their men rot, stating this as “striking contrast to men’s
direct statements and women’s own burlesques, that can-
nibalism was not entirely ‘women’s idea’ nor merely the
result of women’s loss of self-control” (Gillison 1993: 77),
and that the cannibalistic act has to be seen as “part of the
ritual, acting in unspoken collusion or fulfillment of men’s
demand” (83; emphasis in original).
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
147
becomes a merging of the sexes. Through can-
nibalism, women destroy sexual differentiation,
whereas men, through the exchange of pig parts,
separate the sexes again. With the descent into
the ancestral world, men use male and female
powers to create, whereas women are left with
nothing. From this perspective, men presently own
parthenogenetic abilities that in mystical times
belonged to women (flutes). However, in the Gimi
worldview it seems that these two images corre-
spond and communicate with each other; gender
identity, defined as the possession of reproductive
power, is perceived as very unstable. Cannibalism
is a way to alter gender identity. The possession of
the flutes can never be final. Both symbolize the
idea that everyday reality is, like sexual identity,
alterable and perhaps even reversible (Gillison
1983: 50). Yanagisako and Collier (1987: 39) put
it this way:
there are no “facts,” biological or material, that have
social consequences and cultural meanings, in and of
themselves. Sexual intercourse, pregnancy, and parturi-
tion are cultural facts, whose form, consequences, and
meanings are socially constructed in any society, as are
mothering, fathering, ... and talking with the gods.
Further, sexual identity is in and of itself so-
cially constructed. This is made clear if we recall
the female imagery of mortuary cannibalism. Such
images stress how, through substance transfers,
one’s sexual identity is at a specific moment in
time temporarily defined.
Idioms of Masculinity
Elements of the male cult complex pervade many
rituals in PNG. Describing the male cults con-
veniently illustrates ideas about male-female sub-
stances and pollution, gender antagonism, and
separation. Specific and recurring themes may
be found in these cults, including sacred flutes,
systematic deception, specific understandings of
growth, maleness and pollution, revelation of cult
secrets, bleeding rituals, and the association of
men with the wild forest and hunting. They center
around human procreation and lead to the notion
that men are not a natural entity but are instead
created.
One major theme of these cults is the exclusive
separation of men and women, issuing from the
notion of dangerous female fluids, substances, and
Powers. These notions are acted out in daily life
through division of labor on the homestead and
through the exclusively male politics of exchange.
Men have to avoid the deadly threat of female pro-
creative powers (i.e., menstrual blood), although
on the other hand these powers are projected onto
male bodies - nosebleeding or penis bleeding7 -
for example, the possibility of male pregnancy
(Newman and Boyd 1982; Meigs 1976) and by
overtaking the nurturing role of women by male
initiators feeding initiates their semen, which is
equated with breast milk (Herdt 1987). Purifi-
cation, nurturance, and instruction are given to
initiates of different cults throughout PNG, along
with the secret of the flutes. Their deceptive role
toward women, and the uninitiated, and their reve-
lation toward initiates subscribe an ultimate sense
of separation between initiates in the cult houses
and people from the “women’s houses” (Poole
1982: 136).8
Female Threat and the Creation of Manhood
In societies where male cults are found, the un-
initiated boy is seen as feminized, too close to
the mother. This threat of exclusive attachment
to or symbolic incorporation by the mother has
to be broken through initiation; otherwise boys
will not grow and become strong. Men have to
be strong to be warriors. They have to protect
women and territory. Thus they have to create
men to “celebrate and reinforce male dominance
in the face of women’s visible power to create
and sustain life” (Keesing 1982: 23). “At the same
time men’s shared secrets of ritual contribute
to the maintenance of a supercommunity within
which they conduct the politics of exchange and
marriage, as well as warfare” (Keesing 1982: 24;
emphasis in original). Central to male secrecy
are bamboo flutes. The flutes, potent symbols of
male identity, produce the conviction that they
belonged to women in mystical times. Underlining
this, Herdt (1982:54 f.) describes the Sambia’s
perception of gender identity and role:
men believe that a girl is bom with all of the vital
organs and fluids necessary for her to attain repro-
ductive competence through “natural” maturation. This
conviction is embodied in cultural perceptions of the
girl’s development with the sex assignment at birth ...
Underlying men’s communications is a conviction that
7 Nosebleeding or penis bleeding is a form of blood purging,
getting rid of the contaminated feminized blood of the
mother. Whitehead (1986) says that a collective substance
riddance replaces a collective substance sharing as the
modality for stating shared identity (87).
8 It is not simply males and females who are kept apart.
Anthropos 96.2001
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Ilka Thiessen
maleness, unlike femaleness, is not a biological given.
It must be artificially induced through secret ritual ...
Girls possess a menstrual-blood organ, or tingu ... Boys
... are thought to possess an inactive tingu. They do
possess, however, another organ - the kere-ku-kereku,
or semen organ - that is thought to be the repository of
semen, the very essence of maleness and masculinity;
but this organ is not functional at birth, since it contains
no semen naturally and can only store, never produce,
any. Only oral insemination, men believe, can activate
the boy’s semen organ, thereby precipitating his push
into adult reproductive competence (emphasis in origi-
nal).
Ritual transformation is the code for express-
ing such bodily imagery, masculinity set against
female substance. A prime fear among Sambia
men is the belief that semen disappears into
the female body, failing to create masculinity in
men, opposing separation. Women, by “eating”
men’s semen, take away their strength and slowly
kill them (Herdt 1987:283). Initiation, therefore,
brings about not just the separation of boys from
the female world but also the polarization of
the sexes, creating a distance that is seen as
vital. Through insemination, men create men and
overcome their feminized substances. However,
contact with women is perceived as threatening to
their masculine identity. Men, who are thought to
have a precariously inactive tingu, could become
feminized again. Women could attain masculine
attributes as well by taking in excess semen, above
and beyond immediate reproductive needs. This
would endanger the creation of men, and by exten-
sion society, because it would divert semen from
its proper end. Secrecy surrounding the Sambia
cult hides the fact that men are unable to create
semen by themselves. Bamboo flutes become the
substitute for the nurturing mother, symbolizing
the penis and glands penis (female penis) (Herdt
1987:250). Female substances are denied; male
substances are monopolized. Although both sub-
stances are needed to reproduce society, this fact
remains hidden.
Domination
But why are men seen as the dominant sex?
Godelier (1986:65) believes that for the Baruya
the opposition between the sexes is an
opposition between two realities each of which has its
limits in the positive characteristics of the other, in
the positive characteristics that it itself lacks but that
collaborate with those that it does possess in order
to produce a result beneficial to both. Looked at in
this light, male domination is no longer a reflection of
the superiority of one group that possesses power over
another that does not.
Men reduce the powers held by women to
mystical times, but nevertheless they must si-
multaneously recognize female powers as part of
themselves. In sum, one can conclude that idioms
of masculinity are characterized by an “ideology”
of male dominance over women defining social
values, creating men and women. Men, then, create
the difference between maleness and femaleness.
On closer examination, though, one can sense
that men do not perceive themselves as masculine
except in the context of the cult; the female
“threat,” the fear of not being so different from
women and the fear of femaleness as more basic
than maleness, is constantly present.9 This conclu-
sion is drawn substantively from Herdt’s Sambia
case but can be inferred from other accounts as
well. The attachment of children to their mothers
is seen to feminize them. This “spell” has to be
broken to create future warriors. “Men, as total
men, are not born in New Guinea; they are ritually
constructed. Only commonality of cult makes for
commonality of manhood” (Whitehead 1986: 88).
What the cults are producing is an allocation
of substances (female/male), creating identity and
separation.
Male Violence
What is startling is how men are able to take
over female reproductive power despite the fact of
women’s gestation. The answer from Collier and
Rosaldo (1992) would be that it is the creation of
social bonds that are taken over by men and placed
beyond the realm of biological reproduction. Col-
lier and Rosaldo connect this takeover to male
violence, perceived as vital for defense and meat
supply. Women are excluded from these domains
and do not get the opportunity to offer, in practice
or symbolically, a contractual exchange of female
domestic support (cooked food, sex, gardening,
child production) for male products (particularly
defense and meat). Their domestic labor, garden-
ing, and child rearing, vital for survival of society,
do not create social bonds but are instead limited
to the household.
9 Added to this, comes the belief that to replenish semen
“lost” through their fellatio inseminations men have to take
control of the aerial root, of female iku trees whose white
sap is believed to replace lost semen. However, this white
sap is also seen as female breast milk (Herdt 1987: 111).
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
149
Male fertility becomes connected to male vio-
lence. Exchange and violence, two different ex-
pressions of the same concept of social bonds
(Harrison 1989), are central to many PNG so-
cieties. In exchange, as in violence, power is
distributed and creates difference. The mystical
theft creates an either-or situation as well. The
result is that procreative abilities cannot be held
by both sexes at the same time. Manipulation of
substance through male cults achieves this goal.
Body and Substance
Inequality and Domination
The relations I have described between men and
women in PNG do not necessarily have to be
seen as relationships of domination and inferiority.
Marilyn Strathem ([ed.] 1990: 280 f.) notes in her
conclusion:
Where agency is linked to subjectivity, it implies a
self-evident relationship between persons and what they
do, and the kinds of control persons exercise over the
natural world and over one another. That such relations
constantly reduce to a hierarchical form makes it diffi-
cult to conceptualise “difference” in a non-hierarchical
manner ... since we hold that to concentrate on differ-
ences between persons is to put some at an advantage
or disadvantage in respect of others.
Strathem suggests that it is absurd to believe
that differences must to be perceived as hierarchi-
cal. Difference does not have to mean inequality.
Gender might not be a form of symbolism explain-
ing differences. If so, we should ask to what does
gender really refer.
Gendered Substance and Value Transfer
The male cults show that female fertility does
not have to be connected to women, and that
mortuary cannibalism can be seen as a system of
gendered substance transfer rather than as revenge
or recycling due to men’s domination and use of
women as a vessel. “In so far as women embody
values, men’s deployment of these values involves
their constructing and entering into concrete rela-
tions with women themselves” (M. Strathem [ed.]
1990: 287). These values are not female values but
constructions of separation. Fertility and sexuality
become split and are assigned negative and posi-
tive value, the former working for the latter against
society, a distinction that is ultimately indepen-
dent of gender.10 Women’s association with death
and mortuary cannibalism seems related to values
thought of as female attributes that can be detached
and transferred. That they are not male attributes
derives, I believe, from the monopoly of exchange
by men. Men give and take, but women receive.
It seems, nevertheless, that in PNG societies,
gender identity is not exclusive for either sex but
rather a combination-separation flux, a constant
process. Relationships are acted out through flows
of substances; the flow of substance from mother
to child is counteracted by men through exchange
(M. Strathem [ed.] 1990: 25). This could mean for
notions like kinship that substances that can be
detached can also be brought together to create
something else - meaning that shared food or
shared territory leads to shared substances (Lin-
denbaum 1979: 49).
Pollution
Food is used as a metaphor of incorporation:
food = substance = kinship/territory = exchange;
sharing of food creates social bonds and soci-
ety. Strict residential segregation or expulsions
of female substances through nosebleeding and
restrictions on foods demonstrate a fear of fe-
male substances, leading to an ideology of female
pollution. Langness (1967) suggests that such an-
tagonism between the sexes is intimately related
to the warfare endemic to the PNG Highlands.
To achieve the necessary solidarity, males need
to be separated, physically and emotionally, from
women. The ideology of pollution is an expression
of this underlying need for male solidarity. How-
ever, as a source of fertility, female substances are
needed in nutrition (food/pigs) and procreation and
are praised and incorporated into male cults, thus
recognizing male dependency on women (Buch-
binder and Rappaport 1976; Lindenbaum 1976).
Food and Sexual Identity
The relationship between food and “substances”
has to be seen in their transfer; consumption stands
for social bonds (Douglas 1991). For the Hua,
Meigs describes distinctions in food rules that
mirror age, sex, ritual, and reproductive status
10 Sexuality through its individual status of desire falls out
of the moral realm of society. Sexuality does not work for
society and becomes connected with the death of society
(Bloch and Parry 1982: 24).
Anthropos 96.2001
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Ilka Thiessen
and carry some of the powers of the persons
who cultivate or prepare food for eating. Like
blood, breath, hair, sweat, fingernails, feces, urine,
footprints, and shadows, food also is viewed as
an effusion of the body, more specifically of
its labor (Meigs 1984:20). As a person’s status
changes, so too do food rules. For a woman, this
means that her polluting status changes; a man’s
cycle differs in his vulnerability to women. Food
rules adapt to these circumstances. Food qualities
promote effects that are used to regulate pollution
and vulnerability of women and men. Food may
thus symbolize a person or an object. The food
producer is identified with the food he or she
produces. The consumer is identified with the food
he or she consumes, a fact that gives food social
value.
For the Hua, food represents sexual relations
(Meigs 1984: 31-44). Their understanding of food
supports the general association of PNG societies
with male domination. Food transfer reflects social
values: the sexual act is viewed as negative, for
it is seen as destructive to male vitality, whereas
feeding is seen as the opposite of sex and as pos-
itive, thereby strengthening men. Both these acts
are incorporation of substances. Sexual intercourse
and feeding are associated not only with moral
values but also with gender identities. Feeding
is seen as a female act, sexual intercourse as a
male act, implying that it is the female act that is
morally superior. It is in the context of male ritual
and taboo where the sexual act is looked on as a
feeding act and the feeding act is seen as sexual,
also reversing the values attributed to the acts. As
Meigs (1984:43 f.) indicates:
Body acts and relationships are made to mirror the
preferred male conception of social acts and relation-
ships. The physical or natural order has been reversed
to bring it in line with the social order ... This reversal,
like the cult of the secret flutes, the ritual expulsion
of female substance, the residential segregation of the
sexes, and the exclusive male ownership of land and
pigs, impresses a conception of women as inferior ...
Such a conception is neither fully believed by the males
nor fully accepted by the females. It exists as one of
several ways of thinking about male-female relations. It
is one in a set of competing ideologies ...
Body Substance and Its Gender Identification
The theft of the flutes presents another positive
picture of women holding the original, superior
powers. The picture Herdt gives from the Sambia
depicts an understanding of human physiology
where a male and female resemble each other
more than they differ. The possibility of male preg-
nancy, the imitation of menstruation by men, and
the growth stimulus provided by secretly eating
female foods (Meigs 1984: 52-59) all represent
a less rigid male image of women and gender in
general (M. Strathern 1990: 100). It is possible that
women, as ritual specialists or as postmenopaus-
al women, take on male attributes (Poole 1992;
Meigs 1984: 67) and that uninitiated boys are seen
as feminized through their contact with female
substances (Hays and Hays 1982: 221).
Pollution becomes a gendered threat for men
and women. It is not biology but behavior and
substance that seem to determine gender. To be
female or male means to be the same in extreme
opposition; the opposition is socially affirmed,
stating a difference in degree but not in kind
(Meigs 1984: 97). To live together means to feed
each other. Social interdependence and cohesion
are expressed through this reality and the metaphor
of cannibalism (124). Female cannibalism symbol-
izes gender and gendered substance.
The Ultimate Female Substance
Control
Before I return to the consumption aspect of can-
nibalism, I wish to draw an explicit connection
between women and cannibals, both of whose
menstrual and reproductive cycles are beyond the
control of men, who nonetheless attempt, through
ritual, to take control of them (by ritual nosebleed-
ing, purification, food taboos, etc.) (Hays and Hays
1982: 233-235). Viewed from this perspective, the
female aspect is ritually controlled by men, largely
for their own benefit (as in the example of the
Gimi).11 The cannibal act comes to be viewed as
a ritual regulation of male transcendence through
women. In short, men use women as instruments
in the movement of male characteristics (in spirit
form) into the living world or into the ancestral
world.
Revenge
Another way of interpreting the stealing and con-
suming of corpses by women is to see this action
as an act of rebellion or an “expression of defiant
11 Aspect = attribute, characteristic, facet, feature, quality,
position.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
151
autonomy,” aimed at compensating for the mys-
tical theft of the flutes and, with them, women’s
autonomy. Men’s ritual and women’s antisocial,
uncontrollable aspect thus stand in opposition.
This opposition, however, is one of degree and
not of kind.
Menstrual Taboos?
The female aspect of life is symbolized by the ulti-
mate female substance - menstrual blood. Through
“the menstrual taboo” men try to control this
female attribute. However, “In other cultures men-
strual customs, rather than subordinating women
to men fearful of them, provide women with the
means of ensuring their own autonomy, influ-
ence, and social control” (Buckley and Gottlieb
1988: 7). First it seems that in many, if not most,
societies, menstrual taboos restrict others more
than the menstruating women themselves. Second,
the isolation of menstruating women cannot be
regarded unproblematically as a sign of their low
status, for it may be seen as a rest time for these
women and additionally may provide a context for
women’s solidarity (Rosaldo 1974: 38). Inherent in
the assumption that menstrual taboos are created
by men for their own benefit is the dubious impli-
cation that “men write the cultural script and that
women simply and obediently recite their lines”
(Buckley and Gottlieb 1988: 17). However, that
menstrual blood is seen as polluting comes more
from a recognition of the double nature of the
male-female relationship. Menstruation challenges
the male-dominated social order and defines a
subgroup within this society, creating separation
and, hence, a threat. As Buckley and Gottlieb (28;
emphasis in original) indicate,
Menstrual blood is seen as polluting when it symboli-
cally encodes an underlying social-structural ambiguity
regarding women and things female. On the one hand
a society may have a consciously developed ideology
of male superiority but, on the other, it may also
permit women access to at least some kinds of power,
thereby in a sense undermining its own ideology of male
dominance.
For these Highland societies, I think one can
argue that menstrual pollution is not of central
concern as such, but the notion of substance trans-
fer is. The transaction may be either positively or
negatively valued, depending largely on the social
relationships of the subjects involved in substance
transfer.
Detachment, Consumption, and Being Female
In PNG, although it is men who exchange, it
is women who consume (Sanday 1989:81). The
body becomes the focus of concern over bound-
aries that are all too easily shifted or obliterated
altogether. The separation between ego and alter
can never be fully achieved. This fluidity cannot
be acknowledged in group ideologies that require
a solidarity based on firm, fixed bonds (Josephides
1985: 26).
Boundaries
The cultures in PNG might differ in their meth-
od of creating the divisibility between ego and
alter and between male and female. In all so-
cieties under discussion, however, it is exchange
that creates and maintains boundaries for men:
between great men and followers, between own
clan members and other clan, and between men
and women. The women’s world seems to break
down these boundaries with in-married wives
(Josephides 1985: 64), mothers, and cannibals - as
consumers of men’s clan territory, as consumers of
men’s reproductive fluids, and finally as consum-
ers (quite literally) of their bodies. The ambiguity
lies in the innate positive, reproductive character
(as feeder, as mother of the clan, and as cannibal
of transcendence) of consumption that parallels
the fear of uncontrolled consumption and social
breakdown.
Exchange / Consumption
To differentiate themselves from women and to
create controlled boundaries, men use the idiom
of exchange and warfare to exclude women. As
such, women are indeed politically dominated by
men, and to suggest otherwise would be to take
great liberties with the data (Josephides 1985: 99).
However, to simply note women’s inferiority in
male power games tells us little, if anything, about
why women hold these subordinate statuses in the
first place. We should investigate the nature of this
inferiority, noting that there is nothing like univer-
sal women or universal men, who define specific
spheres in society. Men can be seen as dominating
the political-social sphere, yet we should not forget
that gender distinctions may be drawn in many
different ways.
One of these gender distinctions is between ex-
change and consumption. Men exchange, women
Anthropos 96.2001
152
Ilka Thiessen
consume; but women produce what men exchange,
and men consume women’s products in exchange.
The social relationships in which both production
and exchange take place are thus a matter of
ideology and defining inequalities, not a matter of
actual relationships. Gender thus becomes a means
of defining subordination and domination.
The idioms of gender can be used cross-sexually, so that
a man may be said to be womanish or a woman mannish,
... [but] the fact is that men first create the values to
which they then aspire. That is, they create a separate
domain (of exchange, warfare, hunting, etc.) in which
only they are active, and make this the political centre
of group activities (Josephides 1985: 133; emphasis in
original).
Women’s powers are turned against them, since
consumption and dependency are considered fe-
male. One reason for this might be that women do
not define the group and as such do not act for the
group. But gender embodies a broader definition -
it mirrors ideas about life forces or general values
where society is not solely a structured social
world of men.
Power
The act of cannibalism can thus be seen as a state
of power relations between thè female and male
elements of people, between two groups over the
monopoly of power. For Josephides, this statement
means that it is not necessarily men who come
to stand for the “social.” Society and its values
are taken care of by women and are symbolized
by the female world. Female cannibalism is an
acting out of values and a means of transcending
society. Women are associated with responsibility
and social obligation. It is women who feed soci-
ety and who carry the responsibility of the right
substance transfer, although men control it.12 For
the Gimi, it is said that “the vigour and fruition of
all nurtured life is believed to depend upon exclu-
sive attachment to, or symbolic incorporation by,
individual female caretakers” (Gillison 1980: 147).
For Gimi men, females are the source of both life
and nutrition; this leads Gimi men to attempt, at
once, to sever their attachments to women, and
to seek the complete attachment to women in the
cannibalistic act of ritual regeneration. And here
12 Women have to be careful that after sexual encounters
semen does not get into the hands of sorcerers or that they
do not pollute men with menstrual blood or through the
cannibalistic act (Poole 1992; Gillison 1993).
lies the picture of women creating and reproducing
society by themselves, laying out the full social
nature of women’s involvement in societal affairs.
I am not arguing that this in any way obliterates
the distinction made between men and women. I
simply want to point out that attempts to assign ab-
solute standpoints to either sex may be misguided.
The form of distinction between men and women
should to be examined, not assumed.
Cooperation
Marilyn Strathern states that Hagen women are al-
ways held responsible for their actions (1992). “In
taking gender to be a metaphor for the convention-
al oppositions they impose upon the world, people
establish forever these oppositions in their own
bodies” (Buchbinder and Rappaport 1976:33).
However, these oppositions are not absolute in the
context of social relationships. At any time women
can dissociate themselves from the “handicap”
of being female. Men, similarly, have to prove
that they can utilize the potential of being male.
Maleness and femaleness are not absolute idioms
of personhood and as notions do not encompass
absolute negative or positive values. In the act of
cannibalism we cannot argue, therefore, that what
males claim to dominate are female elements of
extra-social nature. Cannibalism is a social action
by both sexes. Gender stands for a different kind
of agency and not for the power of a single-sexed
group (M. Strathern 1990: 102).
Amalgamation
The theft of the flutes that allegedly deprived wom-
en of their autonomy and power can be seen as
an open-ended argument about who has the power
(M. Strathern 1990: 104). Pollution is largely about
substance transfer, and not about the sexes endan-
gering each other per se (Meigs 1984). Males and
females differ “in terms of capacities to receive,
transform, and transmit the very substances that
form them” (Poole 1992: 136), and “thus, natural
substances ... may become a basis for reckoning
not only gender, but also social relations that
are related to gender differences” (118). Since
substances are transferable, “this classification per-
mits crossovers: a genitally male person may be
classified as female through his contamination by
female substances, and a genitally female person
may be classified as male through the transfer of
pollution out of her body” (Meigs 1984: 70 f.).
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
153
Detachment
When (or if) women eat dead men, then maleness
or femaleness is seen as detachable. While persons
are consuming, the flow of substances between
them stands as a visible sign of the alternating
conditions in which a person can be: the alternat-
ing conditions are the separation and containment
of ego and alter. Mortuary cannibalism pictures
the transference of “sexual attributes” exchanged
between female and male persons - attached and
detached.
Flutes and male corpses stand for maleness,
but with female features. Men, in their cults and
in the use of women in the cannibalistic act,
create themselves as men. However, women are
parthenogenetic as well: it is male ritual alone
that prevents women from being autonomous. It
is the giving of pigs to the cannibals, where men
initiate exchange and ritually cooperate in the
transformation of the dead man’s body into clan
fertility.
In general, men’s fears about women “suggest
that female and male have too great an affinity, are
too easily brought together”(Gillison 1980: 150),
though it is not a static relationship but the “sep-
arations in existence (self/other, male/female, hu-
man/animal, etc.) are repeatedly destroyed in order
that they may be repeatedly created” (171). The
power over reproductive capacities is indivisible.
The flute is a symbol of something that cannot be
shared but possessed by only one sex or the other.
Both flute and reproductive power become indivis-
ible but transmissible (Gillison 1983: 49). Female
cannibalism is the acting out of this concept -
a cooperation between the sexes, expressed in
the idioms of competing ideologies. Reproductive
power is not shared but transferred from man to
woman to create children and from women to men
to create ancestral spirits. Women incorporate the
male corpse, gaining reproductive power, while
men exchange pigs so that women release male
spirits, regaining reproductive power.
Affinity
Claims of encompassing maleness or femaleness
are only transient and temporary reflections of
Power. To claim this power, men appropriate fe-
male reproductive powers (i.e., flutes), and women
appropriate male corpses. As such, both sexes
Produce fertility for society, albeit in different
forms. The presence of the other sex is a crucial
Part of these actions and is essential for their
effectiveness. Distinctions must be made, but as
with the Gimi, gender constructs build on the
premise of androgyny. To produce is to separate
(by gender), but for something to be separated it
must be brought together. Women produce chil-
dren for Gimi society while men become the spir-
itual essence for the general fertility of clan soil.
However, according to the Gimi, women produce
children only through men, as men become spirits
only through women. It seems almost as though
women and men were no more than variants of
one another - a fleeting moment in the flux of
time.
What It Means to Be the Same,
What It Means to Be Different
By choosing a theme like female cannibalism, I
focus on two interrelated topics: gender concepts
and cultural categories. The case of mortuary can-
nibalism in PNG shows a very different concept
of gender than is implied in many previous ethnog-
raphies. The gender concept becomes a cultural
category, and the discourse about gender cannot
be divided from the general discourse about female
cannibalism.
Cannibalism
Female cannibalism mirrors an understanding of
gender as not inclusively hierarchical. The strict
segregation of the sexes and the reported oppres-
sion of women cannot simply be understood in
terms of inequality. In the struggle for reproductive
power, using the idioms that are culturally pre-
scribed, women incorporate what men exchange
in the act of cannibalism, transferring substances
and innate powers and cooperating in the mutual
goal of transcendence.
Understanding the idiom of incorporation and
hierarchy, as perceived in the act of cannibalism,
allows an understanding of gender difference as
a category of distinctions between female and
male, between women’s and men’s worldviews,
and between the roles of the sexes in society. This
difference has to be understood, however, without
the implication of hierarchy - an understanding of
power exclusively belonging to one social group.
Cannibalism comes to resolve the experienced
ambivalence of gender identity for a moment in
time, but only to reveal it again. Simultaneously,
permeable boundaries are disguised and accounted
for.
Anthropos 96.2001
154
Ilka Thiessen
Sameness
Anthropological research has concentrated to a
great extent on the variability of female and male
concepts cross-culturally, defining not just dif-
ferences between cultures but between men and
women as well. I would suggest that perhaps too
little attention has been paid to the concept of
sameness (see Moore 1993). In contrast to other
living things, men and women are surprisingly
similar. Why should there be such an uncrossable
divide, as is often implied? Of course, this leaves
some questions open: Is being similar equivalent
to being the same? Would this imply, on a hier-
archical level, equality? Is gender difference the
foremost form of differentiation?
This discussion of female cannibalism tries to
present an image of gender that cannot be under-
stood in terms of fixity. Gender for many societies
in PNG is not fixed and is determined not so much
by the physiology of the human body as by the
transfer of substances. Gender is not constructed
on the biology of the human body but is the
same as the actual act of cannibalism: a cultural
conception of the flow of life. “Difference” then
becomes a social construction and is not derived
from biological difference. One then has to ask,
where does the notion of difference arise, and how
and why is it constructed in society? As I argue,
the differentiation is actually between alter and ego
as being the most fundamental human principle.
To define oneself, one has to separate oneself
from the “other.” This differentiation creates the
inequality discussed by Collier and Yanagisako
(1987). However, to separate, one has to first be
“the same.” This dilemma is recognized in the
imagery of gender and its ritual outcome of canni-
balism, pointing toward the apparent ambivalence
of gender.
The PNG data seem to suggest that the human
body is nothing more than culturally sexed, given
culturally defined differences. These differences
are the outcome of a cultural discourse. They
are not innate. Sexual difference thus becomes
variable. It cannot be assumed that it is biology
that defines such universal notions of femaleness
and maleness.13 I am not arguing that there is
no difference physiologically speaking between
men’s and women’s bodies or their reproductive
abilities. I am instead arguing about the social
construction of such differences, that is, how such
13 I point out that the reason for a “preponderance” of male
dominance might lie in the male monopoly of exchange
framed by violence, warfare, and hunting.
differences are perceived and elaborated into a
specific worldview. A worldview that is famil-
iar with the notion of cannibalism and a spe-
cific female involvement in this act bears the
perception of gendered substance transfer. The
cosmologies in PNG perceive life and death as
a flow of substances, acted out in the imagery
of cannibalism. This is reflected in how people
understand their maleness or femaleness. The body
itself is sexed through its intake and expulsion of
life substance. The body therefore does represent
one sex as such. The difference between sex and
gender in the anthropological discourse becomes
obsolete. Physiological sex itself can no longer be
divided from the culturally constructed gender. A
body’s physical functions can be understood only
through gender constructs of a specific society.
Sexual difference reflects ideology rather than
body functions. Sameness and difference become
one. No single concept of gender can be offered
within one society or between different cultures.
Men and women, perceived as different, come to
share personhood. However, must this personhood
always be gendered? Body, substances, and social
acts are gendered, but do they form personhood?
Fluctuation
The account I present of female cannibalism in
PNG demonstrates that personhood does not have
to exhibit a single sexual identity. Sexual identity
bears the imprint of flowing gendered substances,
which determine the momentary sexual status of
a person, its autonomy and agency. It has to
be considered, however, that the proportion of
gendered (that is, male or female) substance de-
termines the sexual status of a person, meaning
the quantity of a substance defines the sexual
status. That does not single out the presence of the
opposite-gendered substance, leaving the person
with an ambiguous gender status. Control over
substance transfer, then, is the only way to solidify,
if only temporarily, gender identity. It is through
this control, a control exercised by men through
their monopoly of exchange, that men and women
in PNG are seen as extremely segregated.14 The
separation is the outcome of recognizing the great
affinity of people. This affinity is disguised by
holding exclusive power, a power that actually
fluctuates. It is a power that, though indivisible,
is still transmissible (Gillison 1983: 49).
14 A control that is exercised by men through their monopoly
of exchange.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Social Construction of Gender
155
Difference, therefore, is not naturally attached
to bodies, but sameness is detached culturally.
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Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 157-168
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der Traumzeitvorstellung
der australischen Aborigines
Stephan Krines
Abstract. - Aborigines successfully incorporated Judaeo-
Christian myths, Jesus, and the Prophets of the Old Testament
into their worldview. This provides a neat refutation to the
still commonly held assumption that Aboriginal religious life
is rigid and unchanging. This paper contrasts the way in which
Christianity has helped break down the separation between
cultural groups with its function as a structure for explicit
discourse on Aboriginal / non-Aboriginal relations and inequal-
ity. Furthermore, this article considers the way Christianity
has transformed the concept of the Dreaming. [Australia,
Aboriginality, dreaming, religion, Christianity, spirituality]
Stephan Krines, M. A. (Bayreuth 1999), Studium der Ethno-
logie, Soziologie und Religionswissenschaft in Bayreuth und
Birmingham; z.Z. Promotionsprojekt über indigene Theologie
und ihre ethnographische Entsprechung am Beispiel Austra-
liens, Universität Bayreuth.
A people without history
is not redeemed from time,
for history is a pattern
of timeless moments.
(T.S. Eliot)
I Einleitung
Lauriston Sharp (1952) vertrat in seinem Arti-
kel “Steel Axes for Stone Age Australians” die
Meinung, der Kontakt mit der westlichen Zivili-
sation müsse für die religiöse Kultur urprodukti-
ver Gesellschaften1 verheerende Folgen haben, die
sich im Bedeutungsverlust traditioneller Mythen
und der Erosion der mythischen Weltauffassung
schlechthin niederschlagen. Neuere Untersuchun-
gen (Taylor 1988) geben jedoch Anlaß zu der Ver-
mutung, daß die Widerstandsfähigkeit und Anpas-
sungsfähigkeit der uraustralischen Kultur größer
ist als angenommen. Der “Fortschritt ins Nichts”,
den auch Andreas Lommel (1969) für die Kultur
der Aborigines kommen sah, fand nicht statt. Das
Mabo-Urteil von 1992 bewirkte die offizielle Re-
vidierung des “Terra Nullius Act”1 2 und brachte
den Aborigines ein breites öffentliches Interesse
ein. Mittlerweile sind sie nicht einmal mehr davor
gefeit, von Esoterikern und Umweltschützern zu
“noble environmentalists” hochstilsisiert zu wer-
den (Tonkinson 1998: 301).3 *
Die Religion der Aborigines, insbesondere das
“Dreaming” spielen in diesem kulturellen Pro-
zeß eine bedeutende Rolle. Dabei fällt auf, daß von
Seiten der Aborigines die Traumzeitvorstellung
oftmals mit Aussagen in der Bibel verglichen
wird. Christliche Elemente sind in der Traumzeit-
vorstellung nachweisbar. Es stellt sich die Frage,
inwieweit diese in die mythische Ontologie der Ab-
origines aufgenommen wurden? Wenn heute fast
alle Aborigines einer der zahlreichen christlichen
Glaubensgemeinschaften angehören (Erckenbrecht
1998: 171), welche Rolle spielen dann christliche
Vorstellungen und Motive im Ethnizitätsprozeß der
1 Vgl. Bargatzky (1997a: 66 ff.).
2 Durch die Zurückweisung des “Terra Nullius Act” bestätig-
te der Oberste Gerichtshof Australiens, daß den Aborigines
das Land vor der Ankunft der Europäer rechtmäßig gehörte.
3 Zur Problematik des “Edlen Wilden” in Australien vgl.
Borsboom (1988).
158
Stephan Krines
Aborigines? Wie werden diese Motive von den
intellektuellen Vertretern der Aborigines in ihren
Publikationen verarbeitet?
II Die Bedeutung der Traumzeit im
australischen Ethnizitätsprozeß
Den Mythen, die von der Traumzeit handeln,
haftet etwas Beispielhaftes an, dem nachgeeifert
werden muß, und nicht das Begründende, mit dem
man sich auseinandersetzen kann, schreibt Gerhard
Schlatter (1989: 147). Gerade in dieser Hinsicht
scheint sich ein zunehmender Wandel einzustellen,
denn es zeigt sich deutlich, “daß die Religion der
australischen Aborigines heute nicht mehr dieselbe
ist wie vor der Kolonisation und Missionierung
Australiens in der Hinsicht, daß sie heute einem
starken Begründungszwang unterliegt” (Schlatter
1989:98). Standen einst die gesellschaftlichen
Normen, die religiösen Vorstellungen nicht zur
Debatte, denn sie wurden von den Totemvorfahren
auf ewig festgelegt, so zeigt sich die moderne Reli-
gion der Aborigines heute in einem anderen Licht.
Die Rituale von heute sind andere wie früher. Der
Regen kommt für die Aborigines heute auch ohne
Regenritual (Kolig 1982: 27). Nur fällt eines auf:
Gilt es der australischen Regierung gegenüber auf
die ökologischen Folgen aufmerksam zu machen,
oder Rechte auf ihr Land zu beanspruchen, wer-
den nicht Argumente der ökologischen Vernunft
ins Feld geführt, “... sondern nur ein Nein, das
mit Geistern argumentiert” (Greverus 1995: 236).
Den Aborigines wird verweigert, ihre politischen
Ziele mit den Mitteln der politisch-pragmatischen
Rhetorik zu führen.4 Soll ein “land claim” Früchte
tragen, so ist es die spirituelle Verbindung zum
beanspruchten Land, die der Kläger der Lokal-
gruppe nachweisen muß. Dieses Verfahren ist nun
keineswegs nur ein Ausdruck der australischen
Legislative, sondern wird von den Aborigines mit-
getragen, die eine Landnutzung als “Sache des
Glaubens” betrachten (Greverus 1995: 241).
So dürfte es keineswegs erstaunlich sein, wenn
intellektuelle Vertreter einer modernen “Aborigi-
nality”, deren erklärtes Ziel die Landrechtsfra-
ge ist, ihre spirituelle Beziehung zum Land und
dessen schützenswerten Charakter zu untermauern
versuchen. Die Traumzeit hat eine neue Dimension
erhalten. Vertraten die einflußreichen Stimmen un-
ter den Aborigines in den 70er Jahren noch die
Sichtweise der Ethnologen, die ihr Augenmerk auf
4 Ein anschaulicher Auszug aus einem Gerichtsprotokoll fin-
det sich bei Povinelli (1993: 247 ff.)
eine lokale Identität richteten, so ist spätestens seit
Beginn der 80er von Seiten der Aborigines ein
Umbruch zu verzeichnen, hin zu einer “Aboriginal-
ity”, die die lokalen Unterschiede zu nivellieren
droht. Die Identität der Aborigines hat andere
Bildungsmuster zur Grundlage als zur Zeit von
Baldwin Spencer und F. J. Gillen. Die Identitäts-
bildung hat die lokale Ebene transzendiert: “For
it seems that Aborigines today increasingly define
Aboriginality in terms of how they relate to land
rather than to which lands they are related” (Swain
1995: 109).
Die lokalen Geschichten sind für eine “Ab-
originality” von sekundärer Bedeutung (Berndt
1977: 10).5 Die Beachtung der lokalen Kulte, die
in der Traumzeit ihre Begründung fanden, mischt
sich zunehmend mit einer politisch eingefärbten
Zurückbindung an die Traumzeit: Die Traumzeit,
das “local knowledge”, die heiligen Handlungen,
mit denen man ehemals undogmatisch verbunden
war, scheint plötzlich durch den Kontakt mit der
weißen Zivilisation, der beständigen Gefahr ausge-
setzt, zum Dogma zu werden.6 Eine “ethnogenic
dynamic” ist dabei sich zu bilden: Die Formu-
lierung des eigenen kulturellen Hintergrunds mit
Begriffen, die auf Abgrenzung von den Europäern
zielen. “It emerges as the contradiction between
distancing oneself from domination and engaging
with domination to struggle against it”, so bringt
es Gerald Sider (1987:7) auf den Punkt. Und
in diesem politischen Diskurs kann die Traum-
zeit ein Mittel zur Abgrenzung von den Anderen,
dem weißen Australien, den Missionen und den
Anthropologen darstellen. Sicher, beschränkt man
seinen Blickwinkel auf die lokale Ebene, wird man
feststellen, daß die Traumzeit ein zu amorphes
Konstrukt ist, als daß es den einzelnen Individu-
en oder sozialen Einheiten als identitätsstiftendes
Moment ausreichend genug wäre.
Insbesondere auf lokaler Ebene hat die Zu-
weisung zu einer Deszendenzgruppe, die my-
thisch-spirituelle Verbindung des Einzelnen oder
der Gruppe zu einem bestimmten Landstrich mit
seinen heiligen Plätzen, nach wie vor starke Be-
deutung (Glowczewski 1998). Doch auch in der
Vergangenheit war eine Identifizierung vorhanden,
die nicht auf den lokalen Bereich beschränkt blieb
(Schiatter 1989: 140 ff.). Doch wie ist es um die
Traumzeit bestellt?
5 Das soll natürlich nicht heißen, daß die lokalen Traditionen
an Bedeutung verlieren. Nur sind diese für das Konstrukt
der “Aboriginality” nicht zentral. Man kennt sehr wohl die
lokalen Unterschiede (vgl. Rose 1992: 121).
6 Vgl. Kolig (1987: 254): “Aborigines in many respects lived
with the dogma rather than by it.”
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines
159
Bei den Nganggikurunggurr am Daly River
ist die Traumzeit mit der Ankunft der Weißen
zuende gegangen. “Before whitefella (von white
fellow) lebte man following that Dreaming and
the Law“ (Duelke 1998: 52). Schenken wir Tony
Swain Glauben, wird die Traumzeit heute mit der
Zeit vor der Kolonisation gleichgesetzt und ist ein
Synonym für das traditionelle Leben, welches vor
ca. 40 000 Jahren begann und abrupt im Jahre
1788, mit der Ankunft der ersten weißen Siedler in
der Botany Bay endete. Das Konzept der Traum-
zeit weist für ihn Parallelen zu jüdisch-christli-
chen Traditionen auf. Nicht nur die Historisierung
spricht dafür, auch die Beschreibung dieser vor-
kolonialen Zeit erinnert an eine idyllische Zeit im
Garten Eden, die mit der Vertreibung um 1788 ein
Ende nimmt (Swain 1995: 103).
Historisierung meint in diesem Zusammenhang
eher “Traditionalität” (Duelke 1998: 249): Die Me-
morierung von Geschichten, die der Vorfahren
sowie die eigene, “um einen sinnhaften Gegen-
wartskontext zu erstellen” (250). Historisierung
als “Handlungsmittel”, um auf die geschichtli-
chen Veränderungen zu reagieren.7 Das zeit- und
raumlose “Dreaming” (vgl. Duerr 1978: 144 ff.)
erhielt demnach eine zeitliche Verortung, und ist
also, im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes, Traumzeit
geworden? “The Dreaming is enabled to survive
the colonial rupture into the new epoch. The
Dreaming encompasses colonialization, but only
through being itself encompassed”, schreibt Jere-
my Beckett (1993: 686). Geschichtliche Ereignisse
wurden, noch vor dem Auftauchen der Europäer
auf dem australischen Kontinent, immer wieder in
Mythen verarbeitet.8 Schon damals gab es nur die
Möglichkeit die neue Ordnung zu akzeptieren, sich
ihrer Mechanismen zu bemächtigen, ihre power zu
würdigen oder kulturell zu stagnieren. Doch das
Wissen um die eigene Kultur ist nicht mehr nur
selbstverständlich:
7 Hill und Wright (1988: 78 f.) stellen ähnliches bei süd-
amerikanischen Ureinwohnern fest: “Wakuenai narratives
include a historical dimension by integrating images of
whites and their material culture into the framework of
mythic past times. So, too, there is a strongly mythic quality
to Wakuenai narratives about specific persons and events
of past historical periods. History and myth intermingle in
Wakuenai narratives; historical events are integrated into
mythic time frames, and mythic events are woven into the
historical past.”
8 Nicht nur der Kontakt mit den Makassaren wurde my-
thologisch verarbeitet. Der Kontakt mit den Europäern
schlug sich in zahlreichen Captain-Cook-Mythen nieder,
vgl. Beckett (1994), Kolig (1980). Maddock (1988:21)
sieht in den Cook-Mythen ein gesteigertes kulturelles Be-
wußtsein der Aborigines innerhalb der australischen Nation.
Anthropos 96.2001
it must be assessed relative to the knowledge of the
colonizers, and if it is not to be abandoned as worthless,
it must either be consigned to a seperate domain or made
commensurate with knowledge of the other through
some kinds of articulation (Beckett 1993: 691).
An diesem Diskurs, dem Aushandeln der unter-
schiedlichen Interessen, sind die Anthropologen
durch ihre “strategische Position” (Berndt and
Berndt 1992:523) beteiligt. Und oftmals empfin-
den gerade diese ein Unbehagen an der eigenen
Kultur, hervorgerufen durch das Wissen um die
Umweltverschmutzung durch die Industrienatio-
nen. Auch die Technisierung, die selbst vor dem
mitmenschlichen Bereich nicht Halt macht, läßt
den Anthropologen nur allzu schnell zum Ver-
fechter und Bewahrer der urproduktiven Gesell-
schaften werden. Die Traumzeit und das Leben im
australischen “outback” werden zum “westlichen
Selbstfindungstrip” (Greverus 1995: 216) stilisiert.
Es sei gerade der “protektionistische Übereifer”
(224) der Anthropologen und Politiker, der einer
invention of tradition Vorschub leiste, einer Si-
tuation des “double bind”, die durch die Partei-
lichkeit der Anthropologen erst ermöglicht werde.
Der Forscher verhindere einen gleichberechtigten
Diskurs, ein neuer Kulturentwurf werde dadurch
unterdrückt. Die Vorgehensweise der Anthropolo-
gen, “Aboriginality” als Teil einer europäischen
Erfindung zu begreifen (Lattas 1993: 247), aber
auch der gleichzeitige Versuch, die Kultur der Ab-
origines zu demythologisieren, zu rationalisieren,
reduziere den kulturellen Selbstentwurf auf ein
Konstrukt der Relation zwischen Unterdrückern
und Unterdrückten (248):
Here right and left wing intellectuals join hands in the
common goal of demystifying an oppressed minority
and all in the name of that secular enlightenment which
their social theories can provide.
Die “moralischen Therapeuten”, so Andrew Lattas
(250), würden nicht begreifen, daß sich das Bild
der Gegenwart zumindest teilweise aus dem bildet,
was auf den ersten Blick nicht in ihr angelegt ist.9
Und eben dieser Bereich des Anders-Seins, der
Ausdruck der “otherness”, findet bei den Abori-
gines jedenfalls zum Teil durch einen Rückgriff
auf die zeitlose mythische Vergangenheit statt.
Heute findet die Domination der “Anderen” sei-
ner Meinung nach mit subtileren Methoden statt,
9 Diese Ansicht hat Stanner (1979:29) bereits vor Andrew
Lattas vertreten. W.E.H. Stanners Äußerung bezieht sich
aber konkret auf die Traumzeit: “The Dreaming determines
not only what life is but also what it can be."
160
Stephan Krines
denen sich auch die Anthropologen bemächtigen.
Eine Art “political correctness”, die als moralische
Legitimation mit ins Feld geführt wird und die
man als ausreichend erachtet, um in den kultu-
rellen Selbstentwurf der Aborigines in intellek-
tuell belehrender Manier eingreifen zu können
(260).10
In einer Regenbogenschlangenmythe wird das
Verhältnis der Aborigines zum Land deutlich
(Beckett 1994: 103): Die Weißen sind die Protago-
nisten, die durch ihre Ignoranz die Regenbogen-
schlange stören, die mit Hilfe ihrer Macht zurück-
schlägt. Der Aborigine weiß zwar um diesen
Sachverhalt, er steht dem Ganzen jedoch ohn-
mächtig gegenüber. Die Geschichte ist Ausdruck
einer Situation, die von Widerstand und Zusam-
menarbeit gleichzeitig handelt. Es ist der Aborigi-
ne, der Einsicht in die Notwendigkeit des Schutzes
der Erde zeigt, an der Ausführung aber vom Wei-
ßen gehindert wird.
Vergleichbare Töne finden sich in dem Buch
“Through Aboriginal Eyes” von Anne Pattel-Gray.
Das Gesetz (“law”) der Bibel und der christliche
Glaube sind für sie Pfeiler einer modernen Iden-
tität der Aborigines: Es ist der “Weiße”, der die
Erde mit Füßen tritt (1991: 10). Die Spiritualität
der Aborigines ist durchweg als eine Gegenscha-
blone zur Zerstörung der Umwelt, dem Raub-
bau durch die Minengesellschaften zu verstehen
(Swain 1991: 21). Sie fungiert als Schlagwort um
auf diese Situation aufmerksam zu machen. Sie
ist Symbol für Gerechtigkeit, Frieden und den
besonnenen Umgang mit der Natur. Sie wird aber
auch als einzigen Weg gesehen, um Zugang zur
Kultur der Aborigines zu erlangen (Pattel-Gray
1991: 5). Für sie ist es eine auf christlichen Werten
gründende Spiritualität, die als Kampfmittel gegen
Unterdrückung und Ausgrenzung dient.
Wie läßt sich die zunehmende Akzeptanz der
christlichen Lehre erklären? Welchen Stellenwert
erhalten dabei christliche Elemente in der my-
thischen Ontologie der Aborigines und wie ge-
hen Anthropologen in ihren Publikationen damit
um?
III Die christlichen Religionen: Katalysatoren
im Ethnizitätsprozeß
Vergleicht man die Bemühungen der unterschied-
lichen christlichen Konfessionen in anderen Län-
dern, war das Interesse für die Aborigines an-
10 Kritik an diesem Ethnizitätskonstrukt kommt von Morton
(1998).
fangs gering. Sie galten als die “zurückgeblie-
bensten” Menschen, ihr intellektuelles Vermögen,
die christliche Lehre verstehen zu können, wur-
de in Zweifel gezogen (Bollen 1977: 282). Die
kirchlichen Organisationen waren dem Leitgedan-
ken verpflichtet, daß die Aborigines nur dann ein
europäisches, “menschenwürdiges” Leben führen
könnten, wenn sie die Lehre des Christentums
annähmen. Die religiöse Vorstellungswelt der Ab-
origines, die geprägt war von einem Glauben an
ihre Weltentstehungsmythen, war mit dem Chri-
stentum zunächst unvereinbar. Der christliche Mo-
notheismus, die eigene Interpretation der Genese
der Erde war eine andere, sie ließ sich nicht mit
der Mythologie der Aborigines in Einklang brin-
gen. Organisationen wie die London Missionary
Society (L.M.S) hielten es deswegen für lukrativer,
anderen Regionen ihre Aufmerksamkeit zu schen-
ken. 11
Im Jahre 1823 hatte sich die australische Regie-
rung zum Ziel gesetzt, die Aborigines zum christli-
chen Glauben zu bekehren (Pattel-Gray 1991: 79).
Die anfänglichen Resultate waren eher bescheiden
und zeugten von einem Überlegenheitsdenken der
Missionare gegenüber den Aborigines, die es mit
Hilfe des Christentums zu zivilisieren galt. Die
einzelnen christlichen Kongregationen setzten ihre
regionalen Schwerpunkte, die heute noch zu spü-
ren sind. Der Haupteinflußbereich der katholischen
Missionen beschränkte sich auf die Kimberleys
und die westliche Küste des “Top Ends”. Die
Strömungen, die heute in der Uniting Church11 12
aufgegangen sind, dominierten vom nördlichen
Arnhem Land bis zum Golf von Carpentaria. Die
Presbyterianer und Lutheraner ließen sich in Zen-
tralaustralien nieder, während die Anglikaner ihren
Einfluß in den südlichen Gebieten ausübten, der
alles in allem sehr bescheiden war. Die Baptisten
schließlich breiteten sich im Norden aus (Swain
1995: 82).
Die Missionsstationen waren zu Beginn nur
Versorgungsstationen für materielle Güter. Nur
11 Ein weiterer Grund waren die hohen Kosten für die Grün-
dung einer Missionsstation. Die L.M.S. hatte nur ein kurzes
Gastspiel bis 1841. Sie, ebenso die C.M.S. (Church Mis-
sionary Society), hatten außerdem nur geringe Erfolge bei
den europäischen Siedlern zu verbuchen, vgl. Bollen (1977:
265-277). Anders als in Samoa etwa, zeigten die Abori-
gines keine große Begeisterung für die christliche Lehre.
Eine “success story” wie in Samoa, gab es in Australien
zunächst nicht, vgl. Bargatzky (1997b: 83).
12 The United Church [sic] in North Australia had been
established in 1955-6 as a cooperative venture of the Pres-
byterian, Methodist and Congregational churches. In 1972
the Methodist missions were integrated with it” (Edwards
and Clark 1988: 197).
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines
161
langsam konnte das Mißtrauen zwischen beiden
Seiten gemildert werden. Nicht zuletzt auch des-
wegen, weil Anthropologen wie Carl Strehlow (er
war lutherischer Missionar) die Kultur der Abori-
gines am Herzen lag. Andererseits bot das Chri-
stentum auch die Möglichkeit zu einer Annähe-
rung zweier Welten: Der christlichen weißen und
der Welt der Aborigines (Mclntosh 1997:274).
Durch das Christentum, mit dem sich die west-
liche Bildung verbreitete, gelang es den Abori-
gines, sich in die Welt des weißen Australiens
einzubringen und auf ihre Situation aufmerksam
zu machen. Die anfängliche Skepsis gegenüber
dem Christentum schwand ab 1950 zunehmend,
nicht zuletzt auch deswegen, weil die Missions-
stationen eine liberalere Politik verfolgten, die
den Aborigines mehr Mitsprache zusicherte (Engel
1970: 299). Die Aborigines öffneten sich für die
christliche Lehre und verbanden sie mit ihren
eigenen religiösen Vorstellungen (Berndt 1962).
Die Methodisten verstärkten seit 1970 ihre mis-
sionarischen Bemühungen auf Elcho Island mit
dem Ziel, traditionale Elemente der Aborigines mit
dem christlichen Glauben zu verbinden (Mclntosh
1997:278). Diese Anstrengungen trugen Früchte
und führten dazu, daß vor einigen Jahren unter füh-
renden Vertretern der Aborigines eine Diskussion
darüber entbrannte, inwieweit das Christentum die
eigene Tradition ersetzen könnte. Die Positionen
reichten von einer Inkorporation des christlichen
Glaubens, bis zu einem völligen Bruch mit der
eigenen Tradition. Obgleich die Angst vor dem
Christentum, als Zerstörer der traditionalen Werte,
in den Diskussionen immer mitschwingt, sieht man
gerade im Christentum eine Chance zur sozialen
Gerechtigkeit. Der christliche Glaube beinhaltet
aber auch ein funktionales Element: Mit seiner
Hilfe glaubt man in einen Diskurs eintreten zu
können, der die Grenzen zwischen Aborigines
und Nicht-Aborigines festlegen kann (Mclntosh
1997: 279). Besonders hervorzuheben sind die Be-
mühungen der evangelikalen Kirchen. Vor allem
sie waren es, die in Gebieten, in denen die Euro-
päer den größten Bevölkerungsanteil verbuchten,
auf die Aborigines zugingen (Swain 1995:97).
Diese Kirchen verfolgen seit den 80ern eine ziel-
gerichtete Politik: “What characterizes each of
these Aboriginal evangelical developments is their
transcendence of local identity in the formation
°f a continent-wide united Aboriginal Christian
front” (100 f.).
In diesen Bewegungen spielen christliche Ele-
mente eine große Rolle. Wichtige Vertreter der
evangelikalen Kirchen sind vor allem Reverend
Charles Harris und Reverend Djiniyini Gondarra.
^nthropos 96.2001
Reverend Charles Harris, der ein Anhänger der
Pfingstbewegung ist, war unter anderem in Neu-
seeland tätig. Er gilt als der Hauptverantwortliche
für die Durchführung von “Aboriginal revivals”
in der Gegend von Brisbane. Er war beteiligt am
Islander Christian Congress und er ist Fürsprecher
für einen christlichen ökumenischen Kurs, der
sich auch für soziale Gerechtigkeit und gegen die
Diskriminierung der Aborigines einsetzt. Reverend
Djiniyini Gondarra ist ebenfalls der Pfingstbe-
wegung zuzurechnen (Swain 1995: 100). Er war
Minister auf Elcho Island und der erste aus dem
Arnhem Land, der in den Genuß einer fundierten
theologischen Bildung kam (Nichols 1988: 256).
Auch er ist um eine christliche Ökumene bemüht.
Aus seinen Äußerungen ist noch etwas anderes
zu entnehmen. Ihm geht es um ein Christentum,
das der Wissenschaft und dem technologischen
Fortschritt gegenüber kritisch eingestellt ist. Und
ihm schwebt die Schaffung einer spezifisch urau-
stralischen Theologie vor:
We are sad that the Western approach to theology has
deeply affected our own understanding of the theological
task. We have therefore dealt with a number of pitfalls
into which Western theology has fallen and which we
must avoid if we are going to create an Aboriginal
theology (Gondarra 1988: 176).
Die Geschichten und Personen der Bibel, einge-
bracht in die eigene Mythologie, dienen als Mittel,
um auf die Ungleichheit zwischen der Welt der
Aborigines und der übermächtigen Welt der Wei-
ßen aufmerksam zu machen. Kenneth Maddock
(1973:4) konnte in den 70er Jahren beobachten,
wie Jesus, die Jungfrau Maria und weitere bi-
blische Gestalten mit dem Dreaming verglichen
wurden. Schon R. M. Berndt (1952) berichtet uns
einige Jahre früher als Kenneth Maddock von
den Ngulugwonga, am Daly River, wie diese
die biblischen Geschichten um Jesus, Adam und
Maria Magdalena abgeändert haben, damit sie in
das lokale Mythengebäude integrierbar waren. Am
deutlichsten wird Don Carrington (1988: 261). Für
ihn ist Jesus mittlerweile zu einem Traumzeitahnen
geworden: “... Jesus did in fact have a ‘Dreaming’
which is characterised particularly by his ‘King-
dom of God’ stories.”
Es ist die Identifikation des “Himmelsvaters”13
(All-Father bzw. Sky-Father) mit dem christlichen
13 Besonders im Südosten Australiens war das religiöse Leben
von “All-Father”-Kulten geprägt. Dieser Urzeitheros ist
unter verschiedenen Namen (Baiami, Daramulan, Bunjil)
bekannt, vgl. Swain (1995:60-64).
162
Stephan Krines
Gott (Swain 1993: 148), durch den das Verhältnis
zwischen den Weißen und dem Land zum Aus-
druck gebracht wird (151). In der Gestalt Jesu,
seinem Leiden und Tod, glaubt man Parallelen
zur eigenen Situation, der Ohnmacht und dem
Ausgeliefertsein an die “moderne Zivilisation” zu
entdecken (Pattel-Gray 1991:93). Werden einer-
seits die Europäer mit ihrem Wohlstand und ihrer
Macht mit den antiken Römern verglichen, drängt
sich für die Aborigines die Analogie zur Person
Jesu in seiner Armut und Unterdrückung geradezu
auf (Maddock 1973: 3).
Deborah B.Rose (1992: 230 ff.) geht auf den
geschichtlichen Prozeß der Inkorporation der Ge-
stalt Jesu in das Glaubensgebäude der Yarralin Ab-
origines ein. Sie berichtet außerdem von einigen
Bewohnern Yarralins, die Jesus als Abkömmling
der Hundetraumzeitahnen sehen. Dadurch werde
Jesus ein Platz in der Traumzeit zugewiesen. Es
wird erzählt, daß Jesus am Wickham River um-
herwanderte. In einer anderen Erzählung heißt es,
er habe sich ein Schiff gebaut und sei den Victoria
River entlanggefahren (230 f.). Für sie ist diese
Entwicklung zuallererst auf die Bemühungen der
Missionare in der Vergangenheit zurückzuführen.
Der Glaube an einen Hochgott entwickelte sich,
ihrer Meinung nach, aus der christlichen Dichoto-
mie von Himmel und Erde. Die Erde wurde von
den Missionaren als Ort der Sünde, der Himmel
dagegen als glorreiches Reich Gottes angesehen.
Die Einwohner von Yarralin übernahmen diese
Vorstellung und gaben ihr eine eigene Interpre-
tation: Der Rückgriff auf die eigene Tradition,
die das Erdhafte positiv erscheinen läßt und mit
dem Glauben an Christus verbindet, dessen Kö-
nigreich in dieser Welt erhofft wird. Diese Vor-
stellung könnte durch alttestamentarische Einflüsse
entstanden sein. So weist Ian Mclntosh (1997: 287)
zumindest in einer Fußnote darauf hin, daß auf
Elcho Island mythische Wesen mit Propheten und
Engeln gleichgesetzt werden. Es ist eine pessimi-
stische Grundhaltung, die sich hier widerspiegelt:
Der Himmelsgott als Symbol der Kolonisation,
der Entfremdung des eigenen Landes, steht hier
im Gegensatz zur Erde, die als Ort der spiri-
tuellen Verheißung im Sinne einer besseren Zu-
kunft begriffen wird (Swain 1993: 189); die Erde
als Ausdruck der Verbindung zwischen Gegen-
wart und der - als positiveren Ort begriffenen -
Traumzeit. Tony Swain (1993: 191) bringt diesen
Sachverhalt auf die einfache Formel: “Motherhood
: Fatherhood :: Spiritual differentiation: Spiritual
incorporation” (sic!).
James B.Flood (vgl. Erckenbrecht 1998: 172)
hat in einer Studie nachgewiesen, daß die Ab-
origines christlichen Elementen besonders dann
positiv gegenüberstehen, wenn Ähnlichkeiten mit
traditionellen Vorstellungen vorhanden sind. Die
christliche Sünden Vorstellung dagegen ließe sich
mit den religiösen Vorstellungen der Aborigines
nur schwer in Einklang bringen.
Die religiösen Selbstbestimmungsbestrebungen,
die Suche vieler christlicher Aborigines nach ei-
nem spirituellen Weg, wird von den einzelnen
christlichen Kirchen unterschiedlich bewertet. Im
Gegensatz zu einigen neu etablierten evangelika-
len Sekten stehen die großen christlichen Glau-
bensgemeinschaften den spirituellen Bestrebungen
der Aborigines positiv gegenüber (Glowczewski
1998: 344). In den vergangenen Jahrzehnten ha-
ben sich vor allem Pfingstkirchen, mit finanzieller
Unterstützung aus den USA im Daly River Gebiet
ausgebreitet. Den Einwohnern von Yarralin wird
von den Pfingstkirchen nahegelegt, sich nicht um
die Landrechtsfrage zu kümmern. Sie sollten da-
gegen an die nächste Welt, an das Himmelreich
Gottes denken.
Sicherlich stehen auch nicht alle Aborigines
dem christlichen Glauben unkritisch gegenüber
(Rose 1985; 1988: 370 ff.). Besonders die ältere
Generation befindet sich im Konflikt zwischen
Annäherung und Distanz.
Auf ein breites Angebot an wissenschaftlichen
Publikationen kann heute zurückgegriffen wer-
den. Die Autoren sind oftmals selbst Aborigi-
nes mit einem sichtbaren christlichen Hintergrund.
Bei der Sichtung der Literatur könnte man den
Eindruck gewinnen, daß die Werke dieser Auto-
ren dieselbe Aufmerksamkeit in der momentan
stattfindenden Debatte genießen wie die Klassiker
aus den Federn von W. E. H. Stanner, T. G. H.
Strehlow und den Berndts. Im folgenden wol-
len wir uns besonders mit den Darstellungen
von zwei Autoren auseinandersetzen. Es soll ge-
zeigt werden, wie Eugene Stockton und Miri-
am Rose Ungunmerr in ihren Publikationen die
Religion der Aborigines darstellen. Diese Aus-
wahl kann freilich nur exemplarischen Charakter
haben. Sie spiegelt jedoch den Bruchteil einer
anwachsenden spirituellen Bewegung wider, die
sehr stark von christlichen Einflüssen durchdrun-
gen ist.
IV Die spirituelle Konzeption der Traumzeit
Der von Hans Kessler herausgegebene Sammel-
band “Ökologisches Weltethos”, versammelt eine
Reihe von Beiträgen, die sich mit dem Verhält-
nis zwischen Religion und Natur auseinander-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines
163
setzen.14 Darin enthalten ist auch ein Artikel mit
dem Titel “Eine erd-gesinnte Spiritualität im heuti-
gen Australien” von Eugene Stockton.15 Der Autor
studierte Anthropologie und Theologie an der Uni-
versität von Sydney. Seine Feldforschungen führ-
ten ihn in das Gebiet der Blue Mountains und
des Nepean River in New South Wales (Stockton
1995: 16). Von 1962 bis 1984 war er Lehrbeauf-
tragter am Catholic Institute of Sydney. Zur Zeit
ist er als Priester unter katholischen Aborigines in
Riverstone (N.S.W.) tätig.
In seinem Artikel (1996b) versucht Eugene
Stockton darzulegen, daß die australische Gesell-
schaft auf der Suche nach einer neuen Identität ist.
Diese, so glaubt er, erwachse aus der Verbindung
von Theologie und Spiritualität. Viele Australier
würden das Land als Kraft (“power”) begreifen
und in den australischen Ureinwohnern die Stim-
me dieser Kraft erkennen. Musik, Literatur, Tanz
und bildende Kunst der Aborigines erfahre eine
zunehmende Wertschätzung, da sie deren Werte
und Haltungen zum Ausdruck bringe. Sie seien
Symbole einer Kraft (“power”). Wer die Symbole
beherrscht, dem falle diese “power” zu (1995: 20).
Die Spiritualität der Aborigines beinhalte eine
Askese, die die Aufmerksamkeit für die Umwelt
in der Gesellschaft und der Natur schule. Diese
Askese könne nicht nur den Australiern als Modell
dienen, sondern der ganzen Welt. Doch warum
sind es ausgerechnet die Aborigines, denen eine
Vorbildfunktion im Umgang mit der Natur zuge-
standen wird?
Gerade so, wie die Aborigines, die seit langem Teil ihrer
Umwelt und in Einklang mit ihrer Umwelt sind, von
der Landschaft ein Gesetz der Harmonie untereinander
und mit der Natur ablesen, so können sie uns wiederum
lehren, von der Umwelt den möglichen Weg abzulesen,
in Einklang mit ihr und uns selbst zu leben (Stockton
1996b: 185).
Die Spiritualität der Aborigines ist für ihn schein-
bar ein Allheilmittel gegen die modernen Pro-
bleme unseres “global village” (1996a: 6): “What
14 Dech (1997) geht auf die Rolle der Religionen in der
modernen Naturschutzdebatte ein. Es sind besonders die
christlichen Kirchen, die eine holistische Umweltethik for-
cieren, und nicht selten sind es christlich geprägte New
Age Strömungen die dem Topos des “Edlen Wilden” als
Naturschützer am ehesten erliegen.
U Laut Prof. Dr. Hans Kessler ist Eugene Stockton einer
der profundesten Vertreter einer modernen Theologie der
Aborigines (Brief vom 16.2.1998). Herrn Kessler, der den
Beitrag von Miriam Rose Ungunmerr ins Deutsche über-
setzte, bin ich zu Dank verpflichtet, da er mir die englischen
Originaltexte von Eugene Stockton und M. R. Ungunmerr
freundlicherweise zur Verfügung stellte.
Anthropos 96.2001
Aboriginal spirituality has to offer, not only to
Australians, but I believe to the world at large,
is an asceticism that is alert to the environment,
both in society and nature” (2).
In seinem Buch “The Aboriginal Gift” wird er
noch deutlicher: Den Aborigines wird nicht nur
eine Vorbildfunktion im Umgang mit der Natur
zugeschrieben, sie werden auch als die authenti-
schere Stimme angesehen, wenn es darum geht,
Natur und Land zu thematisieren, verbindet sie
doch eine ältere Geschichte mit dem australi-
schen Kontinent als die der Europäer (Stockton
1995: 10). Das Geschenk der Aborigines ist bereits
angekommen, bei den “friends of creation” (Cain
1991), den Professoren von Berkeley und den
Universitäten Australiens, bei den Jüngern C. G.
Jungs ebenso wie bei den Dominikanern (Fox
1991).
Eugene Stockton führt weiter aus: In der Spi-
ritualität der Aborigines kommt den Schöpfungs-
erzählungen (1996b: 185 f.) ein hoher Stellenwert
zu. Trotz regionaler Unterschiede weisen diese
ein gemeinsames Muster auf. Aus einer formlosen
Urmaterie gingen “mother-like” (1996a) die ersten
Ahnen-Wesen hervor. Diese Wesen gestalteten die
physischen Ausprägungen der Landschaft. Ein je-
des Wesen hatte sein eigenes Gesetz, welches für
alle Zeiten festgeschrieben und sichtbar in der
Landschaft wurde. Ein jedes Ahnen-Wesen schuf
eine Linie von menschlichen Nachkommen, denen
einzelne Totems zugeordnet waren, die mit dem
“Dreaming” verbunden waren. Die Schöpfer-Ah-
nen leben heute noch an heiligen Orten, in Zere-
monien und Emblemen fort und werden durch ritu-
elle Handlungen vergegenwärtigt. Die Zeremonie
hat den Zweck, an den Akten der Schöpfer-Ah-
nen teilzuhaben und ihr Wirken in die Gegenwart
hinein sicherzustellen. Die Vergegenwärtigung des
Schöpfungsaktes, der das Wohlergehen der Welt
garantieren soll, wird nicht religiösen Spezialisten
überlassen, sondern ist die Aufgabe aller Mitglie-
der der Gesellschaft:
Leben selbst, und an sich, ist ein heiliges Gut. Leben
selbst ist Religion. Es gibt keinerlei lebenskompensato-
rische Themen ..., und man benötigt nicht Handlungen
wie Opfer oder Bittgebete (Stockton 1996b: 187).
Gerhard Schiatter (1988: 176) weist jedoch dar-
auf hin, daß die ursprüngliche Aufrechterhaltung
der Weltordnung keineswegs die Angelegenheit
aller Mitglieder der Gesellschaft war, sondern
ausschließlich in den Aufgabenbereich der Män-
ner fiel, die durch Rituale die zeitlose Ordnung
der Traumzeit garantierten und sicherstellten: “Für
Aborigines war religiöses Wissen Macht und in
/
164
Stephan Krines
seiner ganzen Komplexität nur für einige we-
nige privilegierte Männer erwerbbar” (Schiatter
1988: 178).
Eugene Stockton führt weiter aus: Das kos-
mische Gesetz gelte ebenfalls auf der sozialen
Ebene. Die Aborigines betrachten sich mit jedem
Teil des Kosmos verwandtschaftlich verbunden.
Für das Land habe der Aborigine unterschiedliche
Bezeichnungen. Er könne es als “meine Bibel”,
“mein Gesetz” (“law”), “heiligen Ort” oder “Tho-
ra” bezeichnen (1996b: 188), ja er bezeichne sich
selbst als “das Land”. “Er empfindet sich als Teil
eines Ganzen, er ist Teil jedes anderen, ebenso,
wie jedes andere Teil von ihm ist” (Stockton
1996b: 189). Diese “mystische Union mit dem
kosmischen Ganzen” (189) bezeichnet Stockton
mit dem Begriff “Intersubjektivität”, den Deborah
B. Rose (1992: 232) näher erläutert:
Mysticism in this tradition is an apprehension of the
world in an intensely heightened awareness of inter-
subjectivity. Seif is not incorporated into Other, but is
totally engaged with others.
Vor diesem Hintergrund ist es dann auch nicht
mehr erstaunlich, daß Eugene Stockton eindeutige
Bezüge zur europäischen Geisteswelt zieht, um
die Naturethik der Aborigines zu untermauern:
Der Verweis auf das kosmische Denken des Franz
von Assisi etwa, oder die Trinitätsauslegung des
katholischen Theologen Karl Rahner. Allen vor-
an ist es der Theologe und Philosoph Nikolaus
von Kues (1401-1464), dessen Denken in einer
christlich-neuplatonischen Tradition stand und um
die Frage der Erkenntnis und des Seins kreiste,
der seine Wertschätzung erfährt. Eugene Stocktons
englischer Originaltext ist umfangreicher als die
deutsche Übersetzung, die aufgrund publikations-
technischer Überlegungen gekürzt werden mußte
(persönl. Mitteilung Prof. Kessler). Im englischen
Original geht er ausführlicher auf den asketischen
Aspekt ein. Explizit betont er die herausragende
Rolle, die dem Christentum dabei zufällt: “...
to re-examine and re-emphasise elements already
present in the Christian tradition and especially
pertinent in our time and place” (1996a: 11). Das
liturgische Leben begreift er als Leben im Mythos
(4; “living within the myth”). Der Tod über-
führe den Menschen in eine “womb-like exis-
tence” (11). Das Gesetz des Lebens, des Kos-
mos und der Gesellschaft manifestiere sich im
Gesetz, in der Thora, und ist in der Landschaft,
dem Land präsent, das als heilig angesehen wird.
Die menschlichen Individuen sind mit allen Teilen
des Kosmos unter der “father- and motherhood”
(11) Gottes verbunden. Welche wissenschaftliche
Tradition am ehesten in der Lage wäre den re-
ligiösen Vorstellungskomplex der Aborigines zu
erfassen, wird deutlich, wenn er im englischen
Original schreibt: “While such thinking is absurd
to classical positivist science, it bears comparison
with trends of post-modern science” (1996a: 8).
An anderer Stelle heißt es: “The universe itself,
as both Aboriginal thinking and current scientific
understanding concur, is no longer seen as geo-
centric or heliocentric, but omnicentric” (12).
Seine Art von Askese bezeichnet er als dadirri-
Askese, eine Haltung, die in dem Satz gipfelt: “It is
inner, deep listening and quiet, still awareness” (9).
“Listening” bedeutet soviel wie Entfremdung,16
“abgeschnitten sein von der äußeren Welt”. Man
leidet an der Entfremdung. Die Aborigines sehen
sich dabei als diejenigen, die den Tauben, den
Europäern, die Augen öffnen können. “We are
trying to educate the fourteen million Australians,
but we have a big job ahead of us”, so schließt
Yami Lester sein Vorwort in einem Buch, das
den Landrechtsstreit der Pitjantjatjara thematisiert
(Toyne and Vachon 1984: 2). Und in der Tat spie-
len im australischen Ethnizitätsprozeß besonders
kulturelle Symbole der Aborigines eine bedeuten-
de Rolle.
Die dadirri-Askese subsumiert Eugene Stock-
ton unter vier Hauptbegriffe: Mitfühlen, Geduld,
Güte und Schlichtheit (“compassion”, “patience”,
“gentleness”, “simplicity”), wobei in allen vier
Begriffen das Verhältnis des Menschen zur Natur,
die als profane “Mutter Erde”17 gesehen wird, zum
Ausdruck kommt:
We will care for this, our mother, and for her children,
with gentleness, patience, simplicity, and compassion
... According to our understanding of God, we see
the land as sacrament and icon of our mothering God
(1996a: 19).
“Simplicity” verbindet eine Absage an eine selbst-
bezogene Orientierung ebenso mit ein wie ein
16 Elisabeth Povinelli zeigt dies am Beispiel der Belyuen, die
ihr Siedlungsgebiet auf der Cox Peninsula haben: “The
difference, however, between Aborigines who suffer from
tjeingithut and Europeans who suffer from the same is
that the latter seem to be constitutionally deaf. Whereas
Aborigines are bom into the world listening and must be
made deaf, Europeans are born into the world tjeingithtu
and, if they are lucky, can be made to hear by Aboriginal
people” (1993: 156).
17 Besonders Tony Swain hat sich mit dem Wandel der
sakralen Erdmuttervorstellung zu einer profanen Mutter
Erde beschäftigt. Er spricht von einer theologischen und
ökologischen “Verschwörung” (1991). Als intellektuelle
Hauptvertreter nennt er Eugene Stockton, Miriam Rose
Ungunmerr, D. B. Rose und Reverend D. Gondarra.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines
165
“Nein” zu den “falschen Predigten” einer aus den
Fugen geratenen Konsumwelt (1996a: 17). Das
Konzept seiner Askese beginne sich zu verwirk-
lichen. Die “grüne Bewegung”, liefere dafür ein
gutes Beispiel (18). Das Engagement der An-
hänger im Umweltschutzbereich, ihr Verzicht auf
die Benutzung des Autos, das Kompostieren ihrer
Abfälle sind für ihn Zeichen, daß eine moderne
Askese um sich greife. Was er unter dadirri ver-
steht, erinnert nur noch entfernt an die totemi-
stisch-mythische Bindung der Aborigines an das
Land. Dadirri erinnert eher an christliche Versen-
kungstechniken.
Und es ist Jesus, der auch bei Eugene Stock-
ton die Stellung eines Traumzeitahnen erhält
(1996a: 15):
... Jesus is the “Great Dreamtime Figure” subsuming all
others from the mythical past. Thus Jesus becomes in
Aboriginal thinking the one by which the Old Dreaming
makes way for the New.
Eugene Stockton hat eine kritische Haltung ge-
genüber westlichen Werten, insbesondere in Bezug
auf die Landnutzung und -Verteilung in Australien.
Sein theologischer Anspruch kommt ebenfalls sehr
deutlich zum Tragen: Er zieht eine Analogie zwi-
schen dem Land und der katholischen Amtskirche
(Swain 1991: 13). Das australische “Outback”, der
“bush” wird für ihn zur Kapelle für das Gebet
(Stockton 1996a: 18). Sein christliches Verständnis
wird besonders dann offensichtlich, wenn er mit
dem Begriff des Wunders - “the heart of religion” -
die mystische Welt (“mystical world”) der Ab-
origines charakterisieren (1996a: 12) möchte, sich
dabei aber auf Bibelzitate und abendländische Re-
ligionsgeschichte stützt.
Den entscheidenden Hinweis darauf, welche
Funktion er seinem Konstrukt der Spiritualität
letztlich zugesteht, gibt er uns gleich zu Beginn
seines Buches “The Aboriginal Gift” selbst. Die
Suche nach einer neuen Identität der Aborigines
sei - zumindest in christlichen Kreisen - untrenn-
bar mit der Suche nach einer eigenen Spiritualität
verbunden (1995: 3).
In Hans Kesslers Sammelband findet sich eben-
falls ein von Miriam Rose Ungunmerr beigesteu-
erter Beitrag mit dem Titel “Dadirri. Die Spiritua-
lität der australischen Ureinwohner”. M. R. Un-
gunmerr ist eine australische Ureinwohnerin und
Angehörige der Ngangikurungkurr. Sie arbeitet als
Künstlerin und Leiterin einer katholischen Schule
im Nördlichen Territorium. Das Einbandbild des
Sammelbandes von Hans Kessler hat sie beige-
steuert. Es trägt den Titel “The Tree of Life” und
bängt in der St. Mary’s Cathedral in Darwin. Ihr
Malstil, meinen R. M. und C. H. Berndt (1988: 51),
sei zwar typisch für die Kunstformen der Aborigi-
nes, die Thematik ihrer Werke dagegen nicht. Die
Darstellung von Christus ist ihr Hauptanliegen.
Für die Ausgestaltung der wieder errichteten Daly
River Catholic Mission im Jahr 1961 war sie
mitverantwortlich, da sie eine Reihe von Werken
beigesteuert hatte. Obgleich Aborigines bereits vor
ihr die christliche Thematik in den Mittelpunkt
ihres künstlerischen Schaffens stellten, waren ihre
Bilder die ersten, die Einzug in ein Kirchengebäu-
de hielten.
Der Artikel von M. R. Ungunmerr (1996) ist
nicht sehr ergiebig und dient höchstens als Er-
gänzung zu Eugene Stocktons Ausführungen. Be-
trachtet man sich den englischen Originaltext ihres
Artikels, fallen die Parallelen zu seinem Artikel so-
fort ins Auge. Oftmals tauchen bei beiden ähnliche
Formulierungen auf. Wie Eugen Stockton vertritt
auch Miriam R. Ungunmerr eine “Mutter Erde”,
die theologisch besetzt ist (Swain 1991: 17). Von
ihr stammt auch das Konzept der dadirri-Askese,
worauf sich Eugene Stockton in seinen Publika-
tionen bezieht. Auffällig ist ihr Sprachstil. Die
metaphorische Sprache erinnert eher an christliche
Erbauungsliteratur wie sie uns von Vertretern po-
pulärer christlicher Strömungen präsentiert wird,
so etwa die Schriften von David Steindl-Rast
(1988). Wenn Miriam R. Ungunmerr dadirri als
“inneres, tiefes Zuhören und leises, stilles Ge-
wahrsein” (1996: 196) bezeichnet, bezieht sie dies
nicht nur auf den sozialen Bereich, sie bezieht
auch die Natur mit ein. In der Praktizierung von
dadirri, nicht nur durch die Aborigines, sieht
sie eine Möglichkeit aus der “bessere Menschen”
(197) erwachsen könnten. Nicht nur ihr Verweis
auf ein Zitat von Papst Johannes Paul II., das
die Verbundenheit der Aborigines mit dem Land
betont, sondern auch ihr Hinweis darauf, daß Jesus
und dadirri zusammengehören (198), zeugen von
christlichen Einflüßen in ihrer dadirri-Konzeption.
Für sie ist das kulturelle Erbe der Aborigines und
das Evangelium Jesu untrennbar geworden. Jesus
soll das Alte mit dem Neuen verbinden. Er ist
Symbol für eine Erneuerung der Kultur:
Danach sehne ich mich: daß diese Worte uns leiten und
alle Menschen dazu kommen, dem Klang Gottes zu
lauschen. Wir müssen alle versuchen zuzuhören: dem
Gott in uns - unserem Land - und einer dem anderen
(198) .
Es ist damit auch das Land gemeint, welches den
Lebensrhythmus vorgeben soll.
“Unsere Kultur ist noch lebendig”, schreibt sie,
und verbindet damit gleichzeitig die Hoffnung auf
Anthropos 96.2001
166
Stephan Krines
einen Dialog mit den Weißen (197). Ein Dialog,
der von den Weißen etwas einfordert: Den Zugang
zu Bildungsmöglichkeiten, Respekt und Verständ-
nis; Dinge, die den Aborigines immer noch ver-
wehrt bleiben. Sie fordert einen Dialog, an dem
beide Seiten gleichen Anteil haben müssen (199).
V Ausblick
Christliche Vorstellungen haben einen immer grö-
ßeren Anteil an einem Prozeß, der von einer
Sichtweise geprägt ist, die Berndt und Berndt
(1994: 427) als “Neo-Aboriginal” bezeichnen. Das
Verhältnis der Aborigines zum Land hat sich ge-
wandelt. Dies ist jedoch keineswegs gleichbedeu-
tend mit dem Verlust ihrer kulturellen Identität.
Die christlichen Elemente in der mythischen On-
tologie der Aborigines sind ein Zeichen für die Le-
bendigkeit der uraustralischen Kultur. Die “silent
revolution”, die Erich Kolig (1981: 177 ff.) in deut-
lich optimistischem Ton kommen sah, ist in vollem
Gange. Erstaunlicherweise ist Australien nicht die
einzige Region, in der eine kulturelle Aufbruchs-
stimmung mit christlich-spirituellem Vorzeichen
feststellbar ist. Es lassen sich Parallelen zur Si-
tuation der nordamerikanischen Ureinwohner zie-
hen (Vecsey 1995; 1996). Dort sind es vor al-
lem katholische Bewegungen, bei denen sich eine
Vermischung traditioneller und christlicher Glau-
bensvorstellungen nachweisen läßt. Die Erkennt-
nis, daß die Zuwendung zum christlichen Glauben
heute auf freiwilliger Basis stattfindet, und der
damit verbundene praktische Aspekt wird von den
Anthropologen kaum wahrgenommen (Kasprycki
1996). Auch dem Wandel der sakralen Erdmutter-
vorstellung in den USA und Australien hin zu einer
profanen Mutter Erde mit ökologischer Besetzung
scheinen vergleichbare Mechanismen zugrunde zu
liegen.18
In seiner Dissertation läßt Gerhard Schlatter
sein fiktives Paar Osa und Hans über den My-
thos nachdenken. Osa gibt zu bedenken, daß die
Wahrheit des Mythos als eine religiöse Wahrheit
von Wahrheiten einer Ideologie, zu denen der
Mythos heute gemacht wird, zu unterscheiden
sind, worauf Hans nachdenklich antwortet: “Du
meinst, der Mythos ist Mythos nur, wenn er nicht
Mythos ist?” (Schlatter 1989: 96). Ein paar Seiten
weiter (99), wartet er mit einem weiteren Paradox
18 Vgl. den kurzen aber dennoch aufschlußreichen Artikel von
Tony Swain (1991) für Australien und das Buch von Gill
(1987), der die Entstehung der “Mutter Erde”-Vorstellung
in Nordamerika behandelt.
auf: “Die Wirklichkeit des Mythos geht, wird er
wirklich, verloren. Im Moment des Fassens ge-
platzt”. Nimmt man seine Worte ernst, so läßt
sich demnach ein entscheidender Wandel in der
uraustralischen Weltanschauung feststellen. War es
ehemals das Privileg der Anthropologen, die den
begründenden Weg (“whitefella law”) gingen, um
sich einen Zugang zum Verständnis der uraustra-
lischen Religion zu verschaffen, so sind es heute
auch zunehmend die Uraustralier selbst, die eine
verlorene Traumzeit auf diesem Weg zurückzuge-
winnen trachten:
It is ironic that European Australians, who place high
value on history, are trying to replace history with
myth, while the Aborigines, who have always preferred
myth to history, have taken up history to replace their
lost mythology. But then, who taught them history?
(McKnight 1990: 44).
Treffender ist die momentan beobachtbare Situa-
tion kaum zu umschreiben. Während die Esoterik
immer weitere Kreise der westlichen Welt in ihren
Bann zieht, versuchen die australischen Aborigines
sich der Traumzeit reflektierend zu nähern und
haben damit begonnen, wie der Wissenschaftler,
das Undenkbare zu denken.
Zitierte Literatur
Bargatzky, Thomas
1997a Ethnologie. Eine Einführung in die Wissenschaft von
den urproduktiven Gesellschaften. Hamburg: Helmut
Buske Verlag.
1997b The Kava Ceremony Is a Prophecy. An Interpretation
of the Transition to Christianity in Samoa. In: H. J.
Hiery and J. M. MacKenzie (eds.), European Impact and
Pacific Influence; pp. 82-99. London: Tauris Academic
Studies.
Beckett, Jeremy
1993 Walter Newton’s History of the World - or Australia.
American Ethnologist 20: 675-695.
1994 Aboriginal Histories, Aboriginal Myths. An Introduc-
tion. Oceania 65:97-115.
Berndt, Ronald Murray
1952 Surviving Influence of Mission Contact on the Daly
River, Northern Territory of Australia. Neue Zeitschrift
fiir Missionswissenschaft 8: 188-192.
1962 An Adjustment Movement in Arnhem Land, North-
ern Territory of Australia. Paris: Mouton. (Cahiers de
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 169-178
Right and Left As Political Categories
An Exercise in “Not-So-Primitive” Classification
H. F. Bienfait and W. E. A. van Beek
Abstract. - Most citizens in Western-type democracies feel
they can easily accommodate a variety of political viewpoints
onto a simple one-dimensional scale, i.e., from left to right.
With politics as complicated as they are, how is this possible?
The authors answer this question, first, by identifying the first
recorded instance of the left-right distinction, in the French
General Assembly of 1789. Contrary to common opinion, this
particular political history does not furnish sufficient cause for
the preponderance of left-right distinctions, neither in Europe
nor even in France. So, next they look into the significance
of traditional left-right polarities in cultures all over the world.
These manifest various types of polarities - one of which is
left versus right - which carry a plethora of secondary mean-
ings and culturally specific associations. Absent, usually, are
ethical evaluations. The authors propose that these secondary
meanings reveal a near-universal coherent classificatory system
of notions, providing also Western democratic citizens with
a tool to classify political ideas. [Left-right, political science,
classification, French Revolution]
H. F. Bienfait, Ph. D. in natural sciences (Amsterdam), worked
and published as a biologist in Amsterdam, Ghent, and Wage-
ningen. In Utrecht he founded a system of interdisciplinary
courses, in which the present study found its origin. He wrote
a preliminary study on the left-right polarity (see References
Cited).
W. E. A. van Beek, Ph. D. in social sciences (Utrecht), works
and publishes as a cultural anthropologist at Utrecht University.
As a specialist on West Africa, he did extensive fieldwork in
North Cameroon and Central Mali, and is engaged in projects
m Southern Africa. His thematic interests are religion, cultural
ecology, and their interaction.
The Puzzle
Throughout the world, in almost all countries,
the spectrum of political parties is cast in the
well-known polarity of “right-left.” Whatever its
local manifestations, like the “Republicans” versus
the “Democrats” of the USA, or the Tories and the
Whigs in England, or in the Netherlands where
the “liberals” contrast with a “Green party,” or
the Gaullists and the Communists in France, the
politicians as well as the general public are able
to locate such parties along this “left”-“right”
spectrum. Not only is there general agreement
about which ideas on existing issues are typically
“left” and which are typically “right,” but also
with respect to newly emerging issues, such as
environmental politics, the public can easily locate
different viewpoints in terms of this polarity. One
should, therefore, expect that there is a clear and
straightforward definition of this polarity in polit-
ical thought. Indeed, political scientists have tried
to define its basis, but, to their own astonishment,
they had to recognise that they were unable to
find a clear and consistent definition. Thus, while
every Western citizen with a moderate knowledge
of political thought can readily identify the left and
right positions on virtually every political issue,
the political scientist wonders how on earth he
does it. This amazing fact has, until now, been
waiting for an explanation. We propose a solution
to this puzzle.
The routine historical explanation of the po-
litical left/right polarity is based on the seating
arrangement of the first French General Assem-
bly (see below), in which the proponents of the
political ideas inspired by the Enlightenment were
seated on the left, whereas those who supported
170
H. F. Bienfait and W. E. A. van Beek
the ancien régime were seated at the right-hand of
the president of the Assembly.
In this line of thought, “oriented to the new and
the modern” would be associated with the left, and
“conservative” with the right. However, political
scientists realised that this association is inade-
quate. E.g., proponents of nuclear energy, clearly
a modern solution of the energy problem, are con-
sidered to be “on the right,” while those who want
to conserve nature are positioned on the left, which
is supposed to be progressive and not conservative.
Mounier, in his classical paper (1951), presented a
comprehensive review of proposals for the basis of
the left-right polarity in politics: revolution versus
the existing order; the disenfranchised versus the
ruling class; labour and intellectuals versus farmers
and the rich; justice and decency versus money;
freedom versus tyranny; science and progress ver-
sus obscurantism and conservatism, showing the
shortcomings of them all, and concluded: “On n’en
sortira pas” (There is no solution).
A completely different approach was used by
Laponce (1981). He realised that political theory
would not solve the puzzle as long as it looked
to the actual, always changing content of political
ideas and ideologies. He went back to the classic
work of Robert Hertz, who laid a foundation
for classification studies in anthropology (1909).
Hertz was followed by the founding fathers of
French social science, Emile Durkheim and Marcel
Mauss. In this approach, the left-right polarity is
an instrument in classificatory systems, which in
itself has little or no meaning, but simply provides
a handy tool for categorisation of the external
world. Two angles are important in their writings:
(1) symbolic systems are internally coherent and
logical; (2) polarity in thinking reflects the dis-
tinction between the profane and the sacred: the
world of everyday experience versus the world
of symbols, such as the Church, God, the totem,
or whatever it may be (Durkheim and Mauss
1963). This point of departure was adopted by
Laponce, and on this theoretical foundation he
built his explanation of the left-right polarity. In
his view, the political left-right distinction is based
primarily on the structure of human classification,
and secondarily in the historical incident of the
first “Assemblée.” A combination, thus, of Hertz
and the contingencies of the French Revolution.
In this article we want to add to and amend
Laponce’s thesis. Indeed, left-right is a viable and
seemingly inescapable way of classification among
cultures, and the details of the French Revolution
are of some importance. But, we think, in other
ways than Laponce proposed. First, the left-right
arrangement of the French “Assemblée Nationale”
in 1789 was most probably caused by an incident,
it had a short and confused lifetime and it cannot
be construed as a sufficient cause for the present
right-left discourse in politics. Second, Laponce
relied on a classical, but now in some aspects obso-
lete study. Considering later anthropological work,
we are led to a different idea of the foundation
underlying the political left-right opposition. But
first the French Revolution.
“Birth” of Right and Left in French Politics
The scene is Versailles in the year 1789; the day,
the 5th of May. The French king Louis XVI was in
a terrible monetary predicament; so he called the
“Etats Généraux” together. The “Salle des Menus
Plaisirs,” some 50 x 25 meters large, served as a
meeting place. For this occasion the hall was laid
out with benches and suitably decorated, with the
seat of the King under a huge canopy. Benches
followed the arrangement of the preceding session
in 1614: at the head of the longitudinal hall the
king and his courtiers were seated; facing him at
his right-hand side the “first estate” (the clergy), at
his left-hand side the second estate, the aristocracy.
Behind them, the third estate, the bourgeois, filled
the back of the hall. Bad acoustics made this
hall not very suitable as a place of deliberation.
Shortly after the famous oath in the “Jeu de
Paumes” (the Fives Court) on June 20 - which
is considered to be the psychological start of the
Revolution (Schama 1989: 345) - it was decided
to restructure the “Salle des Menus Plaisirs.” A
complete refurbishing was performed in a feverish
hurry during the night, day, and night of 21 to 22
July, and on 23 July 10 a.m., at the start of the
first meeting in the new arrangement, the situation
had changed radically. Since the representation
per estate had been abandoned, the hall could be
furnished in a strikingly modern way: benches in
two semicircles, in theatre fashion, and better for
acoustics without doubt. The seat of the presiding
authority was transferred to one of the long sides,
between the two semicircles - and there was no
more canopy.
What were the consequences for the seating of
the representatives? During large meetings with
repeated sessions in the same hall, most people
tend to return every time to the place they oc-
cupied from the beginning onwards. There is no
good reason why the representatives would behave
otherwise - the more so since the “Salle” was to
hold 1100 délégués, and in such a large crowd
Anthropos 96.2001
Right and Left As Political Categories
171
Fig. 1: Seating arrangement in
the “Salle des Menus Plaisirs,”
before and after refurbishing. Re-
drawn after Brette 1902.
King
Right
Chairman
Left
it is natural to look for friends and allies at the
place where they formerly could be found. If the
representatives indeed behaved in this way, it is
easy to reconstruct what should be the result in
the renovated hall, with the help of Fig. 1 which
shows the situation before and after the renovation.
Thus, at 10 a.m., July 23, at the opening of the
session, the high aristocracy and the senior clergy
suddenly found themselves, instead of shaded by
the canopy for the king, now at the far right of the
chairman. The third estate, up till then far from the
king’s chair, were now on the left-hand side of the
chairman. This simple event, innocently evoked
by the carpenters in their frenzied action, must
have been the birth of left-right in parliamentary
politics. Its first real manifestation was during the
famous vote of 11 September 1789 on the judicial
power of the king: the delegates sitting on the
left of the chair voted for a significant reduction,
the delegates at right to retain the ancient royal
prerogatives.
We may ask how credible is this story, which
depends so heavily on the “force of habit,” project-
ed by us into the behaviour of those independent
spirits - and independent thinkers they were and
wanted to be. First, how plausible is their seem-
ingly sheepish behaviour, just seating themselves
as before, and then looking for the chair in another
direction? And, second, how willing were they to
adopt the terms “left” and “right,” not only for the
seating arrangements of their meeting hall, but also
as a characterisation of their political opinions? If
the left-right division stemmed from a hazard of
seating arrangements, why did it “stick”? These
questions are answered by the course of events
after a similar refurbishing, two and a half years
later. There we shall see that the further history
of French political seating offers no clue to the
stubbornness of this right-left polarity in French
politics.
(Laponce [1981] supposed that left and right
seating originated in the church St. Louis in Ver-
sailles, during the first meeting after the oath at
the “Jeu de Paumes,” where it was decided to end
representation by estate. The General Assembly
met there at June 22, because the king had denied
entrance to the “Salle des Menus Plaisirs” that
day. The accounts of what happened in the church
are partly contradictory, and there is no mention
of a seating arrangement left or right from a
president. The next day, the representatives were
admitted again to the “Salle des Menus Plaisirs,”
but the king had taken strict measures to ensure the
classical seating arrangement of the estates: clergy
and nobility were seated first, and only thereafter
the members of the third estate could enter to
take their old places under the close scrutiny of
a Master of Ceremonies. Finally, the king made
his appearance; he gave a speech in which he told
the representatives to restore the representation
by estate, walked away, and left the assembly in
confusion and anger.
The result of all this was that any kind of
seating arrangement that might have arisen in
the church St. Louis was neutralised, and that
the representatives, precisely by returning to their
familiar places, only had to wait for the birth
of left and right by relocation of the presidential
chair [Fig. 1]. A preliminary relocation of the
presidency before the 23rd of July might have
Anthropos 96.2001
Fig. 2: Manuel removed from the “Chambre des députés” in 1823. Print taken from Dayot 1902. Note the hilt for the swords at
the left side of the officers, and the curvature in the wall, indicating that the scene is at the extreme left of the chairman.
taken place, but we could find no reference to such
an event.)
In December 1791, the Assembly had in the
mean time moved to the “Salle du Manège” in
Paris, again a decision was taken to refurnish the
conference hall in order to make it better suited
to its needs. The benches were put closer together
(the Assembly now counted 760 members) and the
chair was positioned slightly askew on the other
side of the hall. In fact, the purpose was to do away
with the very division between “côté gauche” and
“côté droite,” which was loathed by many. The
restructuring resulted in the “left” benches becom-
ing right, and most of the “right” ones becoming
left of the chair. How did the delegates react?
Where did they choose to sit down? They simply
resumed their old places. But now confusion was
born: what was to become of the former “right”
and “left”? In June 1792, a few months after the
refurbishing, the newspapers noted: “The extreme
left side is filled, the rest of the hall is empty. The
tribunes and the former left applaud.” People tried
to do away with such clumsy terms as “former left”
and “former right” and replaced them with terms
with more content: “side of the people,” and “side
of the king,” but to no avail. Six months later,
the Assembly had in the meantime been followed
by the Convention, the delegate Dulaure writes:
“In the legislative meeting the patriots used to
sit at the right-hand side of the chairman; on the
extreme right is now the so-called Montagne. That
place used to be called the left-hand side; but as
the seat of the chairman had been replaced, the
place is now at his right-hand side. The opposite
side, where the Aristocrats attending the meeting
used to sit, was the right-hand side. Now it is on
the left-hand.” The Aristocrats remained in those
places at the end of the Legislative Assembly,
when is was transformed into the Convention.
Dulaure: “I do not want to indicate that the
Montagne and its environment only consists of
members of that party; I know some who do
sit there but have no true allegiance to whatever
party; they just are guided by general interest, but
the power of habit makes that they stay there”
(Dulaure 1793). This last remark answers the first
question stated above. With regard to the second
question: just by going back to one’s old seat
Anthropos 96.2001
Right and Left As Political Categories
173
after the refurbishing, the Montagne, originally
left, became seated at the right, and the patriots
or Gironde, originally right, became seated at the
left - but the “left-right” indication of political
polarity, although now completely devoid of its
topological sense, remained popular.
The refurbishing of the Salle du Manège was
partly inspired by a wish to thwart the fatal fission
of fanatical minds, but in this respect it was in
vain, with the known fatal consequences in the two
years that followed. Thus, after Robespierre’s fall
in July 1794, marking the end of the “Terreur,”
when the constitution for the “Directoire” was
drafted, extreme precautions were taken against
group-formation. In the new “Conseil des Cinq
Cents” (November 3, 1795) the delegates had no
benches, but sat on separate, numbered chairs:
each month lots were drawn to decide seating.
These measures must have effectively prevented
group-formation in the hall. The custom of draw-
ing of lots was retained in the Napoleonic period,
for as long as the “Tribunat” functioned as the
successor of the “Conseil des Cinq Cents.”
So for 19 years, from 1795 until 1814, the
formation of a political left wing and right wing
inside the legislative body was impossible. All
together it could freely manifest itself for not
more than about five years (from 1789 till June
1793, in which more than one year in reverse
order, and between August 1794 and November
1795). After this very hazy start of the left-right
political distinction, one would surmise that twen-
ty years without a recognisable polarity would
efface the memory of left versus right. But they
did not.
When Louis XVIII came back from England to
take his place in the newly formed constitution-
al monarchy, the “Chambres Législatives” were
freshly installed. Vidalenc (1966) describes the
course of events: “The most prominent members
of the two chambers could count on support of
groupings of varying size and composition. Surely,
there were no organised parties as yet, as their
existence would go counter to the free exchange
of ideas between delegates; yet some habits did
develop, like the custom to group themselves in
the hall, seating the conservatives at the right-hand
of the chairman, the more liberal ones at the left.”
A print has been made (Dayot 1902) of the arrest
of the left-wing liberal Manuel in 1823, on the
Spanish issue: in a dramatic pose the soldiers stand
next to a man on one of the extreme left benches
(see Fig. 2; the soldiers have their swords on
the proper left-hand side, which means that there
was no reversal due to the printing process.) The
left/right arrangement had restored itself - to stay
with us until now.
Right and Left as “Positive” and Negative”?
The idiosyncrasies of French parliament seating
can hardly be a sufficient explanation for the
ubiquitous dissemination of the left/right polarity
in politics. Right and left entered politics in a
crooked way, haphazardly and seemingly as a
minor incident. Yet, once it had manifested itself,
notwithstanding the efforts to suppress it, it always
came back. All over the modern political land-
scape left and right are defined as the dominant
political polarity, irrespective of previous history,
irrespective of seating arrangements. In England,
the governing party is on the right-hand side of
the hall, whatever its political colour; but even
if Labour is seated on the right, it is still leftist.
In the Israelian Knesset, the parties are arranged
mainly on the basis of size, but the Jerusalem Post
uses left and right the same way as in France,
England, Germany, or the Netherlands. After Mou-
rner (1951), as mentioned above, many others have
tried to define the content of “left” and “right” in
politics, e.g., Tixier (1954), Lefranc (1973), Caute
(1966) Kleerekoper (1968), a number of authors
in Encounter (Lasky 1977), and Schweisguth et al.
(1994), etc. But they all had to admit that they, too,
could not find a consistent and convincing basis
for linking actual political issues to the left-right
polarity.
Laponce rightly distanced himself from the con-
tent-focused efforts to define right and left in pol-
itics. Indeed, since Robert Hertz’s seminal article
on the preeminence of the right-hand (1909) and
the subsequent interest of other anthropologists in
classification like Rodney Needham (1960, 1973,
1987), classification studies have become part
and parcel of anthropological analyses of culture.
Hertz, and his contemporaries Emile Durkheim
and Marcel Mauss, recognised the fundamental
proclivity of human cultures to classify, to order, to
structure their universe. All human cultures divide
their world into clear categories, through language
and other symbolic systems. In doing so, most
cultures use pairs of conceptual opposites, like
male-female, warm-cold, high-low, strong-weak,
and right-left. According to these sociologists, the
basis of the bipolarity is the opposition between
the profane and the sacred, between this world and
the supernatural world. Sacral versus profane, the
holy versus the mundane, was in their view the
fundamental opposition, which was translated into
Anthropos 96.2001
174
H. F. Bienfait and W. E. A. van Beek
more mundane, accessible, and comprehensible
terms as male-female, high-low, etc, and in this
way provided a basis for structuring the world.
Cultures use minor differences in their daily world
to order the world at large. Given the fact that both
our hands seem equal but in practice are not, left-
right is such a pair. Humankind is predominantly
right-handed, a small genetically determined phys-
iological difference that neatly fits in the pair of
opposites, and can be plausibly associated with the
pairs of strong/weak and male/female. A minor
somatic difference is often used to structure and
mark a major division in cultural perceptions and
concepts. And the universality of right-handedness
made the right-left pair accessible as the almost
universal symbol of the most fundamental cultural
and religious polarities. Hertz et al. thus con-
strued a pervasive sacral complex where “right”
was associated with the spiritual universe, with
strong, male, superiority, older, the sun, light, life.
Left, in contrast, implied weak, female, inferiority,
younger, the moon, dark, and death. So “right” in
political parlance embodied stability, safety, for-
mality, traditions in obvious contrast with “left,”
with its instability, threat, informality, new, and
revolutionary aspects.
Laponce, so far in full agreement with the
above-mentioned anthropologists, then proceeds
with the question, why in continental European
politics the left is considered to be “positive” and
the right “negative”? After all, in Hertz’s approach
the “right” is the positive side, representing the
“Good.” Laponce (1981: 43) now follows a some-
what tortured reasoning, as follows:
Compared to religious and social systems, politics -
democratic politics especially - is a system of challenge
and opposition; it seeks “re-equilibrium” through dis-
equilibrium. If politics appear to destabilize the religious
and the social order, it will tend to be located perceptual-
ly at the negative pole of the overall perceptual system.
Consequently, by a simple and necessary reversal of
signs, what would be positive in the social and the
religious system will become negative in the political
system and vice-versa.
Anthropologically, this does not hold water. Poli-
tics, whatever its formal or informal arrangements,
form part of the societal system at large, and
whatever its internal discussions, follow the same
logic of categorisation. Anthropological studies
abound with political systems with inherent strife
and even violent warfare, but which were all
permeated by the same classification polarities as
the rest of social life. Politics is not the reverse of
order, it is the order itself, and discussion, revolt,
rebellion, and even regicide may simply be part
of it (Simonse 1994). So, the more discussion
and internal rebellion there is, the stronger the
system is structured. There is neither a logical nor
an anthropological reason to see politics as the
negation of order.
Right and Left: Part of a Wider
Categorisation
The problem Laponce poses is inherently false.
Spurred by the holy-profane distinction of the
French sociologists, he falls into the pit of eval-
uative opposition: left-right / good-evil. That is a
bridge too far; in fact it is a political statement,
like when the German social democrat Oskar La-
fontaine entitled his recent book “Das Herz schlagt
links.” For two reasons one should avoid this
evaluative opposition. The first is that Hertz et
al. never extrapolated left-right or sacred-profane
to truly evaluative oppositions. In their view, the
opposites were simply classifications, not evalua-
tions. The sacred and the profane need each other,
cannot exist without each other. They are opposed
but complement each other. This complementarity
is fundamental: left and right are of one body, male
and female have to join, sacred and profane derive
from each other. In much of their classification
writings, this complementarity is “sous-entendu,”
but it still is crucial. So, also in the Hertzian
paradigm, good-evil for political classification pur-
poses is irrelevant.
Nevertheless, the attribution of positive and
negative qualities to left-wing and right-wing polit-
ical ideas - i.e., in the evaluative, or moral sense-
is the real state of affairs in many countries. But
this is not the case everywhere, and seems to
depend to a large extent upon local political cir-
cumstances and their outcomes (e.g., experiences
with Hitler’s Third Reich in occupied countries).
So they are best treated as secondary character-
istics of the left-right polarity in politics. That is
approximately on a par with the characteristics as
Mounier operationalized them.
The second reason for turning down this part
of Laponce’s thesis is that anthropological classi-
fication studies have continued since the French
founding fathers. One major change in ideas since
the beginning of the 20th century is the de-
mise of the opposition sacred-profane as the most
important duality in human thinking. No longer
is the domain of the sacred seen as a category
sui generis, that is the logical antithesis of the
profane. This particular opposition has been shown
Anthropos 96.2001
Right and Left As Political Categories
175
to derive from an untenable theory of the origin
of religion (Durkheim 1912), and as a particular
phenomenology of religion that had run its course
before World War II (van Baal and van Beek
1984). One problem is that in many religions the
opposition sacred-profane hardly applies, whereas
in these cultures binary oppositions do abound.
In classification studies, the sacred-profane dichot-
omy is no longer seen as being fundamental to
dualistic thinking.
Needham, of course, is an exponent of this
new tradition, but the main figure is evidently
Claude Lévi-Strauss. In his work, classifications
play a major part, and more than anyone else he
has highlighted the cultural systematics he called
“structure.” Binary oppositions - like left-right - in
his approach play a major role, but with two pro-
visos. First, the main and fundamental dichotomy
in his work is between nature and culture, which
precludes any evaluative categorisation. Second,
all binary oppositions are - indeed - linked, but
are always mediated by a tertiary encompassing
concept, which unites the two. Opposites always
complement each other, and always both together
form one whole (Lévi-Strauss 1963, 1973, 1975).
A classic example in anthropology is a moiety
system in Australia, where the tribe consists of two
halves (moieties), one with the crow as a totem,
the other with an eagle-hawk. If one tries to find
what makes the characteristics of the first group,
such that they are consigned a Crow as a totem, the
puzzle cannot be solved. The trick is to compare
moiety A with moiety B the same way as one
compares a crow with an eagle-hawk. Both totems
are birds, large birds who eat meat. But one is a
carrion eater, the other a bird of prey, one stays
low in the air, the other sears high in the sky, one
is black, the other is multicoloured. This natural
opposition then is used for the categorisation of the
groups in question: both are human, both are kin,
both are in fact the same group, but the division
of labour between the groups follow the lines
of the birds: one moiety associated with women,
camps, cooking, and therefore left, the other with
men, hunting, killing, and of course the right-hand
side. Evidently, in both moieties there are men
and women, old and young, and both moieties
look quite the same to the occasional outsider.
However, the world is divided along the lines of
this social opposition, and the birds in question are
used as a handy emblem of that division (van Baal
and van Beek 1984: 219 f.)
This is exactly the way the left-right division
ls viewed by present-day anthropology: the fun-
damental divisions are social, and the body is
used as a symbolic vehicle to express the social
distinctions. Mary Douglas, in her follow-up to
Mauss, said: “the ... body is always treated as
an image of society and ... there can be no
natural way of considering the body that does
not involve at the same time a social dimension”
(Douglas 1973: 98). Throughout many societies in
various continents, this view has been shown to be
productive.1
An overly narrow focus on the laterality prob-
lem, as Laponce shows, precludes us from see-
ing the wider picture: humankind always uses
body symbols for distinguishing between human
groups. Left-right is one, but male-female is more
important. Studies in the genderedness of hu-
man society abound, and in much larger numbers
than laterality studies. Also other opposition pairs,
which may derive from human perceptions, may
be used, like warm-cold, high-low, and before-be-
hind. Laterality is but one expression of many, all
related to our bodily existence.
Here we should enter a caveat, long after Hertz.
Not all cultures have the same correlation of left
and right. Several instances have been found where
left is associated with maleness, order, power, and
the supernatural, while the right-hand correlates
with women, material things, weakness, and decay.
Each rule does have its exception: Granet’s China
case is an example, although not very strong
(Granet 1973) and so is the Zuñi case. Much
stronger and clear-cut examples are the Mofu of
North Cameroon (Vincent 1978) and the Himba
of Northwest Namibia (Crandall 1996). In both
cases, the common correlation is indeed reversed,
for different reasons. The Himba case, Crandall
argues, offers a glaring correlation between male,
left, ancestors, strength, and God, while the fe-
male side is the right-hand, the nonsacred cattle,
everyday life, and weakness. Here, the Hertzian
paradigm is neatly inverted. Crandall explains this
by the notion of “symbolic parallax,” arguing that
the ultimate state of existence of death is the
one which decides the laterality, and for the dead
Himba during a funeral the directions are reversed.
Thus, after death, life is “normal” again. Vincent
takes her Mofu example to be much more “nor-
mal.” She has no compunction in “male” staying
“left” and does not seek to reduce it to an inverted
laterality; instead, she treats it with the dignity
of “just another way of classifying.” She argues,
in fact, that in the region (North Cameroon) the
1 Beidelman 1961; Maybury-Lewis 1989; Kourilsky et Gra-
pin 1968; Demieville 1968; Martinet 1968; Douglas 1967;
Wieschhof 1939.
Anthropos 96.2001
176
H. F. Bienfait and W. E. A. van Beek
left-male connection is much wider than just the
Mofu case.
Not only can latéralisation differ between ad-
joining cultures, the significance of the left-right
distinction can vary greatly. The Kapsiki,2 neigh-
bours of the Mofu, do not share the inverted
latéralisation of the Mofu; instead they have the
more usual right/male association:
right (kwazema,
lit. “the eating side”)
the sun
sacrifice
red beer
dry season
left (kwagwela,
lit. “the other side”)
the moon
menstruation
white beer
rainy season
Nothing unusual so far. But, more important, their
main classification is not in terms of right/left.
If right/left is reversed, it is always tied onto
the central division, which is between male and
female: all objects in their material culture, the
ways to construct a compound, personality, and
character, everything is either male or female. Not
specific objects are “male” or “female,” but the
form in which it is shaped. A granary can be
either “male” or “female” depending on its shape:
a round squat granary is kwalimale (female), a
slender high one kwaliza (male). Both are es-
sentially the same straw-plated granary, with the
same function. This holds also for a tomb or a
basket. A seat from which one can see visitors
enter is “male”; if visitors cannot be seen entering,
the place is “female.” The entrance room of a
Kapsiki compound has a male and a female side:
the male side is on the higher ground, the female
on the lower; whether left or right is not relevant.
This example shows that latéralisation can vary in
direction and in significance. For some cultures,
laterality is simply a minor aspect of gender.
Thus, structuralist and neo-structuralist studies
have given a new post-Hertzian insight into classi-
fication processes, and the question of the ubiquity
of the left-right distinction in politics has to be
rephrased. First of all, it is not a ubiquity, it is
a cultural choice. But on the other hand, it is
the most obvious choice to be made. It is true
that in all Western political systems plus all those
that derived from them through colonial heritage
or in other ways, the left-right distinction is en
vogue. The question is twofold: what other ways to
differentiate between political parties were there,
2 Research on the Kapsiki was carried out by W. E. A. van
Beek from 1972-73, with return visits each five years; the
last, in December 1999, was financed by the Hollandsche
Maatschappij der Wetenschappen through its Pieter Lam-
bertusz Huibrechts fund.
what other symbols were available? In short, how
self-evident is the left-right division?
Our culture of Western Europe is just one
among the many, and our culture is just as prone
to categorise as any other culture. In Europe,
laterality towards the right dominating over left
has been marked through the ages, and both Chris-
tianity and the many local and regional variants of
European culture sported the association between
left/female/compassion/weakness/danger and the
right/male/order/strength/safety counterpart. See in
a dictionary of any Western language the second-
ary meanings of the words for “right” and “left.”3
Laponce tries to give in his book a logical
set of reasons why a division in before and after
(or higher and lower), a hierarchical division, was
transformed into a left-right laterality. His tour de
force, however ingenious, is, in our opinion, quite
unnecessary. The simple fact is, that most cultures
all over the world, not only the Europe-based ones,
have chosen this polarity to structure and classify
their universe, including the realm of politics.
We are, therefore, almost forced to conclude that
the left-right distinction, with all the concomitant
associations spelled out, being the most obvious,
ready-to-use and culturally relevant distinction at
hand, would have occurred in politics anyway (see
also Bienfait 1993).
The Puzzle Solved
Can we now answer the question at the beginning
of this article, namely, how every Western citizen
with a moderate knowledge of political thought
can identify the left and right positions on virtually
every political issue? Yes, we can.
The form in which the fundamental polarity has
manifested itself in Europe, from time immemori-
al, lives on in our words, our expressions, our uses,
that is, in our heads. It has given us the framework
for the classification of political wishes, impulses,
and viewpoints. For some of these, their place in
the polarity is evident: the wish to preserve the
generally accepted order is clearly on the right,
3 We lack in our technological culture one important under-
pinning of the left-right distinction: eating. In most cultures
people eat with their hands, and left-hand eating is never
“right.” Even where the left is male, people eat with their
right hand. The left hand is for other activities, often
including sexual contacts: the Mofu and the Kapsiki caress
with their left hand. Our use of cutlery has effaced that strict
division, though we do have standardised our hand-use in
steering our utensils: cutting meat with one’s left hand is
not done. But our sexual laterality is gone, we think.
Anthropos 96.2001
Right and Left As Political Categories
111
while ambitions to overthrow this order are just as
clearly on the left. But other issues can be located
along the left/right axis as well.
Environmental politics, mentioned in the intro-
duction, is a good example. The wish to conserve,
in this case nature, should be on the right, at
first sight. But it appears to be an issue which
is embraced by the left, as is shown by the
names of strongly left-wing parties in the Nether-
lands (“GroenLinks” - GreenLeft) and Germany
(“Grtinen” - Greens). The association of “nature”
with “left” may have followed another route: con-
servation of nature is a struggle against the forces
of industry and the existing economic powers, to-
gether a formidable fortress of the right. Nature, by
contrast, is seen as weak (a characteristic of “left”
in itself), and in her desperate struggle against the
threats from the right she finds her allies, logically,
at the left.
It appears that it is not some objectively defined
property of nature which determines its place along
the left/right axis, but the way in which we inter-
pret it. In earlier times, nature was experienced
as a fearsome power, capable of inflicting unpre-
dictable disasters, and which we could not influ-
ence. It was therefore of no political relevance.
But now that we can make more or less reliable
weather forecasts, we do not notice any significant
influence of crop failures on our food supply, and
on the other hand are beginning to realise that
human activities develop harmful forces to which
nature has no answer, our ideas about nature are
changing and she is transformed into a vulnerable,
threatened friend, with human enemies, and thus
politically relevant. (Our appreciation for science,
two centuries ago still a favourite of the left, seems
so go the opposite direction.)
Parallel with the continuous developments in
our world, changes occur in our appreciation for
the factors that determine our (political) life. This
simple fact is the most important cause of Mou-
nier’s despair, and of all those others, who found
that the classification of our political viewpoints
along the left/right axis shows such large varia-
tions, both in place and in time. It is the current
context that determines how we classify our po-
litical feelings in the ancient polarity: ancient but
fully alive.
And what about the carpenters at Versailles
m 1789? Was their contribution irrelevant? What
Would have happened if they had put the chair at
the other side of the “Salle des Menus Plaisirs”?
The result of the carpenters’ work was that po-
litical and spatial ordering suddenly coincided on
that 23rd of July. This merger gave the left/right
polarity in political meetings its vitality and its
force to return, whenever the possibility was there.
Thus, if we must speculate, we can guess that
in case the carpenters would have realised that
other scheme, the left/right division would have
appeared somewhere else at another time, e.g., as
it did after 1815 in the “Chambres Législatives.”
The left-right division in politics was not so much
constituted by the short incidental history of the
“Salle des Menus Plaisirs,” but by our cultural
proclivity to use the most convenient symbols at
hand.
H. F. B. wishes to thank Marcel Dorigny for helpful
suggestions and discussions.
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Anthropos 96.2001
Hai ||om, “Bushmen,” and a Recent Namibian Ethnography
Sian Sullivan
Abstract. - Anthropology in southern Africa is conducted
under a political climate charged with land and resource claims.
Focusing on a recent ethnography of Namibian Hai||om, I
explore the implications both of asserting the difference of
the anthropological “other” in these circumstances, and of
choices made regarding what constitutes the identity of “the
other.” I celebrate publication of this monograph in a context
in which anthropology increasingly is marginalised. However,
I also question affirmation of a Hai||om identity which may
be problematic in relation to constructed ideas of indigeneity
and “Bushman-ness,” and the invoking of these in official dis-
courses concerning land and institutional resources. [Namibia,
Hai\\om, Khoe, “Bushmen,” immediate returns, public service
anthropology, identity, official discourses]
Sian Sullivan, Ph. D. Anthropology (London 1998); currently
British Academy Postdoctoral Research Fellow, Dept, of An-
thropology and Sociology, School of Oriental and African Stud-
ies, University of London. - Special interests include cultural
landscapes, dryland ecology and resource use, “community”
conservation, environment and development discourses, gen-
der, dance and “the body.” - Publications: Political Ecology.
Science, Myth and Power (co-ed. with P. Stott. London 2000);
see References Cited.
Introduction
It is both an exciting and depressing time to be
involved in anthropological research in Namibia.
Exciting, because independence, gained only in
1990, has provided the liberal research environ-
nient necessary for a revisionist anthropology to
begin to displace the negative stereotyping pro-
duced by colonial, missionary, and apartheid-influ-
enced ethnographic writings. Depressing, because
at the moment when anthropology might fulfil
a potential to create public space for frequently
unheard voices and perspectives, it is accorded
less and less significance, as either a discipline in
the education sector, or as a profession in staffing
profiles (also see Gordon 2000). As Dr. Mafune,
Head of the Dept, of Sociology at the University
of Namibia (UNAM), expressed in his closing
remarks at the recent (May 2000) Anthropological
Association of Southern Africa annual conference
hosted at UNAM, both the Department and the
University expressed reservations about hosting
the meeting based on doubts concerning the rel-
evance of anthropology within Namibia today. It
is heartening, therefore, to witness the publication
of Thomas Widlok’s monograph “Living on Man-
getti: “Bushman” Autonomy and Namibian Inde-
pendence” (1999), devoted to recent ethnographic
research of one of Namibia’s most little-researched
and misrepresented people, the Hai||om (although
at £ 48 a copy one wonders how accessible it will
be to most Namibians). This article focuses on
Widlok’s ethnography, which hereafter is referred
to by page number only.
Reading Widlok’s monograph has raised a num-
ber of issues for myself as an anthropologist simi-
larly working in Namibia with people, in this case
Damara, whose history also is one of marginalisa-
tion in multiple contexts. As with HaiHom,1 they
1 Spellings of this ethnic term vary including Hai||om,
Hei||om, Hei||um, Heikom, and Heikum. In this article I
use Widlok’s spelling (Hai||om), except when discussing
documents which use alternative spellings.
180
Sian Sullivan
shoulder the effects of a continuing situation of
gross inequality in the distribution of land and
of access to productive opportunities. Fieldwork
cannot help but be conducted under a political
climate charged with land and resource claims.
What I wish to explore here are the implications
both of asserting the difference of the anthrop-
ological “other” in these circumstances and of
the choices we make as anthropologists regarding
what it is that we affirm as constituting the identity
of “the other.” In the 1980s and 1990s anthro-
pology increasingly has incorporated the principle
that structural relations of power and inequality,
conferring spatial and temporal distance between
ethnographer and subject (ethnographee?), are es-
sential precursors to the ways in which social and
economic differences are constructed: authorising
dominant and domineering knowledges (or dis-
courses) of “the other” (e.g., Said 1978), and mak-
ing possible the transformation by which “[t]he
Other’s empirical presence [in fieldwork] turns
into his [sic] theoretical absence [in ethnographic
writing]” (Fabian 1983: xi). Given structural in-
equalities between the “doers” of anthropology and
their (our) subjects, as well as the role played
by dominant discourses in systematising “new”
thinking and research, it has become impossi-
ble to avoid the observation that anthropological
constructions and affirmations of difference have
played their own part in supporting wider relations
of paternalism, discrimination, and violence.
This scenario has a particular resonance for
people variously labelled “Bushman,” “San”
and/or “hunter-gatherers” who, more than most,
have been subject to the exoticising tendencies of
anthropologists. In social anthropology today, we
inhabit an era of “San”/“Bushman” ethnography
in which the assumptions built into these catego-
risations, and the created ethnographic boundaries
with which they are associated, are challenged.2
Nevertheless, Widlok’s ethnography of Hai||om
“Bushman” seems to both structure a rather
bounded Hai||om ethnic category and eschew a
political economy approach to understanding how
the difference of “Bushman” is both constructed
and maintained, and allows “Bushmen” to remain
marginalised vis-à-vis wider society.
With this context in mind I focus here on two
broad themes dominating Widlok’s ethnography.
First, his identification of Hai||om “difference” as
manifest in an internal “culture” of “immediate re-
turns,” explicable with reference to its appropriate-
2 E.g., Wilmsen 1989; Taylor 1999, in prepn.; Suzman 2000a,
2000b; Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000.
ness for “prior conditions.” Second, his affirmation
of Hai||om as “Bushmen” or “San” and the impli-
cations of this identity for ethnographic relation-
ships with other Namibian “groups,” as well as for
a contemporary situation whereby identity directly
influences access to official discourses regarding
claims to land and institutional resources.
Enduring Foragers or Created Underclass?
“Culture” and Contingency in Explanations of
Hai||om Social Practice
When working with a southern African “Khoi-
san” people, it is impossible to avoid becoming
embroiled in the heated and occasionally vitriolic
“Kalahari Debate”; the big question being whether
it is culture or class which bestows their “hunt-
er-gatherer lifestyle.” Anthropologists of a more
“evolutionary ecology” or “hard” structuralist ori-
entation explain social practice and livelihood
procurement activities among “hunter-gatherers”
in terms of their “adaptive significance” (e.g.,
Lee 1979; Tanaka 1980; Biesele 1993). Those
drawing more on political economy and historical
contingency protest that today’s “foragers” are the
product of marginalisation from more formalised
economic and political institutions and from more
consistently productive environments (e.g., Wilm-
sen 1989; Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000).
Widlok’s intention is to avoid this dichotomy by
employing a “post-revisionist” and “practice-ori-
ented ethnography” (7 f.). He fully acknowledges
that “Bushmen” throughout Namibia have experi-
enced a devastating history of dispossession under
the various formal administrations of this century.
Chapter 1, for example, documents the ways in
which official survey statistics, under both apart-
heid and post-independence administrations, have
acted to minimise “Bushmen” by including them in
inappropriate regional groupings in which they are
always in an extreme minority. Such statistics thus
continue the tradition perfected under apartheid
when the Odendaal Commission of 1964 advised
the expansion of existing “Native Reserves” and
the establishment of new “homelands” which in
many cases, and certainly with regard to the
Hai||om, were based on little or no recognition
of current or historical patterns of land use. Sur-
vey statistics are further complicated by “identity-
switching” among Hai||om (and other Namibians),
particularly those who live as labourers on com-
mercial farmland. For example, data recorders for
the 1981 national census classified approximately
1500 people as Hei||om in Outjo District, but in the
Anthropos 96.2001
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses
181
1991 census these “Hei||om” apparently identified
themselves as Damara. Similarly, in Ngandjera
around 800 people were classified in 1981 as
Hei||om but “became” Owambo in the 1991 census
(Suzman 2000a).
However, Widlok also seems intent on estab-
lishing that there is something enduringly and cul-
turally different about Hai||om “Bushmen.” In this
he winds up producing a rather classic structural-
ist ethnography: a somewhat hermetically sealed
mapping out of the architecture of Hai||om so-
cial forms and their cultural coherence (also see
Henrichsen 2000). While rewarding in its empiri-
cal detail, Widlok’s interpretations provoke unease
in the light of contemporary political economy and
the ways in which representations of difference
have contributed to current inequalities.
Widlok’s thesis is that Hai||om social practice
acts internally to reinforce foraging behaviours
focusing on “immediate returns,” while detract-
ing from their ability to appropriate the “delayed
return” activities of their neighbours, whether
livestock husbandry, crop cultivation, or waged
employment. Thus on p. 29 he states his case
in clear contradistinction to Elphick’s argument
that “San” hunter-gatherers were basically cattle-
less Khoekhoe, i.e. with little to distinguish
them culturally, such that “a hunter-gatherer could
easily become a Khoekhoe pastoralist since it was
not necessary for him ‘to drop his own culture,
only that he adds to it’ (Elphick 1985: 42).” Wid-
lok considers the “individual autonomy” of the
Hai ||om, made possible by “structural instabili-
ty” and “cultural diversity,” to be adaptive and
culturally enduring instead of indicating cultural
breakdown in contexts of external pressure (12).
As he states: “Interaction between the Hai||om
and non-foragers has not turned their ‘simple,’
‘egalitarian’ social system into a ‘complex,’ ‘hier-
archical’ system of delayed economic returns
and accumulated wealth” (62). For example, he
argues that, although Hai||om have interacted with
outsiders (Owambo and Europeans) in ways which
have increased their reliance on the products of
“delayed return” economic activities, they retain
a social organisation and practice which is ori-
ented towards the “immediate return,” i.e., imme-
diate consumption of the products of economic
activities. In other words, “the overall logic” of
Hai ||om and other “hunter-gatherer” economies is
considered to be “focused on accessing resources
rather than on capitalizing on them” (104). Theirs
|s an “extended access economy” (105) involv-
ing social parameters which originate “from their
hunter-gatherer background” and which “remain
effective as the Hai||om increasingly include other
forms of subsistence” (105). Thus there are conti-
nuities in a wide range of activities such that the
Hai||om, as “former hunter-gatherers now forage
on agropastoralist economies and on the State
without changing their internal social organization
drastically and without necessarily adopting new
social institutions” (107) - it is the consumption
not the production of food items that is on people’s
minds.
In other words, Widlok’s argument seems to be
that it is their style of doing things which makes
Hai||om culturally distinct and which differenti-
ates them from their agropastoralist neighbours
(primarily Ndonga Owambo) (61). Given that it
is an anthropology text which aims to elucidate
a Hai||om “style of doing things” as a means of
accessing Hai||om identity and “culture,” it relies
to a perhaps surprising extent on an economising
framework to explain observed activities, aka,
that elaborated by James Woodburn (1982). Social
practice guiding just about all activities thus is
explained in terms of enabling the retention of
access to opportunities for immediate consump-
tion; and it is the adaptiveness of this strategy to
prior conditions which is considered to explain its
enduring nature. This in turn explains why Hai||om
are relatively unsuccessful in alternative “delayed
return” pursuits which focus on accumulation and
investment and require fewer pressures towards
egalitarian social relations.
The monograph explores a number of aspects
of Hai||om life to support the central argument that
flexibility in Hai||om social practice paradoxically
confers enduring cultural identity and adaptability.
Widlok begins with Hai||om formulations of differ-
ence and identity followed by a lengthy analysis of
subsistence practice (discussed further below). The
remainder of the book delineates several spheres
of social life in support of his thesis. First, material
culture; observing, for example, that flexibility and
diversity in settlement layout facilitates flexible
social configurations, including visiting, sharing
and joining a \\gdus (i.e., a “household” or “those
sharing a hearth”) as “the principal unit of Hai||om
aggregation” (135). Second, an elaboration of the
flexibility of classificatory kinship; whereby nam-
ing allows the extension of cooperative alliances
through manipulating genealogical links, including
interethnic links via the possibilities for conversion
and correlation between Hai||om gai \onte (lit.
“big/great names,” i.e., surnames passed on by
cross-descent) and Owambo epata or clan names.
And finally, an analysis of ritual dimensions of
Hai||om social existence, including the “medi-
Anthropos 96.2001
182
Sian Sullivan
cine trance dance,” viewed by Widlok as “an
important ethnic marker” (234) which clearly and
culturally demarcates Hai||om from neighbouring
groups.3
While applauding the detail of Widlok’s eth-
nography and the wealth of empirical material
incorporated in the monograph, I feel some dis-
comfort at the unavoidable parallels between his
arguments and the evolutionary ideas of scholars
from around a century ago. These have been
reiterated in various forms since, usually in ways
which act to further prevent “Bushmen” from
participating as “full citizens” in wider discourses.
Since the 19th century, “Bushmen” have been
“explained” as coming prior to “humans” on the
evolutionary scale, due to various assertions of
their difference, manifest as “primitiveness.” In
relation to Widlok’s thesis, it was considered that
“[t]he inclination of the moment is decisive with
him” (Ratzel 1897:267), i.e., that they display
no “drive to create something beyond everyday
needs, to secure or permanently to improve sys-
tematically the conditions of existence, even the
most primitive ones like the procurement of food”
and thereby “lack entirely the precondition of any
cultural development” (Schultze 1914:290). Such
assertions reappear in different guises throughout
this century, usually justifying further exclusion
of “Bushmen” from opportunities to participate
economically and politically as “citizens” at least
equal to “blacks” as classified under the South
African administration’s schemata of colour. The
Afrikaner anthropologist Schoeman, who headed
a government Commission for the Preservation of
the Bushmen in the late 1940s and early 1950s,
for example, argued that “[t]he Bushmen seem to
lack something ... some inner or spiritual ability”
which would enable them to “adapt themselves to
a new way of life” (Schoeman n.d.). Similarly,
Coertze (1963: 47) in an introductory university
text to Volkekunde (ethnology) argued that the
Bushmen typify an “[exaggerated conservatism”
which meant that “despite close contact with
3 I particularly enjoyed chapter 8 which focuses on Hai||om
medicine trance dances. However, many of the components
of trance dancing described by Widlok (and others) I would
suggest are universally possible experiences, albeit moulded
by “cultural practice” - not to mention the influence of
political economy in sanctioning particular experiences of
“the body” (our bodies). Could it be that the fetishising of
“altered states” of body and consciousness in observations
by anthropologists (and others) of the trance dances of
“the anthropological other” might say more about the pre-
dominantly verbal-rational-intellect emphasis of their own
societies (“I think therefore I am”) than about the “inherent
difference” of those they observe?
whites on the one hand and Bantu on the other,
they became neither Bantuized nor westernized.”
Apparently they were “intrinsically incapable of
adapting to changed living circumstances, ... not
simply because they were conservative, but be-
cause they had an inherent incapability of meeting
new challenges” (all quotes cit. in Gordon and
Sholto Douglas 2000:44, 63, 160, 164). Again,
Passarge in the early 1900s lays the blame for
“Bushmen” inequality relative to Bantu-speakers
firmly with the oppressed, stating that “[tjheir
inability to accept cultural imperatives, to rise to
the cultural level of their suppressors is their own
fault” (1997 [1907]: 128).4
I am not suggesting that Widlok intends to
perpetuate such negative discourses. Indeed, as-
sumptions of instinctive way-finding in “the bush”
conferring greater “animality” among “Bushmen”
have been critiqued elsewhere by Widlok (1997).
But in reading his monograph it is impossible
not to see the similarities between his explanatory
frame and the conclusions drawn by authors ob-
serving and writing under very different academic
and political climates. The important issue is that
Hai||om lack of engagement with “delayed return
activities,” i.e., framed by Widlok as the resil-
ience of their “hunter-gatherer” social practice,
also can be almost entirely interpreted as due to
systematic and progressive exclusion from land
and from access to formal decision-making and
economic structures. Thus, current circumstances
of the Hai||om are inseparable from economic and
political factors which led to their dispossession
of land, particularly due to rapid and massive
settlement by Europeans in the early 1900s once
the railway line to Tsumeb, Otavi, and Groot-
fontein had been completed. They are similarly
due to a reduction in huntable large game and
in their access to such through the enforcement
of Game Laws and the proclamation of Game
Reserves, including Game Reserve No. 2 or what
is now Etosha National Park, i.e., encompassing
large tracts of Hai||om “territory” (Gordon and
Sholto Douglas 2000: 54 f.). At the same time, the
expansion of commoditised social relations into
the frontier occupied by “Bushmen” required their
services as labourers: the violence employed to
ensure this relied on a multilayered dehumanising
discourse of the Bushmen as foragers, as con-
cerned only with immediate returns, and as inferior
in this to all other “races” (Gordon and Sholto
Douglas 2000: 233).
4 I am grateful to Michael Taylor for drawing my attention
to this quote.
Anthropos 96.2001
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses
183
What is significant about these marginalising
processes is that they have been intrinsically linked
to external constructions of Hai||om or “Bushman”
difference and identity which this monograph may
be interpreted as supporting instead of challenging.
Thus, while there may indeed be a case for the
“cultural independence” of “Bushmen,” I would
argue that it does not necessarily require some
sort of “foraging identity” to enforce the con-
tinuation of foraging behaviours under conditions
different to an idealised environment prior to ex-
ternal contact - it simply requires limited access
to alternatives. As with impoverished people the
world over, Hai||om utilise the by-products or
“rubbish” from other enterprises in creative ways
as replacement or “new” elements of material
culture (127). In this regard I recall from travelling
in Bangladesh in 1989 the disturbing image of
landless and desperately poor Bangladeshis “forag-
ing” alongside vultures on Dhaka’s heaving and
smouldering rubbish tip. It would surely be odd
to find anyone arguing that it was some sort of
“foraging identity” which kept those people poor
and limited to such behaviours. In other words, and
as Rohde (1997: 383) asks, are these behaviours
symptomatic of “cultural preference,” as in some
sort of “endemic predisposition based on infer-
ences of ‘cultural choice,’ perpetuated and repro-
duced through ... inertia”? Or are they “the logical
outcome of continuing material constraint”?
Further, Widlok’s model is an evolutionary one
in that it requires the notion of stable prior condi-
tions against which one can interpret the “adap-
tiveness” of Hai||om social practice. He states,
for example, that “Today there are no Khoekhoe
pastoralists in the Hai||om settlement area, apart
from Damara, with mostly small livestock - and
they have only recently settled there, at least in
the £Akhoe research area [due to State-led re-
settlement initiatives]. Thus, in the remembered
past, switching between identities defined by sub-
sistence practices has not been part of the Hai||om
experience as a group” (29 f.).5 But given the
dynamic history of the region, which, as outlined
below, demonstrates that Hai||om were productive-
ly involved with regional precolonial political and
5 There appears to be some confusion regarding the term
4=Akhoe. Suzman (pers. comm.) reports that the term seems
to be used in a pejorative way, translated loosely to mean
beggars, slaves, or “general useless folk.” Some people use
it as an adjective, i.e., sida ge akhoe Hai\\om - “we are
weak/poor Hai||om.” It seems that it is rare for people to
use j=Akhoe as an autonym. Indeed, Widlok does state that
it was only Hai||om in his Mangetti study area who used
the term as an autonym synonymously with Hai||om (17).
economic alliances and activities, it is difficult to
know what such “prior conditions” might have
been, or whether imaginings of such are partic-
ularly useful.
For example, Hai||om have long been active
participants in regional trade networks. Thus the
earliest reports of the Hai||om by missionaries,
travellers and traders (back to the mid 1850s)
refer to their use of copper and salt as items
of trade (30-31, 79), particularly with Owambo
(also see Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000:25-
32). Although frequently interpreted as “tribute,” it
seems that this trade took place on an equal footing
and that Hai||om were well-regarded and respected
by Owambo. As the Reverend Hugo Hahn noted
on encountering mining “Bushmen,” and revealing
his own preconceptions about these “hunting and
gathering” people, “We met two Bushmen today
who were taking copper ore from Otjorukaku to
Ondonga on their own account where they would
sell it for corn, tobacco, and calabashes. This I
never expected from Bushmen" (1985: 1034 cit. in
Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000: 26, emphasis
added). A flavour of their former regional standing
is indicated by the observation that until the latter
part of the 19th century they were able to refuse
access by outsiders to the mine itself (Gordon
and Sholto Douglas 2000: 26). Similarly, during
the last century “Bushmen,” presumably including
the Hai||om, actively exploited opportunities for
commercial gain via hunting for European markets
for which they cooperated with European hunters
(62, 65), using firearms instead of the “traditional”
bow and arrow since at least the 1850s (64) (also
Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000:36-40). As
Widlok himself argues (67), current circumstances
of exclusion from the commercial exploitation of
animal wildlife, as well as their restricted access
to commercial farming areas and to relatives who
may be residing there, contribute to their impov-
erished state today.
Hai||om also played a significant and inde-
pendent role in regional politics. For example,
they sheltered the Ndonga king Shikongo from
competitors prior to the establishment of protective
alliances between the Ndonga Owambo and Nama
commando units (64) and, as Gordon and Sholto
Douglas (2000: 27) argue, “Bushmen” in the ar-
ea behaved much as mercenaries by capitalising
on regional politics. Their “magical skills” also
rendered them significant in a number of specialist
occupations for Owambo sacred kings (Galton
1890: 131, 142 cit. in Widlok 234). Prolonged and
mutually beneficial associations with the Owambo
is indicated by oral testimony in the assertion
Anthropos 96.2001
184
Sian Sullivan
that they were “[l]ike children of one woman”
(65), a statement which draws attention to today’s
impoverished status of the Hai||om relative to their
Owambo neighbours. Hai||om reports from the
turn of the century that they successfully fought off
initial advances by Herero pastoralists into their
land (31; Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000:29)
also suggest a people rather sophisticated in his-
torical defense of what they considered to be
theirs. Later they resisted Boer settlement in the
Grootfontein area and were increasingly involved
in rebellious acts against their poor treatment by
both the state and settlers: in 1916-1917 the
extent of stock theft in Grootfontein District by
“Bushmen” thought to be primarily Hai||om was
so great that “a number of farmers were forced to
abandon their farms” (Gordon and Sholto Douglas
2000:41, 51-53, 71, 90). In a context of severe
drought and the enclosure of “their” land “Bush-
men” also attacked and looted groups of migrant
workers, instilling such fear into the northern la-
bour force that the administration was concerned
about effects on the labour supply (Gordon and
Sholto Douglas 2000: 58). The above imply that
since the earliest historical records Hai||om (and
other “Bushmen”) were seizing and capitalising
on opportunities, and resisting incursions and in-
justices - activities which might be interpreted as
indicating an openness to change in circumstances
where the balance of power was not stacked so
high against them.
The recent history for Hai||om territory also
increased dependence on the trappings of the state,
although this is an aspect little dealt with in
Widlok’s monograph. In the fifteen years prior
to independence the area was a primary focus
for South African Defence Force (SADF) activi-
ties against the guerrilla warfare mounted against
the apartheid South African administration by the
primarily Owambo South West African People’s
Organisation (SWAPO) in the northern reaches of
the country. During this period the area was home
to two large SADF bases and the Hai||om as a
group came to rely heavily on SADF incomes
and infrastructure. Indeed, Tsintsabis, the biggest
San settlement outside Caprivi Region and one of
the sites where Widlok conducted fieldwork with
Flai||om, was a military and police base prior to in-
dependence and sometimes home of the infamous
Koevoet (lit. “crowbar”) special-unit of the SADF,
renowned for its brutal methods of attack (Suzman,
pers. comm.). It would be unusual if the psycho-
logical effects of probable intimidation under these
circumstances, combined with growing needs for
items accompanying these extensions of the state,
did not conspire to further undermine attempts at
independence and self-determination by Hai||om.
Further, Widlok’s field material seems contra-
dictory to his argument that due to internal cultural
reasons Hai||om do not engage in “delayed return”
activities. Take, for example, the case of one of
his primary woman informants, ¡Gamekhas, who,
in a long day’s work gathered enough mangetti
nuts (the fruit of female Schinziophyton rautanenii
trees) to live on for roughly 53 days. As Widlok
(99) describes, she had no intention of living “ex-
clusively on mangetti nuts for almost two months.
Instead she made a special effort to collect a
large quantity of nuts in a short period with the
prospect of getting a lift to an Owambo farm
to the north where she intended to exchange the
nuts for millet, watermelons, and other items ...”
Widlok considers this as “postponed use” (107)
and therefore not to be confused with “delayed
returns.” But since both require planning for re-
turns in the future, I wonder at any qualitative
difference between the two. Again, with regard
to resource-harvesting, although Widlok does not
describe harvesting practice I would be surprised
if it was not characterised by a number of con-
straints practised by harvesters which, although not
identified as “rules” in a formalised sense, might
be framed in relation to ideas concerning future
productivity. This seems to be the case among
similarly Khoe-speaking Damara or £Nu Khoen
(Sullivan 1999, 2000).
Widlok also describes the way that Hai||om buy
goods from the local shop “on the book” (pp. 123 —
125) as a form of “advance return,” i.e., to support
his argument that Hai||om are interested in imme-
diate returns and continuous access to resources, as
opposed to delayed returns and resource accumu-
lation. However, because the worker effectively
begins work in debt to the shop (he requires
provisions before he receives his first wage), and
because his employer frequently takes over the
task of purchasing goods for him, he rarely even
sees the cash which he earns on pay-day. The shop
owner or employee end up controlling what the
Hai||om worker can or cannot spend his wages on
while he winds up with little independence over
his income and few possibilities for ever breaking
the cycle of continuous cash debt. For example, on
the commercial farm of ||Khausis a few workers
have bank accounts but these are managed by the
(white) farm owner (172). The assumption that
“Bushmen” were unable to appreciate the value
of cash was one way of ensuring cheap labour and
of justifying the perpetuation of extreme servitude
and poverty both under colonialism and apartheid
Anthropos 96.2001
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses
185
(e.g., Gordon and Sholto Douglas 2000: 138) and
today (Thoma 1998: 2). Indeed, most Namibians,
both in and out of town, rely on credit in order
to maintain livelihoods, and wrapping-up farm la-
bourers in debt remains a common means of keep-
ing farm workers subservient throughout Namibia
(Suzman 2000b). It is surprising, therefore, that an
inability to grasp the meaning of cash is asserted
as a feature of “Bushmen difference” in Widlok’s
ethnography: as well as supporting discriminatory
ideas of “Bushman-ness,” it amounts to reifying
nationwide circumstances as a cultural peculiarity.
Again, on p. 110 Widlok describes how an in-
formant, Jacob, “when desperate for some tobacco
offered to exchange his bow and arrows for a
packet of tobacco although, in our view, the bow
and arrow were much more valuable.” This is used
as an example of Hai||om emphasis on immediate
consumption and of concern regarding facilitating
access to resources rather than on individual accu-
mulation and investment for delayed returns. But
anyone who has experienced a craving for tobacco
or any other addictive or pleasurable substance will
know that “having it in the future” is absolutely
no substitute for “having it now.” Being able to
exchange tobacco for a bow and arrow in fact
might be considered a good deal given that the
materials required for constructing the latter are
readily and cheaply (or freely) available to the
individual; that these days bows and arrows are
infrequently required for hunting; and that the only
substantial investment required for producing such
items is time, which, given minimal employment
opportunities, is one thing that the Hai||om have
rather a lot of.
Finally, and importantly, Hai||om evicted from
Etosha national park had larger herds of live-
stock than the displaced and landless Hai||om with
whom Widlok worked in the 1990s (118-119).
This suggests that it’s not some sort of internal
social characteristic which prohibits engagement in
delayed return activities such as herding but rather
access to land and sufficient day-to-day economic
security to allow investment and accumulation.
Regarding Widlok’s focus on difference, I feel
that the distinction between the “structural insta-
bility” and flexibility of “hunter-gatherer” social
practice and the posited “socio-cultural continuity”
seemingly manifest among pastoralists and agro-
pastoralists (12, 260) is something of a false di-
chotomy. People inhabiting unpredictably varying
drylands, whether they herd, farm, forage, seek
wage-ernployment or, more realistically, endeav-
our to combine more than one of the above, also
build on the same elements of “instability” or
“diversity” in the practice of exploiting their en-
vironmental and socio-political circumstances. In
other words, they are opportunistic; they maintain
knowledges and access to diverse food-produc-
ing and other technologies - including gathering
“wild” products and in times not only driven by
need; and they establish and enhance wide social
networks with kin relations at the core (for a gener-
al overview see Mortimore 1998). The significant
difference surely is that Bantu agropastoralists
in southern Africa, and more recently European
colonists, have managed to harness power over
productive resources (land, natural resources, and
livestock) - and that the political circumstances of
the recent past as well as the present have acted
to enhance this distribution of power. Further,
that this has been supported by ill-informed and
prejudicial stereotypes of others; images which are
held by those in power and used to maintain their
power. These dimensions are iterated by Hai||om
themselves in their contextualised stories of “hoe-
snatching” and “cattle-theft” which they state left
them bereft of the resources and technologies
appropriated by neighbouring ethnic groups (46-
51). As Gordon and Sholto Douglas (2000: 19)
argue, “hunting and pastoralism (and even agricul-
ture ...) are flexible production strategies: there
is no lineal trajectory from the one to the other.
Nor ... are they mutually incompatible ... The
distinction between foragers and pastoralists is a
political one. Fluidity, competition and movement
were the dominant characteristics of [all] these
communities.” Without wishing to fall prey to
the wider excesses of environmental determinism,
in this dimension at least Widlok’s thesis, and
the general patterns which it seems to support,
could have been well-informed by some of the
recent thinking regarding ecology and land use of
drylands, which supports the general significance
and appropriateness of maintaining “instability,”
flexibility and diversity in land and resource use
practice and the social relations guiding these (e.g.,
Behnke et al. 1993).
Hai||om As “Bushmen”? and Access to
Official Discourses
This brings me to my next observation. While
anthropologists conventionally may be anxious
to “explain” the people with whom they work
through rather self-contained ethnographic texts,
I wonder at the continuing potential for con-
structing misleading, even fictional, groupings and
identities via this process. As Gordon (2000: 2)
Anthropos 96.2001
186
Sian Sullivan
asserts, “[t]o label someone as belonging to a
specific ethnic group is not just to give that
person a distinctive identity, but also to make a
value judgement about that person and to indicate
how that person is expected to behave.” Above, I
raised some questions regarding interpretations of
Widlok’s ethnographic material as affirmations of
an internal “Bushman” culture and identity. Here I
focus on the implications of ethnographic material
from other Namibians for assertions of Hai||om
as “Bushman,” and of the relationships a Hai||om
“Bushman” identity has to official discourses and
institutions employing concepts of indigeneity and
“San-ness.”
As Widlok rightly points out (260), structuralist
anthropology, with its emphasis on classification
and categorisation, has undermined the legitima-
cy of both research with the Hai||om and of
their own valid cultural and hybrid subsistence
status, in favour of “true Bushmen” represented,
for example, by the “Kalahari !Kung” of Lee’s
classic work (e.g., 1979). His assertions of pro-
ducing a “post-revisionist” and “practice-oriented
ethnography” notwithstanding, however, he seems
intent on asserting Hai||om as “culturally foragers”
and as part of a “Bushmen nation” (263). Thus,
although he focuses on Hai||om interactions with
their agropastoralist neighbours, the emphasis of
Hai||om identity in Widlok’s ethnography is the
“fact” that they “share many strategies with other
groups identified as ‘Bushmen’” (250). As with
the issues raised above regarding interpretations
of Widlok’s ethnographic material, I feel that his
corroboration of the “Bushman”/“San” identity of
Hai||om perhaps has been achieved through oc-
cluding links and parallels with other Namibians
which are more legitimate, in both ethnographic
and “public service anthropology” terms. Here,
my reading of Widlok’s text has been strongly
influenced by my own communications with Da-
mara people in northwest Namibia as well as my
readings of other Namibian ethnography and histo-
riography (primarily Lau 1987, 1995; Fuller 1993;
Rohde 1993, 1997; Gordon and Sholto Douglas
2000).
Ethnographically and lingustically, Hai||om ap-
pear anomalous in the categories “Bushman”
and/or “San.” They are Khoe-speakers and be-
long to Khoekhoegowab, i.e., the language spoken
with regional and dialectical differences by Nama
and Damara as well as Hai||om, with Hai||om
being closer to Damara forms than Nama.6 In
this linguistic respect, and as Barnard (1992:51)
6 E.g., Haacke et al. 1997: 139; Haacke and Eiseb 1999.
states, if “San” has any meaning at all, it refers to
those who are “non-Khoe” speakers. Confusing the
issue, however, the term “San” in its historical uses
apparently was an economic class designation sig-
nalling impoverishment and referring to “what lat-
er became known as the Nama-speaking Heikom,
and not the Kung Bushmen” (Gordon and Sholto
Douglas 2000: 17), i.e., Hai||om were known as
“Khoi” and not “Bushmen” in the sense of their
being “culturally-foragers” or “San-speakers.” I
realise that Widlok explicitly is trying to counter
negative identifications of Hai||om as those without
“markers” of Khoi culture in favour of those
with “markers” of “Bushman” culture (29). But I
am suggesting that linguistically, ethnographically,
and historically the “evidence” for this stance is
untenable.
I was consistently struck in Widlok’s ethnog-
raphy by similarities between the “indicators” of
cultural identity affirmed by his informants and my
own communications with Khoe-speaking Damara
people in the northwest of Namibia, who are
asserted by some as among the oldest inhabitants
of the territory now known as Namibia (e.g., Lau
1987:4). Damara who I have spoken to regard-
ing this point distinguish themselves from “Bush-
men,” although they were similarly constructed
as “hunter-gatherers” by colonial and apartheid
ethnographers.7 In fact, Haacke et al. (1997: 130)
report that in interviews with Hai||om regarding
self-perception they received consistent assertions
that Hai||om are “one” with ^Aodama (i.e., Dama-
ra of the Outjo/Kamanjab/Etosha area) and rejec-
tions that they are “Saan”.8 Elsewhere, Hai||om
have requested that they are recognised as “an
ethnic group distinct from the other San people”
(New Era 1993: 2), and Suzman (pers. comm.) has
recent (2000) video material of Hai||om explaining
that their association with “Bushmen” is totally
spurious.
A few examples drawn from the Hai||om “cul-
tural indicators” detailed in Widlok’s ethnogra-
phy may serve to stress the point that Hai||om
share much of cultural significance with other
Khoe-speakers as opposed to those who have
been categorised linguistically and/or culturally as
“San.” Starting with kinship and ideas of relat-
edness, Widlok describes Hai||om kin reckoning
as classificatory, employing a number of typical
features. A key component is “The tendency to
7 See Lau 1995; Fuller 1993; Rohde 1997; Sullivan 2000.
8 Although the authors point out “that it was not clear whether
association with the Saan was played down by the Hai||om
because of considerations of status.”
Anthropos 96.2001
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses
187
construe kinship relations as shared mutually by
a number of people rather than as ego-centred.”
This enables the integration “as classificatory ge-
nealogical relatives all persons whom one may
encounter, and not only close relatives” (187).
Widlok asserts that the resulting “flexibility in
kinship matters is of a distinctly non-authoritarian
hunter-gatherer type” (188). “[T]he cooperative
construction of Hai||om relationship terms” thus
“is for the purpose of knowing one’s relatives, in
contradistinction to an ascription of the terms for
the purpose of controlling those relatives.” (188)
Hai||om kinship serves particularly as “a com-
municative aid for establishing common ground,”
(188), such that it is the “social deixis” - the
relational and transactional instances in which
kinship terms are involved - which shapes the
social outcome of kinship reckoning (189-191). In
this, Widlok affirms Ingold’s (1990: 130) concept
of “relatedness” among Kalahari “San,” by which
the potential for network expansion is embodied
by a kinship frame “constituted by relations of
incorporation rather than exclusion, by virtue of
which others are ‘drawn in’ and not ‘parcelled
out’.”
Flexibility in kin reckoning, however, is by
no means exclusive to, or only “adaptive” for,
those variously labelled as “Bushmen,” “San” or
“hunter-gatherers.” Fuller (1993: 120), for exam-
ple, points out for Khoe-speaking Damara and
Nama that parallelism in same sex siblings of
parents and in same sex cousins, a high incidence
of fostering and adoption, and flexible definitions
of those constituting family or |nikhoen, provides
a superbly enabling framework “for the expansion
and contraction of the network of relatives with
whom one maintains reciprocal obligations” (also
see Gordon 1972: 77 f.). The people with whom
Fuller worked currently and historically were herd-
ers, primarily of small-stock, and traders, who also
practise horticulture and engage opportunistically
in the formal and informal economies for cash
income, as well as gathering “wild” resources
when available. In other particulars of kin reck-
oning there are parallels between Hai||om and
Damara which do not exist between Hai||om and
“Bushmen” or “San.” As Haacke et al. (1997: 131)
affirm, both Hai||om and Damara conventionally
name their daughters after their father’s family and
their sons after their mother’s family - a prac-
tice which does not seem to be apparent among
Ju|’hoan (“San”).
As Widlok asserts for Hai||om, many features of
Nama/Damara kinship are linked to the exigencies
°f an uncertain environment: thus, “[t]he intimate
connection between kin and the social imperatives
of economic survival leads to an imprecision in
the definitions of who and who is not kin because
the imperatives of economic survival are them-
selves constantly changing ... A wide net of kin
increases the area over which one could utilize
resources thus counterbalancing the periodic local-
ized droughts that occur” (Fuller 1993: 114, 128).
But flexibility as a key component of kin reck-
oning similarly has been documented as crucial
for predominantly pastoralist groups elsewhere. As
Lancaster and Lancaster (1986) describe for Rwala
Bedouin, the key to negotiation over resource
access is kinship: in particular, a conception of
kin relationships as reciprocal networks which are
continually modified or reorganized on the strength
of new interactions between individuals.
Regarding ideas of who constitutes and has ac-
cess to the immediate “household” as the basic unit
of sharing, again there are a number of parallels.
For Damara, those who share access to a hearth
are similarly termed a \\gdus (pi. = \\gduti). As
Widlok describes, these are physically manifested
as “clusters of huts, often forming a circle, that
belong together in the sense of a hearth group
with close kin ties” (136), and which supports
as members any number of individuals who are
not present at any particular time (Sullivan 1996,
forthcoming). Nama kinship arrangements share
these aspects (Hoernle 1985; Fuller 1993:114-
120; Cowlishaw, pers. comm.). From a number
of “case situations” on pages 138-139 Widlok
elaborates the significance of the \\gdus as the
unit of “obligatory sharing among all its mem-
bers.” As he asserts, “sharing is the most powerful
tool for defining the boundaries of a \\gdus,”
such that “[c]oresidents expect a share, and de-
nying this share is concomitant with denying that
one belongs together” (141). Again, this defines
\\gduti among Damara and Nama (see references
above). Reading the case situations, however, I
was further struck by the similarities between
them and expectations that perhaps characterise
all “social groupings,” namely those of reciproc-
ity as a characteristic of social membership. For
example, if I visit friends and/or relatives I would
expect some sort of hospitality and vice versa, and
might even request items, material or otherwise,
in the knowledge that the potential exists for them
to ask the same from me should occasion arise
in the future. I make this point as a means of
questioning affirmations of “difference” when we
could be delineating avenues for communication
and understanding based on what may be common,
albeit culturally “filtered,” human experiences.
Anthropos 96.2001
188
Sian Sullivan
More broadly than immediate family and
hearth-groupings (\nikhoen or ||gauti), Damara
share with Hai||om the interrelated concepts of
!haos, i.e., lineage- and territory-based exogamous
group (42), and of thus, i.e., land area with which
a !haos is associated (81-85; also see Sullivan
1999). Widlok has previously referred to these
as “land-and-people groupings” such that “[t]he
boundaries of a thus relate to the (traditional)
exogamous group which in anthropological terms
may be called a ‘band cluster’,” and “landscapes
are classified not only on the basis of topography
but also with regard to the groups of people
associated with them” (Widlok 1997:321, 323).
Damara frame such areas of land as sida thus
or “our land” and orient land use activities and
settlement patterns towards the !hus with which
their ancestry is associated, even where history has
dispossessed them of legal access to these areas
(Sullivan 1999). Given these common experiences
and framings of relationships between people and
areas of land, I wonder if the concept of thus
could be fruitfully developed as common currency
in land claim debates from which Damara are
not excluded (as currently they are in some fora,
discussed below), in the same way as the term
n'.ore (i.e., the area of land held by a Ju|’hoan
camp) has become in debates regarding “San”
claims to land.
In ritual, Damara and Hai||om also share ide-
as and practice. These include, for example, the
identification of items as taboo or soxa (chapter 7),
the “traditional” role of the “medicine man” and
the healing qualities of the medicine trance dance
(chapter 8). Today, it may be that only vestiges
of these remain among some Damara - although
tourism is contributing to the reconstruction of
ritual activities, as in the performing of healing
dances as part of the “traditional village” Anmire
at Kowareb, southern Kunene Region.9 This de-
cline, however, does not in and of itself justify
disregard for what may be considered cultural or
“interethnic” affinities in the anthropological struc-
turing of the identity of the “group” participating
in research.
The above examples beg the question as to why
Hai||om are so emphatically “tagged” as “San” or
as “Bushmen” in Widlok’s ethnography and be-
yond. Here I wish to explore relationships between
cultural and ethnographic categories and access to
9 Some of these memories and practices of Damara ritual
and healing will be explored more thoroughly in Sullivan
and Ganuses (in prepn.), drawing on oral testimony collated
over the last two to three years.
current official discourses regarding claims to land.
This is as a means of thinking through the fur-
ther implications of anthropological affirmations
of particular identities and signifiers of difference.
My understanding is as follows. Hai||om have
been consistently marginalised over the last one
hundred or so years due, at least in part, to their
constructed status as primitive “hunter-gatherers.”
Some Hai||om have been particularly assertive in
their requests for the return of ancestral land, as
evidenced by a highly publicised demonstration
which blocked the entrances to Etosha National
Park in 1996 (Du Pisani 1998: 6; Thoma 1998: 3;
Felton 2000: 10). These dynamics have coincided
with increasing international concern regarding
the rights, and particularly the land rights, of
“indigenous minorities” throughout the world. In
southern Africa, this concern is embodied in the
organisation WIMSA (Working Group for Indige-
nous Minorities in Southern Africa), whose activi-
ties are focused particularly on land claims and
on facilitating negotiations between represented
groups and official authorities (Arnold and Gaeses
1998:3).
But in southern Africa, “indigenous minority”
has become synonymous with “San” or “Bush-
man.” Thus WIMSA describes itself not as the
organisation representing all indigenous minori-
ties, but “as the organisation representing the in-
terests of all San in Southern Africa” (WIMSA
2000; also Thoma 1998), i.e., it is about “Bush-
man empowerment” (Gordon 2000: 10). In this,
WIMSA has accomplished a remarkable job in
facilitating communications between “San” groups
and in enabling “San” to attend international work-
shops, and thereby establish links with other “in-
digenous minorities” (e.g., Brormann 1999: 22).
The Hai||om Development Trust II registered as
a member of WIMSA in May 1998 (Brormann
1999: 22). Unsurprisingly, the Hai||om, as one of
the largest “San” groups in Namibia,10 * have sub-
stantial standing as part of WIMSA. Conversely, as
one of the largest Namibian groups represented by
WIMSA, the Hai||om perhaps are rather important
for the advocacy aims of the organisation.
It does not take an enormous stretch of the
imagination to see that being constructed as “San,”
i.e. as “culturally foragers” akin to other southern
10 Felton (2000: 9) reports that Hai||om comprise “one third
of Namibia’s San population.” This may be a substantial
overestimate, however, with a recent intensive “fact-find-
ing” mission placing the Hai||om at a maximum of 5,000
out of 30,000 Namibian San, with considerably more !Kung
and Kxoe speakers than Hai||om (Suzman 2000a).
Anthropos 96.2001
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses
189
African “Bushmen”, would promote the standing
of Hai||om in WIMSA-assisted land and devel-
opment claims, as well as in other arenas (e.g.
tourism) in which the appropriation of a perhaps
romanticised “Bushman” identity can facilitate ac-
cess to income.11 Suzman (pers. comm.) in fact
reports that some Ju|’hoan (San) of north-east
Namibia consider Hai||om as “imposters” who are
after their “indigenous credibility.” Regarding the
malleability of identity, Felton (2000: 15) similarly
affirms for “San” that “[pjlainly, identity will
receive positive stimuli from any initiatives that
advance development”.
In this respect Hai||om and Damara do not
only share ethnographically identified “cultural
markers” and language. They also share parallel
histories of dispossession and marginalisation as
well as the imposition of negative identity stereo-
types with which these processes were associated.
Currently, however, Damara people are not rep-
resented by WIMSA, even though many of them,
and some Ihaoti in particular, have experienced the
same and continuing marginalising processes as
Hai||om (and others). It is the affirmation of these
shared experiences which I feel might contribute
to a more broadly beneficial debate regarding
claims for land and livelihood options among
impoverished Namibians (which Widlok clearly is
concerned about, e.g., 24) and which I wish to
summarise here.
For example, under the early 1970s estab-
lishment of “homelands” or Bantustans, and the
earlier delineation of “Native Reserves,” all Na-
mibian “groups” in southern and central Namibia
experienced the loss of large areas of land to
which they could lay historical and ancestral claim.
For some groups this involved the removal of
all the land to which they traced their ancestry.
Clearly, this was the case for Hai||om. Particular
groups (ihaoti) of Damara, however, share these
experiences. |Khomani Damara of the valleys and
mountains of the |Khomas Hochland, ^Aodaman
of Outjo/Kamanjab/Etosha area, |Gaiodaman of
Otjiwarongo area, !Oe^gan of Usakos/Omaruru/
Erongo Mountains area and |Gowanin of Hoa-
chanas/west Gobabis area, for example, all lost
their access to land, at least in part because of its
delineation as commercial farmland under colonial
and apartheid rule. Like land-dispossessed Flai||om
and “San” (cf. Suzman 1995), many remained in
their ancestral areas as impoverished and “genera-
tional” farm labourers and domestics, or left to be
U See, for example, l=Oma and Thoma 1998; Garland and
Gordon 1999.
absorbed into the labour system which serviced
urban areas and industry. The establishment of
the Damaraland “homeland,” located in today’s
southern Kunene and northern Erongo Regions,
completely bypassed these and other Damara ter-
ritories. While viewing the expanded “homeland”
as an opportunity to become established as inde-
pendent farmers, Damara from these areas who
settled in the “homeland” identify themselves
as displaced from their ancestral lands which they
remember and know as theirs (Sullivan 1996). Like
Fiai ||om (34 f.), Damara also have been dispos-
sessed of land in the “national interest” of wildlife
conservation, and have similarly engaged in pro-
test efforts to reclaim land rights in conservation
areas, and suffered government refusal to consider
restitution of such land rights. For example, in
the 1950s Damara were ruthlessly evicted from
what became Daan Viljoen Game Reserve (known
as !Ao-||aexas to its former Damara inhabitants),
established for the benefit of Windhoek’s white
inhabitants, and were relocated several hundred ki-
lometres away to the farm Sores-Sores on the Ugab
(ÎU^gab) River; a less productive and very remote
area where many of the promises by government
officials for assistance in establishing themselves
as self-sufficient farmers remained unmet.
Finally, both Hai||om and Damara, as well as
others, experience problems due to the current situ-
ation whereby the post-independence constitution
enables Namibian citizens to move to wherever
they choose on communal land. Although the
constitution contains the proviso that the custom-
ary rights of others be observed, problems arise
because no procedures or resources exist to mon-
itor the process, with the result that some groups
experience marginalisation in the face of incoming
herders who frequently are more wealthy in terms
of livestock-holdings. This is apart from the fact
that definitions of “customary rights” are extreme-
ly problematic, given that many Namibians no
longer have any access to what might be con-
sidered their ancestral or “customary” territories.
Thus Damara as well as Hai||om (37) and other
“Bushmen” grapple with a situation whereby they
are continually having to accommodate themselves
to circumstances in which the access of “more
assertive newcomers” (Felton 2000: 13) to “their”
land is enhanced (also Brdrmann 1999: 14; Sulli-
van in press).12
12 This also works in reverse: e.g. Suzman (1995:55) de-
scribes how “... if Ju’|hoansi or Damaras move stock to the
former Hereroland East reserve, it is unlikely that the stock
will remain long in their hands, as in terms of Herero tenure
Anthropos 96.2001
190
Sian Sullivan
Concluding Remarks
Lest I be misinterpreted, let me assert my stance
clearly. Anthropology’s colonial past notwith-
standing, following Gordon (2000), and in affir-
mation of the anthropologist’s close experience of
“the other” through fieldwork, I identify anthro-
pology as potentially powerful in advocacy and
public service in consultation with impoverished
peoples. At the same time, and while admiring
those dealing with the complexities of facilitation
and implementation in the fields of environment,
development and human rights, I also affirm the
potential for anthropology to situate and critique
the identity categories frequently employed by
institutions, donor programmes and development
professionals. That said, however, extreme reflex-
ivity and deconstruction regarding the (hopefully)
dynamic view(s) of the anthropologist also clearly
need to be part and parcel of the “doing” of an-
thropology, given that identities, differences, and
categories sanctioned in anthropological writings
also can play into the hands of particular insti-
tutional and official discourses. The whole nexus
is complicated further by whatever impacts we
as individuals (and as people in interrelationships
with those studied) have on the issues, people,
and places, etc. we think and write about; not to
mention the impacts they have on us and our own
constructed individual identities.
To invoke a cliché, for anthropology “in the
New Millenium” the “other” are spatially and tem-
porally dispersed, being individuals and institu-
tions, as well as their interrelationships, from local
to global contexts. People who become the actors
of anthropological researches are of multiple and
changing identities, interlinked and interpenetrated
in ways which, in terms of anthropology’s struc-
turalist past, perhaps are unintuitive. As Rohde
writes of inhabitants of Okombahe in the south
of the former Damaraland “homeland,” people
“portray themselves, their families and neighbours
as inhabitants of a world imbued with a rich
confusion of disparate cultural influences. The
seemingly fragmentary and dislocated artefacts of
global processes - the trappings of colonialism, the
world economy, the mass media - are naturalised
and appropriated within a specifically localised
and historically contingent environment. Visit any
village or town in Damaraland and you will see
politics, they will have nowhere to graze and in many cases
such stock will be stolen - a thing easily done given the
relative powerlessness of marginalised groups in the area.”
and hear an ongoing global culture, in styles
of dress, in body language, in the sounds blar-
ing from battery-driven tape-recorders and radios”
(1998: 192). So much for internal cultural coher-
ence and local identities separate from broader
influences, particularly given recent technologies
of mass communication (as apparent in “San”
requests for better telecommunications access as
a means of being better informed generally and
for maintaining closer links between themselves
and with other “indigenous minorities” worldwide,
e.g., Tjombe 1998; Brormann 1999).
At the book launch for Widlok’s monograph
at the Anthropological Association of Southern
Africa conference in May 2000, the historian Jan-
Bart Gewald made the observation that “we are all
people and should talk to one another as people,”
a possibility which one could say is formalised in
anthropology. Widlok clearly has talked to Hai||om
as people. At the same time, however, he affirms
Hai||om difference in a way which has particular
implications for contemporary issues and debate.
Widlok’s ethnography is excellent in its detail,
its accessible writing style, its structure, and the
overall coherence of the story he tells. But, it
also constructs a Hai||om identity which is per-
haps problematic (and irresponsible?) in relation to
past and contemporary discourses of indigeneity,
“Bushmanness,” and claims to land. In this the
monograph raises issues for social anthropology as
a whole: with regard to the discipline’s potential
for affirming and constructing particular identities,
and to its ability to inform the official discourses
via which power in a world of unequal relations is
mediated and maintained.
First, I would like to acknowledge Tom Widlok whose
monograph I enjoyed and was stimulated by, and whose
commitment I admire: I have not intended any offence
with this article. I would also like to thank James
Fairhead, Rob Gordon, Willi Haacke, Dag Henrichsen,
James Suzman, and Mike Taylor for support and helpful
comments - the views I express, as well as any errors of
judgement, are my own. The paper was written as part
of a Post doctoral Research Fellowship from the British
Academy, and I gratefully acknowledge their support.
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Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
Masks and Identity
The Significance of Masquerades in the
Symbolic Cycle Linking the Living,
the Dead, and the Bush Spirits among
the Wawa (Cameroon)
Quentin Gausset
Introduction
The Wawa number about 4,000 and live in Camer-
oon, between the town of Banyo and the Nige-
rian border. Most are farmers growing princi-
pally maize, and also groundnuts, manioc, sweet
potatoes, and taro. Some have begun to raise
cattle. They live on the northeastern outskirts of
the Grassfields, a region which is famous for its
variety of languages and high density of ethnic
groups. The maintenance of a specific Wawa iden-
tity is therefore a continuous challenge, which is
made more difficult by the fact that the Wawa
have converted to Islam and are “fulbeizing” -
adopting aspects of Fulbe culture (Gausset 1997,
1999). Today, apart from their language, which is
spoken less and less by the younger generation, it
is difficult to differentiate the Wawa from their
neighbours. They still have a tendency to live
together in compact villages, next to neighbouring
Fulbe villages, but the way of life found in both
settlements does not differ much and a foreigner
unaware of the distinction might easily mistake
one for the other.1
Things used to be very different only a few
generations ago. At that time, the Wawa were
very famous in the region for their skills in iron
smelting (although they did not practice much
blacksmithing, unlike the neighbouring Torbi or
Lila). People say that the hoes made from this
excellent quality iron lasted five times as long
us the cheap, industrially-produced hoes, whose
production after World War II caused the demise
of traditional craftsmanship. Historically and po-
litically, the Wawa also distinguished themselves
from many of their neighbours by making an
alliance with the Fulbe newcomers during the first
half of the 19th century, and by participating in
slaving raids on the Kwanja and Mambila popu-
lations living further south (Gausset 1997, 1998;
Hurault 1975; Mohammadou 1978, 1991). They
played an important role in the management of the
sultanate and had numerous influential dignitaries
at the palace. Yet, the influence of the rural Wawa
lessened dramatically, as the dignitaries and their
descendants fulbeized and as a consequence of
the European colonization, which undermined the
previous alliance between the Fulbe and the local
populations (Gausset 1998).
The Wawa kinship system is based on patri-
lineages, which were responsible for the orga-
nization of the now defunct rituals and within
which the political titles are still inherited.1 2 Com-
plementary filiation, based on bilateral ties, plays
an important role (all bilateral parents are respon-
sible and have to help if one of their relatives is
sick; witchcraft and diseases which are considered
to be “hereditary” can be passed both through
the mother and the father). People entertain very
strong links with their maternal grandparents and
are sometimes brought up by them. This strong
link is also reflected in the practice of matrimonial
alliances, which are not very different from those
existing among the Yamba and Bamiléké (Gufler
1 Next to most Wawa villages there has been created a Fulbe
village bearing the same name. One can thus distinguish
between “Oumiari-Wawa” and “Oumiari-Fulbe,” “Gandwa-
Wawa” and “Gandwa-Fulbe,” etc. This is a result of the
tensions which still exist between the two populations, due
to the difference in their statuses and their access to political
and economic power (Gausset 1999).
2 Wawa political organization is quite loose, as among the
neighbouring Mambila; there was no institutionalized chief
before the arrival of the Fulbe in the first half of the 19th
century (see Gausset 1995, 1997; Zeitlyn 1993, 1994b).
Anthropos 96.2001
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Berichte und Kommentare
1995; Brain 1972; Pradelles de Latour 1992).
Traditionally, the Wawa could choose between a
marriage by exchange of sisters or a marriage by
matrimonial compensations. In the first case, the
focus was on the equity of the transaction. Ideally,
both women should give birth to the same number
of children. If one marriage was sterile, the other
one had to be broken and the children taken back
to the woman’s father. If both marriages were
successful, the fathers kept the rights over their
children and their offspring. In the case of a mar-
riage by matrimonial compensation, the husband
only acquired rights in uxorem (over his wife)
but not in genetricem (over her children). The
wife’s father kept the custody on his daughter’s
children, and would collect the highest part of
their matrimonial compensation (which consisted
of 3 to 10 hoes). Things are now slowly changing
under the influence of Fulbe culture; the focus on
patriliny becomes more important and the Islamic
rules of inheritance are increasingly followed.
In fact, apart from their language, their re-
nown in iron smelting, and their alliance with
the Fulbe, one of the main differences between
the Wawa and their neighbours was their specific
religious practices, before they converted to Islam
and abandoned them. They were characterized, on
the one hand, by large annual or biennial ancestor
cults which restored the fertility in the villages
(described in Gausset 1995) and, on the other hand,
by their masquerades, which I am going to analyze
in this article.
The contemporary study of masquerades has
become problematic, as they are no longer prac-
ticed after the mass-conversion to Islam at the end
of the 1960s (Gausset 1999). After converting, the
Wawa have then burned or buried their wooden
masks and completely abandoned their rituals.3
Only the old people remember them, and their
memories are the only remaining clues to the
cosmological and ritual importance of the mas-
querades. Yet, thirty years after the last ceremony
was performed, it is striking to see how secret it
still is. During my research, each time I touched
upon the subject, the voice of the informant was
lowered, and he glanced around to be sure that
nobody was listening. Although the masks are
now burnt or buried, their power is still greatly
feared - the punishment for revealing their secret
to a noninitiate (and especially a woman) used to
be death. When I showed my informants some
3 In order to distinguish between the event, the figure, and
the headpiece I will use the terms masquerade, mask, and
wooden mask.
old pictures taken during the last funeral orga-
nized in Oumiari,4 their excitement was intense.
They explained which stage of the funeral was
represented, the name and origin of the different
masks, and even - the ultimate secret - who was
dancing under the mask! In this way, through the
interviews, I could reconstruct the major events,
which took place during a masquerade, and get an
idea of their importance for the Wawa. Of course,
having never witnessed one myself, the description
of the masquerade which follows cannot claim
to be a detailed and accurate description of the
ritual but, limited as it is, it still provides us with
interesting information. On the one hand, when
put in relation to the present beliefs and practices
surrounding bush spirits, it helps us to understand
the complexities of the symbolic cycle linking the
world of the dead with that of the living. On
the other hand, the description which follows is
based on the memories of some 20 informants
who have participated in masquerades and whose
opinions about them give important insights on the
importance which they had for Wawa identity.
Wawa Masquerades
Each Wawa patrilineage had one (and only one)
wooden mask5 which was distinct from that of
other patrilineages - with perhaps feathers, teeth,
or a beard - and had a personal name, often
associated with the name of the lineage. Although
the Wawa did not distinguish between them on
a morphological basis (all the masks were called
sowei), it should be noted that some of the wooden
masks were anthropomorphic, while most in some
way resembled Mambila wooden masks, depicting
a kind of “animal” with a big mouth and three
“horns” (see Zeitlyn 1994a). There were different
taboos associated with the wooden masks: people
could not have sexual intercourse before touching
them or dancing with them; one had to sacrifice
a chicken before using them; they could not be
soiled by rats, fire, or humidity; they could not
be seen by women or children, etc. The wooden
masks were treated with awe because it was be-
lieved that those who did not “respect” them, or
who transgressed the taboos associated with them,
could be struck dead.
4 The pictures were generously provided by Jean Hurault, to
whom I am grateful.
5 The wooden masks were not made at each funeral; each
lineage kept its only mask as long as it remained undam-
aged. It is to be noted that the village of Gandwa had no
tradition of organized masquerades.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
195
When a man died, masks appeared at each of
the three stages of the funerary rituals.6 During
the three first days following the death, the widows
stayed in their houses. The houses were then swept
and the ashes were scattered at a crossroad by the
widows and close kin of the deceased. There, they
cooked a chicken, ate it, broke the cooking pot,
and returned to the village. A few days later, when
there had been time to brew beer (which takes
about ten days), a mask representing the spirit of
the deceased man entered the village and danced
in the compound while everyone mourned. The
widow must not see it, and stayed inside her house.
This first ceremony was called “the mask of the
ashes.”
A few months later, the mask representing the
deceased (i.e., the mask of the deceased’s patri-
lineage) came into the village again, this time with
the masks of the other patrilineages of the village.
People again displayed sadness and mourning dur-
ing the dances. Thick porridge was prepared which
was deliberately badly cooked, with roasted but
almost raw and unsalted chickens. The masks took
the food and went to a special place in the bush,
called “Mbarai.” The women could not approach
this place because it was believed that they would
become ill if they witnessed the violent movement
of the masks during the dance performed there.
Adolescents who “did not know the secret of
the masks” did attend. They laid on the ground
and were tickled and frightened by the masks.
They were told to say nothing of what happened,
and were chased back to the village. In Mbarai,
the head of the deceased’s lineage cursed any
witches who might use their witchcraft during
the ceremony. He also said: “If the death of X
(the deceased) was natural, then it is fine, but
if he has been killed by a witch, let that witch
die within a few days.” This pronouncement was
punctuated by the sound of single bells, supposed
to have magical powers against witchcraft, and
by the movement of the masks which touched
their lips to the ground. All this was believed
6 The fact that wooden masks represented only men’s spirits
does not mean that only these became ancestors. For
example, ancestor cults were also practiced at the tombs of
women, and they could address the spirits of dead women.
The funerals of women did not involve masquerades. I
heard that women of the village of Mbenguege - and only
this village - organized semblances of masquerades (I have
been told that they used calabashes instead of wooden
masks), but I was unable to verify this information as I
did not do my fieldwork in this village and as it is a secret
which is well-kept by women (this “masquerade” was not
a public event like those organized by men).
Anthropos 96.2001
to be powerful antiwitchcraft magic. If a partic-
ular person was suspected of having killed the
deceased, this person came, swore that he had done
nothing wrong, and licked the wooden mask of the
deceased. If he was guilty, he was supposed to die
soon; if he was innocent, nothing would happen.
The masks danced for some time, then returned to
the sacred forest of their patrilineage, from whence
they came. This second ceremony was called “the
mask of the road.”
The last mourning ceremony was the biggest,
and involved not only all the masks of the village
but also the masks of other lineages whose mem-
bers had married a spouse from the patrilineage of
the deceased. This ceremony was called pupurbi,
and took place during the dry season, between
one and two years after the death. Once again,
the masks came to the compound. This time, the
widows painted their faces with ashes or white clay
and danced around the crowd which danced close
to the masks. The masks were again given almost
raw and unsalted food, and went to Mbarai to eat it
and to pronounce curses against witches. The boys
who were terrorized during the previous ceremony
attended again - except those who could not keep
the secret and had told other children what had
happened. This time, they were shown “the secret
of the masks,” namely that the masks were not
spirits but human beings, who deceived women
and children. They then swore to keep the secret.
If the deceased was an old person, a small portion
of his beard had been taken from the corpse before
burial and preserved within a piece of elephant
grass. During the pupurbi ceremony the masks
brought this elephant grass to Mbarai and threw
the beard into a calabash filled with palm wine.
If the beard sank, the deceased’s widows were
supposed to have had sex since his death - which
is strictly taboo. The ceremony was spoiled and
proceeded no further. If it floated, it meant that
the widows had mourned properly. The masks
then returned happily to the village, and this time
the dances were really joyful and animated. In
the compound, the mask representing the deceased
turned the basket, in which the deceased’s clothes
were kept, upside down. He took the deceased’s
spear and threw it away; the young people ran
after it: whoever found it could keep it. The masks
danced in the compound. In the evening, before
leaving, the mask of the deceased shook the hand
of each widow, all of whom wore a bag over
their head to prevent them from seeing their “dead
husband.” The villagers danced all night. In the
morning, the widows went to the river to wash
themselves. Their heads were shaved, and the cord
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worn around the neck as a sign of mourning was
cut. The mourning had officially come to an end,
and the widows were then free to remarry.
The Association between the Spirits of the Dead
and the Spirits of the Bush
It is clear from the above description that the
masks represent the spirits of the dead, either of
the deceased for whom the ceremony is organized,
or of the other dead from the hereafter. Yet people
also say that the wooden masks resemble the bush
spirits although nobody has ever claimed to have
seen one. When I asked about the specific form
of the wooden masks, an informant told me the
following story:
A long time ago, humans lived peacefully with bush
spirits. When someone died, they called a spirit to come
and mourn the dead. After the mourning, the spirit ate
huge quantities of food. One day, though, there was not
enough food and the bush spirit ate a child. The men
decided to get rid of him. They accustomed the spirit to
catch the food which they threw to him. Then, instead of
food, they threw a red hot stone and when he swallowed
it, he died immediately. People made wooden masks in
his image, and ever since, they are used to mourn the
dead.
However, the relationship between the spirits of
the bush and the spirits of the dead is more than
just a resemblance, or of bush spirits mourning
the dead. They are also symbolically and cos-
mologically equivalent. On one hand, the bush
spirits are called ginaji, a Fulfulde term with the
same etymological root as our “genie.” They are
also called cicangai, a Wawa term often translated
by informants as “the winds” (these spirits are
supposed to travel in the wind and streams), al-
though the term “genies” or “bush spirits” seems
more accurate. On the other hand, the spirit of
a human being (living or dead) is called either
hakilo (Fulfulde term) or foo (Wawa term meaning
“wind”). Both bush spirits and those of the dead
are supposed to travel in the wind. When there
is a strong wind in the village, pregnant women
stay indoors to protect their babies from the bad
influence of the bush spirits. When bush spirits are
hungry, they can devastate a field with a storm.
The bush spirits are often associated with dis-
order. They can possess someone and make him
mad: he is then said to be “disturbed by the wind.”
They inflict diseases on anyone who steps on them
while walking on a road. They can make pregnant
women who go alone to the river miscarry. They
can enter the womb of a woman who washes
herself in a river after menstruation and give her
amenorrhea (she is also said to be “disturbed by
a wind”). They can also turn her baby into a
“spirit child.” Descriptions I have been given of
“spirit children” suggest that they may have a
genetic deficiency. Such a child is left alone on
the bank of a river while people hide in the bush
and observe it. If the child is really a spirit, it will
soon transform itself into a huge snake, raise its
head to the sky, and then fall into the river (some
informants claim to have witnessed this). If it is a
human child, it will just cry until its parents take
it home.
Not only bush spirits disturb humans; the spirits
of the dead can also provoke disorder, especially
for widows. They cannot run, dance, or speak loud,
and it is said that if a widow has a sexual rela-
tionship while she is mourning, then the “wind”
(the spirit) of her husband will render her insane.
However, she can also be driven mad by sadness.
If she cannot stop thinking about her husband, or if
she dreams of him, it is a sign that her husband’s
spirit is still haunting her, and it can drive her
mad. During the long mourning, she sleeps with
magical medicines under her head to prevent her
husband’s spirit from visiting her - i.e., to avoid
dreaming about him too much.7
Remembering and Forgetting
The three mourning ceremonies can be analyzed
as progressive attempts to chase away the spirit of
the deceased, in other words, to make the widow
forget him. Before the first ceremony, during the
first three days of mourning, the deceased’s spirit
remains in the compound and the widow cannot
leave her house. During and after the second
ceremony, other spirits from the hereafter come
to collect him, and take him “on the road” to the
outer world. He has not yet arrived there, however,
and still haunts the human world, especially the
widow. During the third ceremony, the deceased’s
spirit departs forever after a last farewell to the
widow. He will not return; the widow is supposed
to have “forgotten” him and to stop mourning. If
she does not do so, it means that the spirit of her
husband is still there and is making her insane.
The three ceremonies of mourning thus depict a
7 Widowers have to follow the same taboos as widows - and
for the same reasons - but they are less strict when it
concerns sex. If they are polygamists and have surviving
wives, they are allowed to sleep with them after the first
mortuary ritual, a few days after the death.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
197
progressive removal of the deceased’s spirit to
the hereafter, which goes hand in hand with the
human world gradually forgetting him. The aim
of the funerals is dual: on the one hand, they
gradually disaggregate individuals from the soci-
ety (both symbolically and through a process of
forgetting); on the other hand, they reestablish the
society through the incorporation of the soul in the
community of the dead and through reallocating
the roles the deceased once occupied (Bloch and
Parry 1982: 4).
Just as reinstallation goes hand in hand with
disaggregation, so is forgetting an accomplishment
of remembering (see also Battaglia 1992: 12). The
widows cannot help but remember their husband
since the strict taboos that they have to follow
prevent them from living a normal life and remind
them constantly of their special status. Each one
of the three ceremonies is a remembrance of the
deceased, who comes back to the village for a
short time, and the ceremony is followed by a
loosening of the prohibitions accompanying the
mourning. In other words, the spirits of the dead
are more and more forgotten after each formal
remembrance. The last ceremony frees the widows
of all taboos, allows them to resume a normal
life, and forces them to forget their grief. While
they cannot help but remember their dead husband
during the mourning period, they are compelled
to forget him after this period ends. To continue
mourning would be a sign of insanity caused by the
“disturbance” of the spirit of the deceased caused,
in turn, either by the unforgettable love that the
woman nourishes for her husband, or by her spoil-
ing of the mourning period through breaking the
taboo on sex. In this case, the punishment for
the women who forget too easily and too soon
is madness and an eternal remembrance through
possession by the spirit of the deceased. Women
have to remember and mourn their dead husband
until the last ceremony is finished in order to forget
them, or they run the risk of never getting rid of
their husband’s memory and spirit.
After the last mourning ceremony, one still
remembers the deceased, but only during the
organization of ancestors’ cults. These cults are
Practiced around tombs, at crossroads, and deep
places in rivers, where bush spirits are thought to
reside. Whenever someone has a serious problem,
he goes to the tomb of one of his close agnates,
°r to any crossroad, if the tomb is far away. He
Pours water mixed with maize flour on the ground,
and spills some palm wine, while addressing the
head and asking for luck or for general help in
his troubles. Similar rituals on a wider scale are
also organized once a year by all the members of
a patrilineage. They clear the tombs, pour water
mixed with flour on it, spill palm wine, slaughter
a chicken, and address the ancestors with prayers
such as: “As we remember you and give you wine
and chicken today; you should also remember us
and give us plenty of children, abundant crops, and
good luck in hunting.” Moreover, every other year
the whole village organizes a big ritual in which
a goat is slaughtered on the collective tomb of
the chiefs in order to cleanse the village of all sins
and to bring fertility and abundance. Although this
ritual might be analyzed as a scapegoat sacrifice
linked to the dangerous aspects of the chief (see
Gausset 1995), it can also be seen as the biggest
ancestor cult organized by the village. After the
offering on the tomb, everybody goes to wash in a
deep pool in the river where rituals are conducted
to cure women of fertility problems so that they
may conceive children.
The nature of ancestor cults is opposed to that
of mourning ceremonies. While the purpose of
the later is to remember the dead in order to
forget them and to be forgotten (left in peace) by
them, the aim of the ancestor cults is to remember
the dead and give them offerings in order to be
remembered and given fertility and good luck
by them. The mourning ceremony reaffirms the
distinction between the world of the living and
that of the dead, and helps the soul of the deceased
in its difficult transition between the two. On the
contrary, the ancestor cults aim at bridging the
dichotomy between the two worlds and are based
on a logic of gift-giving and reciprocity.
The Spiritual World and the Spirits of Newborn
Babies
People say that children “come from the water,”
and this statement refers both to “men’s water”
(their semen) and to the water of the river, where
the spirits of the dead and bush spirits live, and
from where the spirits of children come. Although
everybody knows that children are produced by
sexual relations, people also believe that concep-
tion can only occur with help from the spirits living
in the water. All living creatures have both a vital
principal, yonki, and a spiritual principal, hakilo
or foo. Life is provided to babies by the parents
during sexual relations and during pregnancy, but
the child’s spirit is thought to come from the spirits
who live in the water.
It is unclear whether those spirits are in fact
spirits of the dead (ancestors) or bush spirits, but
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these two kinds of spirits are almost interchange-
able. For example, although the ritual of fertility
which is conducted in deep water, is part of the
ancestor cult, people believe that those places in
rivers are especially inhabited by bush spirits.
They also think that when humans address prayers
to the ancestors in those places it is, in fact, the
bush spirits who answer the prayers, and who are
responsible for the fertility of women. It might be
useful here to distinguish between the offerings
made on tombs and those made in deep water.
The former are made to the named ancestors (those
buried on that spot) who are thereby remembered,
while the latter are made to ancestors whose names
have been forgotten. This distinction is important
because some informants, when pressed by the
anthropologist to explain the resemblance between
human spirits and bush spirits, said that the latter
are probably the spirits of the very ancient dead,
whose names have been forgotten. In short, al-
though bush spirits and ancestors are believed to be
different entities, they are both described as wind,
they are both represented by masks, they live in
the same places, they are responsible for the same
kind of disorders, and they have the same powers
(both answer the prayers addressed to ancestors).
They are thus very similar to one another, and
the main difference between them may simply be
a question of seniority, bush spirits being those
ancestors whose names have been forgotten.
A child’s spirit is acquired slowly and fixed pro-
gressively during childhood. To say that somebody
has a spirit (hakilo or foo) may mean different
things. First, it means that the person is conscious:
when the spirit leaves the body, the person be-
comes unconscious. Someone in a coma or dream-
ing, for example, is unconscious because his/her
spirit has left the body to meet other spirits (wheth-
er of living humans, of dead persons, or of bush
spirits). When a witch wants to kill somebody,
his/her spirit leaves his/her body unconscious and
travels to attack the victim. Secondly, the spirit
can also be understood as reason or the senses. A
mad person is often thought to be someone whose
spirit has left his/her body. Those who are about to
die, often mumble incoherent things, and claim to
see things which are invisible to other people. It is
said that although such people are still conscious,
their spirit has already left their body and is
talking to the spirits of the hereafter who have
come to meet them. In the same way, somebody
who is suddenly awakened from sleep does not
immediately have all their wits about them; it takes
a few seconds before their spirit “finds the way
back to the body,” i.e., before they recover their
senses. Thirdly, the spirit can mean intelligence.
Stupid people are like mad people: if they have no
sense, they “have no spirit.” These three aspects
of the spirit - conscience, reason, and intelligence
- are only slowly acquired by children; their spirit
is said to be not truly fixed in their body. First,
children are often asleep (unconscious), during
which time their spirit is thought to wander around.
Secondly, babies cannot talk properly and say
incoherent things. When they are pointing to the
sky, mumbling or crying, with no human nearby,
they are thought to be “talking to spirits,” either
spirits of the dead or bush spirits. Thirdly, young
children are ignorant; they do foolish things, have
no memory, are shameless, etc. In short, the spirits
of babies and young children are very volatile and
not yet “fixed in the body.” Only progressively, as
they learn to talk, to recount their dreams and to
behave in a socially acceptable way, do they stop
communicating with invisible spirits and acquire
their own spirit.
The unfixed spirit of a young child is supposed
to be wandering around in the spirit world. It is
supposed to miss being a spirit of the bush, and
to long to return to the spirit world from which it
came. It is believed to be tempted to immerse itself
in water and stay there instead of returning to the
child’s body. Special precautions are thus taken to
prevent this. Neither a pregnant woman nor her
husband may kill fish, snakes, frogs, or snails -
all animals associated with water - because that
might kill the spirit of the unborn child. The first
time a mother crosses a river with her baby, she
leaves a small offering (an egg, or some chicken
feathers) on the riverbank, so that the spirits of the
river do not try to keep the child’s spirit with them.
Moreover, after she has crossed a river, the mother
always speaks to her child, saying something like:
“Come, we are now going to visit this person.”
Her child’s spirit is supposed to be playing with
the spirits of the river, and would stay there if the
mother did not call it to follow her. When a mother
bathes her baby, she must be careful to pour the
water gently out of the basin; if she threw it away
violently, she would risk throwing the spirit of her
child. If a child will not stop crying, a diviner
is summoned who will look for “the water from
which the child comes.” Once he has found that
specific river or lake, he will bathe the child in it
and give it some of the water to drink. Twins are
even more strongly associated with water spirits.
When twins are born, their parents always seek the
river which they come from so that they can drink
its water and bathe in it. That stretch of water
then belongs to them, and others must ask their
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199
permission to fish in it. Clearly, the spirit of a
child is believed to come from the water, and to
originally have been a water spirit. The child’s
spirit is supposed to miss the time when it was in
the water (maybe a metaphor for the uterus) and to
wish to return to it and play with its friends. It is
to prevent this that the parents take the precautions
listed above.
Although the Wawa do not actually believe in
reincarnation (nobody really knows or speculates
about who the spirit of a baby was before birth),
a clear “life cycle” or “spirit cycle” is recognized,
in which the spirits of humans pass after death
into the hereafter, become gradually bush spirits
as they are forgotten, and return to the human
world when a baby is born. Among the Wawa
as elsewhere, death is seen as a source of life; it
implies rebirth. “The rebirth which occurs at death
is not only the denial of individual extinction but
also a reassertion of society and a renewal of life
and creative power” (Bloch and Parry 1982: 5).
The masquerades, celebrating the passage from
life to death and from the human world to the
hereafter, mark one of the most important stages in
that cycle, and the symbolic equivalences between
spirits of the dead and bush spirits explain why the
masks representing the former are said to be made
in the image of the latter.
Modern Disillusion
Today, the Wawa have converted to Islam and have
abandoned their masquerades. Yet, they still con-
tinue to practice discreet ancestor cults - although
it is disapproved by Islam. They also continue to
believe in bush spirits and to follow the taboo
linked to them, but it is unclear whether they do
this because this type of belief is more “private”
and does not involve big rituals opposed to Islam,
or because the Fulbe share many of these beliefs
in bush spirits. The Muslim notion of paradise
where the souls of the dead go is now mixed
with the traditional spiritual world. Although the
masquerades are no longer practiced, the fact that
the spirits of children are still believed to come
from bush or ancestor spirits indicates that the
cycle described above is still valid. The belief in
the symbolic cycle between the dead and the living
has survived the surrender of masquerades, which
Were the most prominent public manifestation of
this cycle. Yet, as the masquerade was one of
the main markers of Wawa ethnicity, its surrender
had serious and profound consequences on the
negotiation of their identity.
It is especially the older generation which re-
grets the loss of masquerades while the younger
generation is uneasy about it. It is the young Wawa
who began to convert to Islam in the 1960s. It is
here important to know that the form of Islam in
Adamawa comes from the Fulbe and originates
from the Empire of Sokoto. It is the result of a
movement of religious revivalism intent on creat-
ing a purer Islam. It is therefore less tolerant or
syncretic than in other parts of West Africa, and
the Wawa converts refused to participate in the
masquerades that their parents were organizing.
Seeing this, the older generation began to fear
that nobody would be left to organize their own
funerals when the time came. They feared that
nobody would take care of their corpse, as the
Muslims of the area refuse to touch or bury dead
non-Muslims. They felt compelled to follow their
children’s lead in order to secure a decent funeral.
Even if they are often only nominally Muslim and
continue to drink alcohol and eat wild pigs, their
face is saved and they keep on good terms with
their children.
The younger generation, on its side, converted
to Islam in order to acquire a respectable identity
which was seen as “modern.” They wanted to
be considered on equal footing with the Fulbe,
who dominate the politics and the economy of
northern Cameroon (Gausset 1999). Yet, it is not
sufficient to convert to Islam to acquire a respect-
able identity. One will still be despised unless
one succeeds in presenting oneself as a Fulbe.
Conversion to Islam is, therefore, usually followed
by a process of fulbeization. But this process can
not be complete as long as people cannot claim a
Fulbe ancestry. This can be achieved if one moves
to a town where one is unknown, but this is very
difficult for the Wawa, as they live close to Banyo
town and cannot hide their origin (Gausset 1999).
Since they abandoned their masquerades and
became Muslims, the Wawa are balanced between
the will to “remain Wawa” and the wish to get rid
of this embarrassing identity which is associated
with a lower, slave status, and with paganism.
Their “pagan” past still taints their participation
in Islam, allowing the Fulbe to cast doubt on the
purity of their faith. Although they abandoned their
traditions to adopt Islam, they are caught between
two identities, being neither pagan nor considered
as true Muslims.
The data for this article were collected during a total of
18-months’ fieldwork among the Wawa and the Kwanja
between 1992 and 1996. I would like to thank the
Cassel Funds of the Free University of Brussels and
Anthropos 96.2001
200
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the National Funds for Scientific Research of Belgium
(FNRS) for their financial support.
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1995 Contribution à l’étude du pouvoir sacré chez les Wa-
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The Place of the “imaginaire religieux”
in Social Change and Political
Recomposition in Sub-Saharan Africa
Patrick Claffey
For it is not against human enemies that we have
to struggle, but against the principalities and the
ruling forces who are masters of darkness in this
world, the spirits of evil in the heavens.
(Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians 6: 12)
My friend Alidou, a Togolese souvenir hawker,
dealing in fairly decent copies and dreadful trin-
kets, was also a shrewd commentator on political
developments in West Africa from Dakar to Lagos.
Shortly before the 1998 presidential election in
Togo, I suggested to him that perhaps this time
the incumbent for almost the past thirty years,
President Gnassingbe Eyadema, might finally be
defeated at the polls. “Jamais,” he replied, “son
diable est trop fort” (“Never, his devil is too
strong”). The fact that Eyadema is still in power
appears to be due more to a hasty declaration of
results when things seemed to be going against him
than to the intervention of either malign or benign
spiritual forces. Alidou, however, had raised a
significant point in African politics: the place of
spiritual forces in the public arena of politics, the
encounter of politics and religion in public space.
Bayart (1993) points out that the place of
religion in public space has been a subject of
investigation since the time of Toqueville, being
subsequently more fully developed in Weberian
sociology and most specifically in his classic “The
Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism”
(1930). It is not, therefore, something new and in
Africa, where belief in the supernatural is strong
and where society struggles to find appropriate
forms of political expression and institutions, it
is hardly surprising that this aspect of the struggle
for power should have some importance.
This line of investigation has been more de-
veloped in the French literature than in the An-
glo-Saxon, particularly in what can be called the
Franco-African school built around Bayart, Toula-
bor, and Mbembe.1 More recently, however, it
has begun to receive attention in Anglo-Saxon
academic circles, and the impact of both “endog-
1 Cf. Toulabor 1986; Mbembe 1988; Bayart et al. 1992;
Bayart (éd.) 1993.
Anthropos 96.2001
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201
enous” and “exogenous” religious influences2 has
been the subject of serious field research and an
occasionally controversial literature.3
This article is a step in trying to separate the
strands of religious thought as it appears in the
political field, with an emphasis on the endogenous
and Christian. However, as Troeltsch warns, there
is little here that is “homogenous and simple”
(Troeltsch 1991: 54, cit. in Bayart 1993b: 300).
Big Man’s Religion
The religious affiliations of the African political
elite are both diverse and complex since they
often involve multiple allegiances and have both
a private and a public face. While many leaders
or other important political actors will have been
to mission schools and have some roots in the
mainline religions, Christianity or Islam, their re-
lationship with the mainline churches is marked by
tension. This is perhaps to be expected from the
bipolar church v. state view of society, which is
common in contemporary political thinking, with
the mainline churches, underpinned by a devel-
oped social discourse, often perceived by political
actors as critical if not in outright opposition. A
certain amount of this tension is inherited from
colonial history, especially in Francophone Africa,
but it has been reinforced since the period of
independence, and more particularly in the past
ten years during the attempted moves towards
démocratisation. There are several examples of
more or less successful attempts at collusion and
co-option, notably in Togo (Toulabor 1993:291-
293) and most fatally in Rwanda (Van Hoyweg-
hen 1996: 381-384; Longman 1995: 196 f.). There
may be reason to talk of a certain “reciprocal as-
similation of elites” (Bayart 1989a), but adherence
by the African elite to a mainline church, except
in the most formal way (e.g., attendance at some
official church ceremonies, at baptisms of children,
funeral rites, etc.), is relatively rare and almost
never without a compromise on the part of the
church concerned.
2 Toulabor (1993:277 f.) identifies endogenous religious
practices as voodoo, sorcery, and the cult of the ancestors,
while the exogenous influences are “Christianity and its
prostaglandins: Freemasonry and Rosicrucianism.” He does
not mention Islam but, clearly, it would be counted an
exogenous influence. (Note: All translations of French texts
are mine.)
3 Gifford 1993, 1998a; Marshall 1993; Ellis and ter Haar
1998; Ellis 1995, 1999; Borer 1998).
Adherence to mainline churches poses prob-
lems for political actors determined to have both
hands on the levers of power and to present the
religious myth to their own advantage. There is a
need for them to retain a certain independence of
interpretation, free from the constraints that might
be imposed by any kind of “magisterium.” There
remains, however, the need for a Christian profile
in countries where Christianity is expanding quite
dramatically.4 To the extent that there is adher-
ence to a recognisably Christian church amongst
political actors it tends be to one of the smaller
independent or neo-Pentecostalist churches, as is
the case in Kenya and Zambia (cf. Gifford 1998b).
There is rarely a Sunday morning when Kenya’s
TV viewers are not told where Daniel Arap Moi
attended church. They are informed as to how
much he gave in the harambee collection, how the
faithful were warned against the evils of division
and, in return, prayed for his continuation in power
so as to assure further peace and prosperity for
God’s chosen people in Kenya. It is not unreason-
able to suggest that these churches, often with a
relatively undeveloped social doctrine or policy,
with a dependence on the indulgence (and gen-
erosity) of the powers of state for their existence
and with a lack of hierarchical accountability, may
be more subject to a more cynical exploitation for
purely political ends.
Ellis and ter Haar note, however, that heads
of states “appear to believe that the weight of
the affairs of state requires them to have access
to esoteric forms of power from which the mass
of the population is excluded. All elites tend
to cultivate their own exclusive institutions, in
Africa and elsewhere,5 in which they may so-
cialise with their peers” (1998: 190). Affiliation to
Christian prostaglandin groups among the political
and administrative elite is widespread and well
documented (Toulabor 1993) though still shrouded
in a certain secrecy. In addition to this kind of
attitude, there are widely documented contacts
of the elites with other esoteric groups or indi-
4 Figures for religious allegiance are difficult to establish but
Annual Statistical Table on Global Mission (Barrett and
Johnson 2000) gives the following statistics for Christian
expansion in Africa: 1900: 8,7 million; 1970: 117 million;
1990: 255,6 million; 2000: 335,1 million with a projected
figure of 600,5 million for the year 2025. Christians are
divided as follows: Catholic 37.5%; Protestant 26.6%; Or-
thodox 8.7%; Anglican 8.1; other Christian (Catholic/non-
Roman, marginal Protestant, crypto-Christian) 18.8%.
5 My note: It is said that all French Presidents of the V
Republic, except General de Gaulle, were members of one
or other of the Masonic Lodges in France.
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viduals of Islamic (Kerekou, cf. Banegas 1998),
Eastern (Kaunda, cf. Gifford 1998b), and even of
Jewish origin (Biya, cf. Bayart 1993b: 307), all in
the search for sources of power and legitimation
within the religious sphere. Ellis and ter Haar
note that the leaders are no different from their
peoples in seeking spiritual reference and legiti-
mation (1998: 190). However, they look for it in
more exclusive circles. “It is common to tenure of
great power in all cultures that it imposes on its
holders choices weightier than those facing most
of their subjects, and that this takes power-holders
into an exclusive moral realm” (190).
This is true enough, but there is equally the
question of the deconstruction and reconstruc-
tion of these myths for political purposes and
the appropriation or misappropriation of religious
discourse around a different locus, the reinven-
tion of the myth. Dealing specifically with Togo,
Toulabor examines several texts6 and points to
elements in the discourse of both Christianity and
its prostaglandins which have been pressed into
the cause of what he describes as “l’ceccumenisme
eyademistique” (1993: 279). He notes the stress on
“unity, union, peace, concord, submission, obedi-
ence, solidarity, nationalism” in “eyademisme” as
a discourse which is easily identifiable in:
- Christianity: unity, union, peace, concord, sub-
mission, obedience, charity, solidarity, love,
patriotism;
- Freemasonry: harmony, peace, obedience, fra-
ternity, solidarity, patriotism;
- Rosicrucianism: harmony, peace, obedience,
fraternity, and solidarity (1993: 293).
A similar political theology can be found in
Kenya, as cited above, and in Zambia (Gifford
1998b), while other parts of Christian discourse,
such as redemption in Ghana and Burkina Faso
(Claffey 2000), clearly play an important role in
the struggle for the political domination of public
space in Africa.
The participation of the political elite in en-
dogenous religious practices is more difficult to
document and analyse because of the very nature
of the secret societies that mediate them. Toulabor,
6 Toulabor (1993: 288 f.) cites specifically Romans 13: 1-7
as underpinning what he describes as a Pauline conception
of power: “Everyone is to obey the governing authority,
because there is no authority except from God and so
whatever authorities exist have been appointed by God.
So anyone who disobeys an authority is rebelling against
God’s ordinance; and rebels must expect to receive the
condemnation they deserve” (Rom. 13: 1-2). He points to
a similar manipulation of Masonic texts with an emphasis
on submission and obedience to the authorities in place.
however, has little doubt that Felix Houphouët-
Boigny’s links with Baoulé religious/cultural tradi-
tion and practice, including human sacrifice, were
not in any way affected by his conversion to
Christianity. He describes “houphouëtisme” as “a
remarkable osmosis between the old Baoulé order
which survives and the new which is essentially
Franco-Western” (Toulabor 1990/91: 207). Ellis in
his recent and controversial book “The Mask of
Anarchy,” claims that human sacrifice has been
a growing feature of Fiberian politics from the
middle of the 20th century (1999: 266). Freed from
the checks and balances which governed it in
traditional society, it has, he claims, become in-
strumental in a completely arbitrary and unbridled
way in the struggle for power since the 1980s
(220-237).7 Similar assertions about other heads
of state abound on “radio trottoir” across Africa.
However shocking this may seem to the Western
liberal mind, there is certainly the strong convic-
tion amongst African peoples that members of the
political elite have recourse to the practices of
the secret societies. This includes human sacrifice,
which they instrumentalise for the acquisition and
retention of political power.
Finally, one has to note the tendency toward
the sacralisation of the head of state himself
as he becomes the object of a cult. This was
particularly evident at some periods of both the
Mobutu and Eyadema regimes (Bayart 1993a: 13;
Toulabor 1993), and was flirted with to a greater
or lesser extent by Houphouët-Boigny (Toulabor
1990/91:208) and other heads of state over the
years. This development is said to have its origins
in the traditional concept of power. Here one finds
sacral overtones which, when put into the modern
context, and without the checks and balances of
traditional authority, have, according to Ghanaian
theologian Kwame Bediako, led to the reinforce-
ment of personal dictatorship, leading him to
conclude that: “What African societies seem to
stand in need of is a new conception of power
that will eliminate from politics its present sacral
overtones. ... African Christianity may have no
greater political mission in African societies than
to assist in this transformation of outlook ...”
(1995: 182).
I conclude this brief examination with three
observations regarding the continent’s “big men”
and their religious references. They have a strong
element of secrecy or mystery. They tend to be
7 S. Ellis and The Times are presently being sued for libel
by President Charles Taylor over allegations that he partic-
ipated in eating human flesh.
Anthropos 96.2001
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203
exclusive, with access confined to those who can
afford to negotiate entry, a community for the
elite. They eschew the idea of a “magisterium” or
authority, which dictates its doctrines, allowing for
a deconstruction/reconstruction of the myth either
around themselves or in the elaboration of a polit-
ical doctrine or “-ism”. This allows them to pick
and choose from religious discourse those parts of
it that serve the purpose of political domination. I
would add that this last observation is not unique
to Africa, as much of the history of Christianity
will attest.
Small Man’s Religion
The Place of the “imaginaire religieux” in Social
Change and Political Recomposition
While access to the religion of the big men may
be restricted, the religious field and recourse to
supernatural forces remain open to all the social
actors (Bayart 1993b: 305), thus creating a large
market for religious groups offering “explana-
tion, prediction, and control” (Horton 1971: 101).8
Toulabor’s categorisation of exogenous and en-
dogenous religious influences has the merit of
being succinct. It does not, however, demonstrate
adequately what is in reality an enormous rush
to the religious market where mainline churches,
African Independent Churches, and the exploding
new forms of Pentecostalism, compete as “service
providers” against one another, and equally against
the various forms of traditional religion, as well as
against Islam.
Pointing to the history of both Catholicism and
Protestantism in Europe, Bayart asserts that it is
“because the religious field is a locus of social
change that it is simultaneously a field of political
recomposition” (1993b: 305). He concludes there-
fore that “religion can contribute to the invention
of modernity” (300-302). With regard to Afri-
ca, the role of both the Catholic and Protestant
churches “in the inculcation of new economic
values and in the expansion of the capitalist world
economy in the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries” (307) is seen as proof of this point.
Others point more to the role of the churches in
education and Nelson Mandela’s affection for the
Methodist Church and his recognition of the part
h played in his intellectual and personal formation
8 Robin Horton’s “intellectualist” explanation of religious
conversion in Africa (1971, 1975) posits that religion
is principally a question of “explanation, prediction, and
control” (1971: 101).
are well documented (Mandela 1994: 12, 17-19;
35 f„ 42).
More recently, the prominent role of the main-
line churches in the process of démocratisation in
the early 1990s is often pointed to as an example
and this is only now being analysed. The strength
of the institutions, both Catholic and Protestant,
and the coherence of a well-developed social doc-
trine have been used particularly in periods of
transition, as so well illustrated by Borer (1998) in
her important work “Challenging the State.” The
emphasis on good law is in the tradition of church
intervention, and the Europe of Thomas Moore
would have little problem with it.9 It is, however,
only one level and, whatever its real strengths, it
has more to do with scholastic tradition than with
African religious symbolism. On a symbolic level,
the sacral role of the bishop has also been noted
in the organisation of the now famous national
conferences of the 1990s (M’Nteba 1993).
However, what is in some ways a much more
interesting phenomenon, if only because it is less
institutionalised and therefore poses problems of
interpretation, is the growing importance of the
neo-Pentecostal movements (cf. Gifford 1998a).
These appear to fill a need that scholastic social
doctrine can never address and they have made an
enormous impact not just in Africa but worldwide
(Cox 1995). Gifford hesitates in emphasising the
Africanness of these bodies in the same way, for
instance, as one might highlight this in the African
Independent Churches (pers. comm.). However, he
accepts that part of their strength lies in the fact
that they find an echo for their doctrine in African
culture: the emphasis on healing, prosperity, re-
nunciation of evil, but above all their emphasis on
demons. Through their emphasis on demonology
these are credited with providing the language for
“an oblique criticism of government or misgov-
ernment” (Ellis and ter Haar 1998: 177) or even
for “the elaboration of a conceptual challenge to
the power monopolies” (Marshall 1993: 215). In
this they are not too far from my friend Alidou’s
interpretation of Eyadema’s “spiritual” sources.
The reasoning is that the collapse or near col-
lapse of African states (Marshall refers to Nigeria,
while Ellis is broader in his references) leads
to a critique of the governments of these states.
9 It is interesting to note here that one of the most constant
refrains of this period was the need for the establishment
of “un état de droit” and to compare this with the classical
Catholic position on the primacy of law. “Religion and
law were not to be considered separately; they implied one
another” (Ackroyd 1999: 59).
Anthropos 96.2001
204
Berichte und Kommentare
This discourse on morality and the organisation of
power “is written in [a] religious idiom [which]
has political implications in a continent where
all power is widely believed to have its ultimate
origin in ... the invisible world” (Ellis and ter
Haar 1998: 178). The targets for the criticism are
political elites, the holders of ase10 (Marshall
1993:227), as well as international political and
economic institutions.
In the case of Liberia, it is suggested that their
born-again language can provide “the psychology
of transformation” on a personal level, for those so
dreadfully traumatised by the violence of the war,
and their participation in it, as well as healing and
reconciliation for a society which has been almost
completely destroyed (Ellis 1999: 266-280).
These are clearly ambitious claims and Gif-
ford, in what is definitely a minority position in
both the Franco-African and Anglo-Saxon schools,
is reluctant to admit them. He argues with an
enormous quantity of field data, with a deep
knowledge of new religious movements in the
USA and elsewhere and with a greater awareness
of the theology than either Marshall or Ellis,
sounding a more sceptical note in the debate
(Gifford 1993, 1995). In Liberia at least, rather
than being a centre for opposition, neo-Pentecostal
churches merely provide “an alternative communi-
ty” (Gifford 1993: 288), a refuge in chaos and, at
best, the possibility of social advancement within
church structures. This has also been noted by
Marshall (1993: 225) and, though it may in itself
be laudable, it is far from social analysis, the
“oblique criticism” (Ellis and ter Haar 1998: 177),
“conceptual challenge” (Marshall 1993:215), or
“individual and collective reconstruction” (223)
these authors credit it with being. He is equal-
ly sceptical in his treatment of these groups in
Zambia (Gifford 1998b: 367-371). I imagine he
would have little difficulty with Toulabor’s theory
of the use or abuse of the “Pauline conception
of authority” (Toulabor 1993: 288 f.) and provides
an abundance of field evidence for this and sim-
ilar strains of political theology throughout his
work. He concludes that, far from “providing a
conceptual challenge to the power monopolies”
or a “psychology of transformation” as Marshall
and Ellis would have it, they simply “reconcile
10 Ase defined by Marshall (1993: 225) as “the power which
successful Yoruba men possess, generally understood in
supernatural terms, and associated with the possession of
oogun, or medicine, came to be associated in the seventies
with ‘naira power’ as more and more capital flooded into
the economy in the peak of the oil-boom.”
their members to their deprivation and oppres-
sion” (Gifford 1993: 314), the ultimate opium. In
fact he goes quite a bit further in showing how
the churches themselves, both mainline and neo-
Pentecostal, can become structures of oppression
and domination in precisely the same way as the
states have done. This occurs in the abuse of Big
Man leadership and in the abusive accumulation
and redistribution of wealth, acquired both with-
in the church and through extraversión (Gifford
1993:310 f.). This is “the politics of the belly,”
in what Bayart describes as “le partage du gâteau
ecclésial” (1989b) and the subject is given much
attention in the Franco-African literature in an en-
tire issue of Politique Africaine (1989). Troeltsch’s
warning on the complexity of the issue is fully
justified.
Towards an Interpretation and an Evaluation
Ellis and ter Haar (1998:201) warn that, “if the
process of turning religion into an idiom of politics
develops along present lines, African politics will
become increasingly incomprehensible to outsid-
ers.” Certainly the whole question clearly poses
great problems for the Western student, even for
this rational Christian. Clearly it defies our way
of approaching the question of religion, and the
Enlightenment on the whole profoundly influences
Western theology, however, it poses even greater
problems for the classical European political scien-
tist. Gifford quotes Gellner (1995) to telling effect
(1998a: 331):
You cannot understand the human condition if you
ignore or deny its total transformation by the success of
the scientific revolution. [...] [This] has totally trans-
formed the terms of reference in which human societies
operate. To pretend that the scientific revolution of
the seventeenth century, and its eventual application
in the later stage of the industrial revolution have not
transformed the world but are merely changes from one
culture to another, is simply an irresponsible affectation.
The question which must of course be asked,
in religion, as well as in politics or economics, is
“does it work” or “what works”? While one would
wish to be respectful in an approach to cultures
and accept that there are varying paradigms, one
cannot abandon all objective criteria, of which
these are the most pragmatic, or some would say
the crudest.
What appears to be happening here is a recon-
figuration of both endogenous religious practice
and exogenous religious materials by all the actors
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
205
on the public stage. This has taken place through
the instrumentalisation of endogenous religious
practices by a new centre of power (i.e., the
political elite of the nation-states). In the case of
Christianity it is “the deconstruction of the Western
absolute” by all sides, which Mbembe claims as a
right and a precondition for the survival of Chris-
tianity in Africa (1988:35-51). This profound
reconfiguration of the religious symbolism can best
be explained in Horton’s terms as the struggle for
“explanation, prediction, and control” (1971: 101)
of public space. This is not unique to Africa
and indeed was a feature of the development of
Christianity in Europe; however, history will also
teach us that it can go dreadfully wrong as wars
with religious dimension from the earliest times
down to the present day will attest.
For Ellis the consequences of the usurpation of
the traditional religion and its practices, as wit-
nessed in Liberia, have been dire. Many Western
Christians will perceive the “pick and choose”
attitude of Africans to Christianity as an abuse
of their faith and consider it to be little short of
heresy. Western Christians and rationalists alike
will, for once, agree that it seems like a hopeless
confusion between God and Caesar, which has
been warned against by both the gospel11 and the
apostles of the Enlightenment, each on their own
terms. Africa, it would seem, however, delights in
her indocility, ignoring both (Mbembe 1988), and
feeling free to pick and choose and reinvent from
a vast and varied pool of religious symbolism.
Things have, however, changed greatly in the
past decade and recent developments in Nigeria
add a cautionary note. As a rational mainline
Christian, from a country which has done its own
share of improvisation with religious symbols,
I can only express my own reservations. It is
difficult not to agree with Ellis and ter Haar when
they conclude that the “challenge to Africans is to
develop a new language of politics which incorpo-
rates the role of public authorities as upholders of
the cosmic order while also being comprehensible
internationally. The challenge to academics is to
understand this language of public affairs not as
a symptom of a new form of exoticism, but as a
11 “Give us your opinion then. Is it permissible to pay taxes
to Caesar or not? But Jesus was aware of their malice and
replied, ‘You hypocrites! Why are you putting me to the
test? Show me the money you pay tax with.’ They handed
him a denarius, and he said, ‘Whose portrait is this? Whose
title?’ They replied ‘Caesar’s.’ Then he said to them, ‘Very
well, pay Caesar what belongs to Caesar - and God what
belongs to God” (Mt 22:17-21).
debate on the proper function of power in Africa”
(1998:201). What Clapham (1996:819) refers to
as “African exceptionalism” may well exist but, if
one may be forgiven for using a metaphor from
computer technology, this is an argument between
a PC and a Mac. The question is not so much
whether either works in its own environment but
whether they are compatible. In Africa, which
strives for modernity, is it possible to maintain a
discourse which is so incomprehensibly other?
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Ackroyd, P.
1999 The Life of Thomas Moore. London: Vintage.
Banégas, R.
1998 La démocratie “à pas de caméléon”. Transition et
consolidation démocratique au Benin. [Doctoral thesis,
Institut d’Etudes Politiques de Paris, cycle supérieur
d’Etudes Politiques, manuscrit]
Barrett, D. B., and T. M. Johnson
2000 Annual Statistical Table on Global Mission. 2000. Inter-
national Bulletin of Missionary Research 24/1: 24-25.
Bayart, J.-F.
1989a L’état en Afrique. La politique du ventre. Paris: Fayard.
1989b Les églises chrétiennes et la politique du ventre. Le
partage du gâteau ecclésial. Politique Africaine 35:
3-26.
1993a Introduction. In: J.-F. Bayart (éd.); pp. 9-16.
1993b La cité cultuelle en Afrique noire. In: J.-F. Bayart (éd.);
pp.299-310.
Bayart, J.-F. (éd.)
1993 Religion et modernité politique en Afrique noire. Paris:
Editions Karthala.
Bayart, J.-F., et al.
1992 Le politique par le bas en Afrique noire. Paris: Karthala.
Bediako, K.
1995 Christianity in Africa. The Renewal of a Non-Western
Religion. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Borer, T. A.
1998 Challenging the State. Churches as Political Actors in
South Africa. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press.
Claffey, P.
2000 Revolution or Redemption. The Ghana and Burkina
Faso Political Experiments (1982-1987). (Essay for
Government and Politics in Tropical Africa, School of
Oriental and African Studies, University of London.)
Clapham, C.
1996 Governmentality and Economic Policy in Sub-Saharan
African. Third World Quarterly 17: 809-824.
Cox, H.
1995 Fire from Heaven. Reading: Perseus.
Ellis, S.
1995 Liberia 1989-1994. A Study of Ethnic and Spiritual
Violence. African Affairs 94: 165-197.
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1999 The Mask of Anarchy. The Destruction of Liberia
and the Religious Dimension of an African Civil War.
London: C. Hurst.
Ellis, S., and G. ter Haar
1998 Religion and Politics in Sub-Saharan Africa. The Jour-
nal of Modern African Studies 36: 175-201.
Gellner, E.
1995 Anything Goes. Times Literary Supplement, 16 June
1995: 8.
Gifford, P.
1993 Christianity and Politics in Doe’s Liberia. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
1998a African Christianity. Its Public Role. London: C. Hurst.
1998b Chiluba’s Christian Nation. Christianity as a Factor in
Zambian Politics 1991-1996. Journal of Contemporary
Religion 13: 363-381.
Gifford, P. (ed.)
1995 The Christian Churches and the Démocratisation of
Africa. Leiden: E. J. Brill.
Horton, R.
1971 African Conversion. Africa 41: 85-108.
1975 On the Rationality of Conversion. Africa 45: 219—235;
373-399.
Longman, P. T.
1995 Christianity and Démocratisation in Rwanda. Assessing
Church Reponses to Political Crisis in the 1990s. In:
P. Gifford (ed.); pp. 188-204.
Mandela, N.
1994 Long Walk to Freedom. London: Little, Brown and
Company.
Marshall, R.
1993 “Power in the Name of Jesus.” Social Transformation
and Pentecostalism in Western Nigeria “Revisited.”
In: T. Ranger and O. Vaughan (eds), Legitimacy and
the State in Twentieth Century Africa; pp. 213-246.
London: Macmillan.
Mbembe A.
1988 Afriques indociles. Christianisme, pouvoir et Etat en
société postcoloniale. Paris: Editions Karthala.
M’Nteba, M.
1993 Les conférences nationales africaines et la figure po-
litique de l’évêque-président. Zaire-Afrique 276: 361—
372.
Toulabor, C. M.
1986 Le Togo sous Eyadéma. Paris: Karthala.
1990/91 Bellissima Basilica Yamoussoukroensis. L’entéléchie
du “miracle ivoirien”. Année Africaine 27: 191-213.
1993 Le culte d’Eyadéma au Togo. In: J.-F. Bayart (éd.);
pp. 277-297.
Troeltsch, E.
1991 Protestantisme et modernité. Paris: Gallimard.
Van Hoyweghen, S.
1996 The Disintegration of the Catholic Church of Rwanda.
A Study of the Fragmentation of Political and Religious
Authority. African Affairs 95: 379-401.
Weber, Max
1930 The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.
London: Harper-Collins.
Ethiopian-Semitic
The Situation in Gurage Land
Jack Fellman
In a small, compact, and clearly delimited area
some 70 miles south-southwest of Addis Ababa,
one finds the highest concentration of linguistic
diversity in the Semitic-speaking world. We refer
to the Ethiopian-Semitic situation in Gurage land,
a veritable relic area at the southernmost tip of the
Semitic-language world. In this linguistic island,
only some 100 miles wide and bound on the
north by the Awash River, on the south-southwest
by the Omo River, and on the east by Lake
Zway, one finds twelve Ethiopian-Semitic tongues,
given in the literature as Soddo, Gogot, Muher,
Masqan, Chaha, Ezha, Ennemor, Endegen, Gyeto,
Selti, Wolane, and Zway. Such fragmentation and
diversity in such a small area is rare anywhere, but
especially in the Ethiopian-Semitic context. Other
Ethiopian-Semitic languages, like Amharic and
Tigrinya for example, have millions of speakers
and cover very large amounts of territory, and
yet show no significant dialectal diversity. The
Gurage situation, by contrast, then, is considered
in the literature to be “complicated,” “strange,”
“astonishing,” “extraordinary,” quite exceptional,”
etc. (cf. Ref. Cit.).
Actually, however, the above situation is at
least somewhat exaggerated. All of the twelve
above-mentioned tongues are similar, showing
striking family and typological similarities, as well
as other similarities due to their very close geo-
graphical proximity, coupled with their separa-
tion and isolation from other Ethiopian-Semitic
languages. However, be this as it may, in the
final analysis, many of these tongues are mutually
unintelligible (cf. Gutt 1976-1979 and the other
bibliographical references passim). We can set up
three separate groups: (1) Northern Gurage: Soddo
- Gogot (cf. especially Goldenberg 1968: 62 f.
and Hetzron 1972 passim); (2) Eastern Gurage:
Selti - Wolane - Zway (cf. especially Cohen
1931; Leslau 1960, 1970, and Hetzron 1972); (3)
Western Gurage, with three subclusters: Muher -
Masqan, Chaha - Ezha, Ennemor - Endegen -
Gyeto (cf. especially Cohen 1931 and Leslau 1960,
1969, 1970).
Within each of the above groups, the tongues
are mutually intelligible (whether fully so, as in
Eastern Gurage, or largely so, as in Northern
and Western Gurage). However, across the three
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
207
groups, there is virtually no intelligibility, and
we would claim, then, that the three groups ac-
tually represent three separate (but related) lan-
guages - by numerical importance and prestige
- Soddo, Selti, Chaha - with their respective
dialects. The existence of several languages in
such a small area is, as noted above, strange,
and cannot be explained synchronically. Reasons
must be sought diachronically. Northern Gurage
is actually connected historically with Gafat, a
Southern Ethiopian-Semitic language once spoken
in the Blue Nile region of Gojjam but now extinct
(cf. especially Leslau 1960, 1970). Eastern Gurage
is connected historically with Harari, a Southern
Ethiopian-Semitic language unique to Harar, the
premier Moslem city in Ethiopia. Western Gu-
rage is connected historically with Tigrinya, the
main Northern Ethiopian-Semitic language. That
is, the three groups in Gurage land actually are
present-day descendants of three different Ethi-
opian-Semitic-speaking immigrants (most likely
soldiers and colonisers) into Gurage land at some
undocumented points in history (most likely in the
early Middle Ages), which were implanted as su-
perstrata on various Cushitic-speaking (especially
Sidamo) substrata.
The different historical antecedents of the
groups, then, can explain their division into three
languages. Further, Northern Gurages are Christian
by religion (like Gafat), Eastern Gurages are
Moslem by religion (like Harari), while Western
Gurages are still mostly pagan (like the original
Sidamo substratum). These religious differences
may well have helped preserve the separation of
the three groups and kept them from linguistic
assimilation. (Indeed, neither the Northern, nor
the Eastern Gurages like even being considered
Gurages.)
The separation into three languages can, then,
be rather satisfactorily explained. Still, the rather
heavy internal dialectal divisions within the groups
- especially in Western Gurage - cannot be ex-
plained in the present state of our knowledge.
Further research in Gurage land itself is necessary.
At present, there is a lot of interaction among
the various Gurage tribes and many speakers are
Multilingual, Eastern and Northern speakers in
Particular knowing and using also Western Gurage
(Chaha). Most Gurages also know and use Amhar-
lc, the official (“national”) language of Ethiopia
which understandably also rather heavily influ-
xes in turn the several Gurage tongues. Whether
Such multilingualism will continue in such a small
area or not, only the future can tell, but the situa-
hon does look fairly bleak in general for Gurage.
'Mthropos 96.2001
References Cited
Cohen, Marcel
1931 Etudes d’éthiopien méridional. Paris: Librairie Orien-
taliste Paul Geuthner.
Goldenberg, Gideon
1968 Kastananna. Studies in a Northern Gurage Language of
Christians. Orientalia Suecana 17: 61-102.
Gutt, Ernst-August
1976-79 Intelligibility and Interlingual Comprehension among
Selected Gurage Speech Varieties. Journal of Ethiopian
Studies 14: 57-85.
Hetzron, Robert
1972 Ethiopian Semitic. Studies in Classsification. Manches-
ter: Manchester University Press.
1977 The Gunnan - Gurage Languages. Napoli: Instituto
Orientale di Napoli. (Ricerche, 12)
Leslau, Wolf
1960 Sketches in Ethiopie Classification. In: E. Cerulli (ed.),
Atti del Convengo Internazionale di Studi Etiopici (Ro-
ma 2-4 aprile 1959); pp. 89-107. Roma: Accademia
Nazionale dei Lincei.
1969 Toward a Classification of the Gurage Dialects. Journal
of Semitic Studies 14: 96-109.
1970 Classification of the Semitic Languages of Ethiopia.
Proceedings of the Third International Conference of
Ethiopian Studies 2: 5-22. Addis Ababa.
Seßhafte Jäger, akkulturierte Sammler
Zur Cambridge-Enzyklopädie
zeitgenössischer Wildbeuter
Friedrich Valjavec
Der ansprechend gestaltete, übersichtlich geglie-
derte und von einer abgewogenen Synopsis der
Hauptherausgeber eingeleitete Band ist ein interna-
tionales Gemeinschafts werk, das 1995-96 begann
und an dem 88 Autoren und 8 regionale Heraus-
geber aus sechs Ländern mitgewirkt haben.1 Nach
einem Vorwort von Beatrice Medicine von den
Lakota folgt eine geraffte problem- und metho-
denorientierte Einleitung der Hauptherausgeber, an
die sich die regionalethnographische Bestandsauf-
nahme von über 400 Seiten mit 53 kondensierten,
aber weitgehend einheitlich konzipierten Fallstu-
dien zur Geschichte, Ethnographie und Lage von
1 Richard B. Lee and Richard Daly (eds.): The Cambridge
Encyclopedia of Hunters and Gatherers. Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1999. xx + 511 pp., photos. ISBN
0-521 -57109-X. Price: £75.00.
208
Berichte und Kommentare
Jäger- und Sammlergruppen in den letzten Dezen-
nien des 20. Jahrhunderts anschließt. Dieser Teil I
ist untergliedert in sieben Regionen: Nordamerika
(unter der Leitung von Harvey A. Feit), Südameri-
ka (Laura M. Rival), Nordeurasien (Victor A. Shni-
relman und David G. Anderson), Afrika (Robert
K. Hitchcock), Südasien (Nurit Bird-David), Süd-
ostasien (Kirk Endicott), Australien (Nicolas Pe-
terson). Jeder Region ist jeweils eine ethnologi-
sche und eine archäologische Übersichtsdarstel-
lung vorangestellt, wobei der rezente, in der Einlei-
tung ausgeklammerte oder bloß gestreifte Diskus-
sionsstand dargelegt wird. Anschließend werden in
Teil II, der drei Abschnitte enthält, diverse Themen
angeschnitten. Er enthält 14 Betrachtungen zur ge-
schichtlichen Wahrnehmung und sozialen Theorie
von Wildbeutern (4 Essays), zu zeitgenössischen
Einstellungen (6 Essays) sowie zur Position der
indigenen Völker in der globalen Ökumene (4
Essays). Eine überaus nützliche Liste der Orga-
nisationen und Einrichtungen, welche die Belange
dieser Völker vertreten oder unterstützen und als
Anlaufstelle für weitere Auskünfte dienen können,
beschließt den letzten Abschnitt.
Der nachfolgende Kommentar kann nur ei-
nen Teil der aufgeworfenen Fragen aufgreifen
und gewisse, nicht unbedingt wildbeuterspezifi-
sche Aspekte mit Literaturhinweisen belegen.2 Für
das Gesamtverständnis müssen einige der im Buch
verstreuten, aber nicht weiter systematisierten Zu-
sammenhänge, die das Wildbeutertum in Vergan-
genheit und Gegenwart beleuchten, rekapituliert
werden. Zunächst einige Bemerkungen zur Einord-
nung und zum Inhalt der Enzyklopädie (I), denen
eine Skizze des äußeren, prähistorischen Rahmens
des Wildbeutertums und seiner zeitgenössischen
Domänen (II-III) folgt, ehe zur Abrundung auf das
aus den Wildbeuterstudien sich ergebende Anlie-
gen des Natur- und Kulturschutzes (IV) eingegan-
gen wird.
I
Das 20. Jahrhundert war nicht allein ein Jahr-
hundert politischer Extreme, es war das Jahr-
hundert demographischer Zäsuren und einer bei-
spiellosen materiellen Wertschöpfung, welche die
Grundlagen vieler Völker erschütterte. Durch erd-
2 Aus Platzgründen kann, von zwei Ausnahmen abgesehen,
ältere Literatur nicht aufgeführt und damit ein bewußt in
Kauf genommenes Defizit der Enzyklopädie - die Fokus-
sierung auf neuere englischsprachige Veröffentlichungen -
auch nicht behoben werden.
umspannende Veränderungen verloren die letz-
ten halbwegs autonomen Völker ihre Unabhän-
gigkeit, doch dank ebendieser Veränderungen kön-
nen deren akkulturierte Nachfahren heute, nach
den schlimmsten Turbulenzen, vereinzelt ihr An-
liegen nach kultureller Autonomie und vor allem
nach Anerkennung historischer Ungerechtigkeiten
zu Gehör bringen und vereinzelt Rechtsforderun-
gen geltend machen. Die kleinsten unter ihnen,
darunter die Reste der in heterogene National-
staaten eingekapselten Wildbeuterkulturen, wur-
den in Auseinandersetzungen um die Kontrolle
von Staatsgebieten und Rohstoffvorkommen in
ethnische Konflikte und Bürgerkriege hineingezo-
gen - wie die Batwa-Pygmäen, von denen Zehn-
tausende in Ruanda 1994 umgekommen sein sollen
(R. K. Hitchcock, 175).3
Zur Jahrtausendwende sind, wenn überhaupt,
wohl nicht einmal mehr ein paar tausend richtige
Wildbeuter aktiv gewesen. Der geringe Anteil der
Nachfahren signalisiert gleichwohl deren transna-
tionale Bedeutung.4 Die zahlenmäßige, kulturel-
le und soziale Randständigkeit steht außerdem
in umgekehrtem Verhältnis zu ihrer human- und
kulturgeschichtlichen Stellung, insofern sie ein
Sprachen- und Wissensreservoir bildeten und ei-
nen nicht unerheblichen Anteil am diversifizierten
“Kulturpool” innehatten.
Ihrer Originalität sind sich einige der Nachfah-
ren durchaus bewußt, wenn sie sich in wachsender
Zahl, wie etwa die Inuit oder die Aborigines
Australiens, zu ihrer Vergangenheit bekennen und
sich dabei auf ihren Status als Urbewohner, als
Minorität mit Prärogativen, berufen. Manche sehen
sich und ihre Vorfahren in die Einzigartigkeit ver-
setzt, das Erbe der Menschheit, den Anfangs- oder
Urgrund aller Kultur zu reflektieren. Tatsächlich
repräsentieren sie das heutige Kulturspektrum an
den Rändern. Es sind Elementargruppierungen, die
zwar in der Vergangenheit weder national orga-
nisiert noch in Staaten als nationale Komponen-
3 Die Zahl der Batwa-Pygmäen am Kivu-See lag 1935 bei
9 000, wobei die eigentlichen Jäger-Twa im Gegensatz zu
den Töpfer-Twa nur 2 500 zählten (Gusinde 1949: 25); 1977
wurde das südöstliche Pygmäencluster von Ruanda und
Burundi auf 18 0000 geschätzt (Cavalli-Sforza 1986: 26).
4 So sind die San über sechs Länder verteilt: Angola, Botsua-
na, Namibia, Südafrika, Sambia, Simbabwe (siehe die Bei-
träge von J. Tanaka und K. Sugawara, 195 ff., sowie M. Bie-
sele und K. Royal-/0/00, 205 ff.), und die verschiedenen
Pygmäengruppen über neun Länder: Kamerun, Zentralaf-
rikanische Republik, Republik Kongo, Demokratische Re-
publik Kongo, Gabun, Äquatorialguinea, Ruanda, Uganda,
Sambia; vgl. Hitchcock (176) sowie die Lokalisierungskarte
von Cavalli-Sforza (1986:24), des weiteren die Beiträge
von S. Bahuchet (190 ff.) und M. Ichikawa (210 ff.).
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
209
te integriert waren, aber doch einen besonderen
Kulturstatus beanspruchen, obwohl ihnen, im Ge-
gensatz zu früher, keine Schlüsselstellung mehr für
große Kulturerklärungen zugesprochen wird. Denn
die traditionelle Lebensart ist weitaus komplexer
gewesen, als es sich die - zwangsläufig auf wenige
Fälle stützenden - ethnologischen Spekulationen
vor nicht einmal 100 Jahren vorzustellen ver-
mochten. Die früheren Jäger und Sammler sind
vor allem mit ihrem jeweiligen Umfeld viel zu
verwoben und in lokale und regionale Zeitläufe
eingebettet gewesen, als daß die Humangeschichte
einfach von generalisierten Einzelfällen her oder
allein in großen Evolutionszenarien rekonstruiert
werden könnte.
So wie ein reiner, dekontextualisierter Entwick-
lungsansatz spekulativ bleiben müßte, würde eine
große Theorie der heutigen Situation, zumal in
einer, in der überlieferte Restformen vollständig in
Auflösung begriffen sind, nicht gerecht. Die Cam-
bridge Enzyklopädie hat übrigens das Problem da-
durch gelöst, daß der ethnologisch einzig gangbare
Ansatz gewählt wurde, nämlich eine Kombination
aus breiter, vergleichender Forschung und punktu-
eller Regionalethnologie. Während diese Kombi-
nation nun ethnohistorisch aufgewertet, obgleich
nicht umfassend angegangen worden ist,5 blieben
die zuvor favorisierten ökologisch-evolutionstheo-
retischen Ansätze, von denen übrigens das ganze
Unternehmen vor 40 Jahren seinen Anfang nahm,
weitgehend unberücksichtigt.
Der Gesichtspunkt der Herausbildung und
Evolution menschlichen Verhaltens gab den An-
stoß zur ersten, berühmt gewordenen “Man the
Hunter”-Konferenz von 1966 in Chicago, worauf
im übrigen die in diesem Band nicht vertretene,
als “revisionistisch” abgefertigte Humanethologie
bestanden hat.6 Die Enzyklopädie geht darauf aber
nicht näher ein. Sie zieht vielmehr Bilanz und setzt
einen Schlußstrich unter die seit den 1970er Jahren
abgehaltenen Folgekonferenzen über Jäger und
Sammler, indem auch bislang unterrepräsentierte
5 Die ethnohistorischen Belege reichen nicht an eine breite
Quellendokumentation heran, und sie sind auch nicht,
trotz gelegentlicher Einwürfe, als kritische Ethnographie-
geschichte zu verstehen.
6 Lee und DeVore (1968) und die erste Buch Veröffentlichung
der Kalahari Research Group seit ihrer Gründung 1963
durch Lee und DeVore (1976); zum Hintergrund vgl. die
Einführung von Kuper (1994: Kap. 3 ff.). Auf dieser Linie
liegen z. B. noch Stanford (1999) und Boehm (1999) mit
teils interessanten, teils weit hergeholten Argumenten. Zu
erwähnen ist insbesondere das seltsamerweise im Buch
ungenannte, von I. Eibl-Eibesfeldt aufgebaute und in seiner
Art einzigartige humanethologische Filmarchiv der Max-
Planck-Gesellschaft in Erling/Andechs bei München.
Gruppen in die Übersicht eingehen (auf Kosten
so bekannter Fälle wie die der Yanomami). Die
Abkehr von evolutionären Fragestellungen bedeu-
tet nicht allein die nachdrückliche Hinwendung
zu den zuvor etwas vernachlässigten historischen
Dimensionen, sie läuft hinaus auf eine “humani-
stische” Interpretation der Lebensumstände zeit-
genössischer Jäger und Sammler (R. B.Lee und
R. Daly, 10). Diese Ausrichtung signalisiert nicht
nur den Abschluß von Wildbeuterstudien in situ
- die Gelegenheiten für intensive ethnographi-
sche Langzeitstudien in einem halbwegs intakten
Umfeld sind praktisch vorbei -, sie verfolgt ein
konkretes Anliegen, nämlich die Sensibilisierung
für mehrfach diskriminierte Minoritäten in einer
globalen Welt. Die Anerkennung kultureller Eigen-
arten, kultureller Werte, erfordert mehr als unver-
bindliche kulturrelativistische Grundsatzerklärun-
gen, sie erfordert energische Umweltschutz- und
Kulturerhaltungsmaßnahmen, nicht zuletzt für die
kleinen, weitverstreuten, entmündigten und bislang
zur Ohnmacht verurteilten Völker.
Wenn Einwände vorzubringen wären, so beträ-
fen sie nicht die Konzeption als solche, sondern
Ausführungen im Detail: Ein wenig störend ist die
Beschränkung der ethnographischen Einzelbeiträ-
ge und die dort gehandhabte, mitunter zu knapp
bemessene Literaturauswahl. Ferner vermißt man
trotz einiger Aufstellungen vergleichendes histo-
risches Datenmaterial in tabellarischer Form, fer-
ner ein separates Verzeichnis der Ethnonyme und
Sprachzuordnungen sowie präzise Übersichts- und
Lokalisierungskarten. Anstatt Rohdaten in einem
Anhang unterzubringen, sind sie in die notge-
drungen selektiven, freilich gut präsentierten Re-
gionalteile (zwischen 6 und 9 Kurzartikel) einge-
flossen, was jedoch selbst für den vergleichsweise
detaillierten Afrikateil kein voller Ausgleich ist,
zumal man zur weiteren Informationsbeschaffung
auf Sekundärverweise (wie auf Kelly 1995) und
auf oft schwer zugängliche Werke angewiesen
ist. Zu verschmerzen ist dagegen das Fehlen von
Übersichtsdarstellungen zur Humanevolution, zur
historischen Demographie und zum Gesundheits-
zustand einst und jetzt, weil hierüber teils ande-
re Bände der Cambridge-Serien, teils eine Reihe
neuer Gesamtdarstellungen vorliegen und im übri-
gen die ethnographische Übersicht unnötig belastet
worden wäre.7 Auf weitere Einschränkungen in
Umfang und Ausstattung der Wildbeuter-Enzyklo-
7 Zu Human- und Ethnopathologien vgl. etwa die Cambrid-
ge Enzyklopädie von Aufderheide, Rodriguez-Martin und
Langsjoen (1998), zur Humanevolution die Enzyklopädie
von Delson et al. (2000).
^nthropos 96.2001
210
Berichte und Kommentare
pädie ist nicht zu insistieren; sie sind wirtschaft-
lichen Überlegungen geschuldet. Angesichts des
nachlassenden Allgemeininteresses an der Ethno-
logie ist die verlegerische Leistung eines solchen
Standardwerkes nur zu begrüßen.
II
Während nomadisierende Wildbeutergruppen sich
überhaupt nur in entlegenen Gegenden und abwei-
senden Yegetations- und Klimazonen bis vor 100
oder 200 Jahren halten konnten, sind durch Garten-
und Bodenbau angereicherte Mischformen abseits
prosperierender Wirtschaftsgebiete oder noch nicht
prospektierter Gegenden weitaus länger aufgetre-
ten und blieben gelegentlich in subsidiärer Form
erhalten, so daß in vielen überlieferten Fällen kei-
ne klare Scheidung zwischen “Nahrungserwerb”
durch Jäger und Sammler einerseits und “Nah-
rungsgewinnung” durch Gartenbau andererseits
möglich ist (L. M. Rival, 80, für Südamerika). Was
das Überleben authentischer Wildbeuter anbelangt,
so garantierte allein die Lokalisierung Schutz;
sobald jedoch auch Rückzugsgebiete erschlossen
waren, kam es zum raschen Zusammenbruch tra-
dierter Lebensformen. Umgekehrt blieben einige
der im 19. Jahrhundert und zuvor teilassimilierten
autochthonen Gruppierungen durch Sekundäran-
passungen zur Selbstbehauptung fähig, wobei zu
den Sekundäranpassungen auch die Rückkehr zu
einer Art Teilzeitwildbeutertum in Kombination
mit sporadischer Landwirtschaft oder auch Lohn-
arbeit gehörte.
Reine Wildbeuter (foragers) hatten es alles in
allem schwer, sich im interethnischen Wettbewerb
zu behaupten, und dies liegt vor allem an der
Einführung von Ackerbau und Viehzucht Jahr-
tausende zuvor, welche die Arten- und Kultur-
fülle nivellierte.8 In schwer zugänglichen tropi-
schen Gebieten mit der größten Biodiversität und
8 Letztere gemessen an der Zahl differenzierter Sprachen
und ethnisch autonomer Populationen, die vor der neolithi-
schen Revolution um ein Vielfaches größer gewesen sein
muß als heute; vgl. hierzu die Überlegungen von Nettle
(1999: bes. Kap. 4), der im Gegensatz zu Nichols (1992)
von einer nichtlinearen Initialausbreitung und Entwicklung
mit anschließender “Schrumpfung” der Sprachenvielfalt
bereits in prähistorischen Zeiten ausgeht. Die Überlegungen
sind zum Verständnis der Ausbreitung und Rückbildungen
von Wildbeuterpopulationen von Bedeutung. Siehe ferner
Nichols (1998) sowie zusammenfassend Renfrew (1998,
1999) hinsichtlich der Ausbreitung der Landwirtschaft und
ihrer Auswirkungen. Renfrews Thesen gehen übrigens auf
Überlegungen von P. Bellwood zurück, der mit einem Über-
sichtsbeitrag über die südostasiatische Archäologie von
Jägern und Sammlern (284 ff.) vertreten ist.
“Kulturdichte” sowie in Gegenden, die für Feldbau
und Viehwirtschaft anfänglich ungeeignet waren,
gab es wohl Rückzugsgebiete, aber langfristig kei-
ne weiteren Entfaltungsmöglichkeiten für primäre
Wildbeuter. Die ökogeographische Verteilung der
Wildbeuter9 belegt mithin deren Marginalisierung
gegenüber den numerisch stärkeren Völkern mit
intensiveren Nutzungsmethoden, die seit der Vor-
und Frühgeschichte expandierten. Dem entspricht,
daß die als eigenständige Völker meist gar nicht
anerkannten Wildbeutergruppen von ihren unglei-
chen Nachbarn ausgegrenzt und als minderwer-
tig behandelt worden sind. Soweit sie traditio-
nellen Lebensrhythmen folgten, konnten sie sich
am ehesten in ethnisch aufgesplitterten Gebieten
bzw. außerhalb der großen Einzugs- und Sied-
lungsgebiete sowie der in den letzten Jahrhun-
derten maßgeblichen kulturhistorischen und poli-
tisch-wirtschaftlichen Einflußsphären halten.10 11 So
gesehen gab es aufs Ganze gesehen einen früh
einsetzenden Verdrängungsprozeß in der Natur-
aneignung, der den reinen Wildbeutern die für
Bodenbau und Landwirtschaft ungeeigneten Land-
striche überließ (was eben auch hieß, daß sich
andernorts “Mischkulturen” etablierten). Es war
die Lage, genauer gesagt die Randseitigkeit der
Lage, die einen gewissen Schutz vor Übergriffen
bot (nicht aber vor eingeschleppten Epidemien,
dem größten Risikofaktor), so wie die sich hieraus
ergebende soziale Randständigkeit, die eine fatale
Rolle bei späteren Zivilisationskontakten spielen
sollte, durch ebendiese Lage untermauert wurde,
wenn sie nicht durch eine Art Residualwildbeu-
tertum unterlaufen werden konnte.11 Eine weitere,
9 Zu den kontinentalen Ökoregionen, aus denen die mög-
lichen (und in der Tat behaupteten) Rückzugsgebiete für
Wildbeuter klar hervorgehen, siehe Baily (1996), Separat-
karte.
10 Primäres Wildbeutertum hielt sich in prähistorisch spät
besiedelten Räumen (Ausnahme: Inselpazifik) und in de-
zentraler, abgelegener Lage mit spärlicher Vegetation, so
an den Rändern des nord- und südamerikanischen Subkon-
tinents einschließlich der Westküste Nordamerikas (Kali-
fornien, Great Basin, Plateau), vor allem in jenen Kon-
tinentalzonen, wo das Vordringen der Landwirtschaft ge-
hemmt wurde bzw. gar nicht erfolgte (Australien) und wo
aufgrund der edaphischen und klimatischen Bedingungen
keine nachhaltige Bodenbewirtschaftung möglich war wie
in den tropischen Regenwäldern am Äquator (besonders
Zentralafrika, Südostasien), in Nordeurasien oder Süd- und
Südwestafrika (Botsuana, Namibia, Südangola).
11 Dieser Punkt ist insofern wichtig, als er in dem Band, der
keine historische Gesamtbewertung vornimmt, sondern eine
Auswahldokumentation sein will und deshalb historisch-
partikularistisch argumentiert, nicht behandelt bzw. mit
der Feststellung übergangen wird, daß Landwirtschaft von
subsidiärem Wildbeutertum bis in die Gegenwart ergänzt
worden sei.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
211
1.........
gleichsam funktionelle und halbwegs bestands-
sichernde Randständigkeit ergab sich aus jahr-
hundertelangen Tauschkontakten mit Agrarvölkern
und Viehzüchtern, die, falls sie von beiderseitigem
Nutzen waren, doch auch zu Abhängigkeiten führ-
ten. Das interethnische Transaktionsnetz mag zwar
zum Überleben der letzten Wildbeuter oder zur
Lebenssicherung von Neo-Wildbeutern, die sich
aus früheren Bodenbauem rekrutierten (wie unter
den sich aufspaltenden austronesischen Bevölke-
rungen) beigetragen haben; an der Geringschät-
zung für die als rückständig geltenden Bewoh-
ner änderte das allerdings wenig. Marginalisierung
und ethnische Diskriminierung beruhten auf tief-
verwurzelten Stereotypen gegenüber abweichen-
den, als ärmlich empfundenen Lebensweisen, wo-
bei die Einordnung des äußeren Erscheinungsbil-
des wie bei den kleinwüchsigen, den klimatischen
Bedingungen des äquatorialen Regenwaldes außer-
ordentlich gut angepaßten Pygmäen Zentralafrikas
eine zusätzliche Rolle spielte.12
Die Attribute, mit denen die Wildbeuter der
Neuzeit - und allein über diese liegen verläßliche
Auskünfte vor - bedacht worden sind, machen ver-
gessen, daß es sich in den allermeisten Fällen nicht
um Primär-, sondern teils um grundlegend verän-
derte, teils um entwickelte Sekundärerscheinungen
oder Neuanpassungen gehandelt hat. Als primitive
Urvölker abgestempelt, wurden sie entweder zu
assimilieren gesucht oder einfach verfolgt, de-
zimiert und ausgerottet (J. H. Bodley, 465 ff.).13
12 Unter den Pygmäengruppen, die aufgrund genetischer Assi-
milationen mit Nachbarpopulationen kein einheitliches ge-
netisches Profil mehr aufweisen, ist der Abstand zu anderen
Afrikanern am augenfälligsten bei den Mbuti (Bambuti) aus
dem Ituri, die mit einer geschätzten genetischen Distanz
von rund 18 0000 Jahren den “Urtyp” der Pygmäen Afrikas
bilden (Cavalli-Sforza et al. 1994: 177 ff.). Die Pygmäen
Afrikas und die mit den ihnen früher assoziierten “Negritos”
Südostasiens (vgl. K. Endicott, 277) sind vom ethnischen
oder genetischen Substrat her nicht gleichzusetzen; letztere,
darunter Andamaner, Semang und die von P. B. und M. B.
Griffin (289 ff.) behandelten Agta/Aeta, sind nicht aus
einer Urbevölkerung hervorgegangen; wie man seit den
in den 1920em durchgeführten Erhebungen von Schebesta
(1954-57) weiß, sind sie überdies weit mehr als etwa die
Mbuti (Schebesta 1938-50) dem Einfluß von Fremdvöl-
kern ausgesetzt gewesen. Trotz fortgesetzter Kontakte mit
Außenstehenden wurden in einigen Gebieten Südostasiens
über Jahrhunderte Jagd- und Sammlerwirtschaft und dar-
über hinaus fluide Gruppenstrukturen aufrechterhalten (vgl.
Bellwood 1997: 131 ff.).
D Wie die Tasmanier im 19. Jh. oder nomadisierenden
Jäger und Sammler des südamerikanischen Subkontinents
(L. M. Rival, 77 f.), so die von Martin Gusinde 1918-1924
erforschten Feuerland-Indianer am Südzipfel Chiles und
Argentiniens (Gusinde 1931-74); vgl. den Beitrag von
H. J. Vidal (114 ff.) sowie McEwan et al. (1998).
Selten sind sie hingegen als Erstbewohner respekt-
voll mit einem Bleiberecht versehen worden: Die
Anerkennung als First Nations mit einem entspre-
chenden Rechts- und vor allem Landschutz blieb
ihnen zumeist versagt (R. K. Hitchcock, 480 ff.).
Das gilt beispielsweise für die akkulturierten Be-
wohner des hohen Nordens der russischen Födera-
tion, der Eskimo am Polarkreis, der Rentierhalter
der arktischen Tundra und der subarktischen Tai-
ga-Jäger, die mit den Flußfischern pauschal den
“kleinen Völkern” zugerechnet werden, obwohl
sich ihr Gebiet mit anderen Ethnien Sibiriens und
Asiens (bis hin zu den Ainu) über 11,1 Millionen
Quadratkilometer erstreckt.14 Dies ist nur eines der
Extreme der Lebensumstände zeitgenössischer, in
vierzig Ländern beheimateter Wildbeuter. Daher
die Schwierigkeit, sie einer einzigen Kategorie
zuzuordnen oder sie bequem in Subkategorien auf-
zuteilen, denn faktisch praktizieren die allermei-
sten gar keinen ausschließlichen, sondern einen ge-
mischten Subsistenzmodus. Unter den Restvölkern
befinden sich indes die Nachfahren primärer Jagd-
und Sammlergesellschaften wie die jetzt weitge-
hend akkulturierten Bewohner der Kalahari (San)
mit vormals spätsteinzeitlicher Kultur (R. B.Lee
und R. Daly, 6).
III
Das durch Sammeln, Ernte, Jagd und Fischfang
definierte Wildbeutertum - vereinfachend Jäger
und Sammler - ist hervorgegangen aus der Urform
der modernen Menschheit, die vor 150-200 000
Jahren in Afrika ihren Anfang nahm.15 * Es hat den
überaus größten Teil der weiteren Menschheits-
entwicklung geprägt, sich aber selbst dabei ver-
ändert, ehe es als primäre, anfänglich gewiß auch
rudimentäre Subsistenzform vor 12 000 Jahren (bei
mutmaßlich 4 Millionen Erdbewohnern) mit ein-
setzender Domestikation von Pflanzen und Tieren
14 Das sind 58 % des Territoriums der russischen Föderation
bei einem indigenen Bevölkerungsanteil von 0,06 %. Auf-
gesplittert in kleine und kleinste Gruppen, sind 40 % dieser
einstigen, nunmehr 184 500 zählenden Urbewohner (1990)
urbanisiert. 1860 wurden die letzten unterworfen und mit
teilweise verheerenden Folgen russifiziert und modernisiert
(V. A. Shnirelman, 119 ff.).
15 Die angenommene, von Ostafrika in mehreren Wellen
ausgehende Ausbreitung des anatomisch modernen Men-
schen in vorgeschichtlicher Zeit in die angrenzenden Re-
gionen und nach Asien vollzog sich vor ungefähr 100000-
60 000 Jahren (100-60 Ka); siehe hierzu Aitken et al.
(1993) und das Kompendium von Delson et al. (2000), darin
inbesondere den Eintrag “Africa” (9-38) und den Beitrag
von C. B. Stringer (429-432).
Anthropos 96.2001
212
Berichte und Kommentare
und der Ausbreitung der Landwirtschaft langsam
verändert wurde.16 Als primordiale Existenzweise
wurde es allmählich von seßhaften Garten- und
Bodenbaukulturen abgelöst, obwohl nie vollstän-
dig verdrängt, weil Wildbeuterum lange Zeit eine
Ergänzung zum Bodenbau war (A. Cannon, 31,
für Nordamerika). Schließlich mußte es vielerorts
den numerisch und technisch überlegenen Agrar-
und Hochkulturen weichen, blieb aber im teilwei-
sen Zusammengehen mit seßhaften Anbau- und
Wirtschaftsformen über Jahrtausende vital (32 f.),
wenn es sich nicht in den letzten Jahrhunder-
ten zur Lebenssicherung aus Garten- und Boden-
baukulturen zurückgebildet hat (wie im Amazo-
nas- und Orinocobecken) oder sich in Symbiose
mit Nachbarvölkern (wie in Südostasien) erhalten
konnte. In einigen isolierten Regionen oder aber
geographisch begünstigten Gebieten konnte es sich
nahezu ungehindert bis in die Neuzeit erhalten.
Um 1500 A.D., als schätzungsweise 475 Millionen
Menschen auf der Erde lebten, war noch ein Drittel
der Erdoberfläche von Jägern und Sammlern be-
völkert: ganz Australien, weite Teile Nordamerikas
sowie Teile Südamerikas, Afrikas und Nordost-
asiens (R. B. Lee und R. Daly, 1 f.). Freilich waren
von den in der Neuzeit übriggebliebenen 500 ein-
geborenen Nationen Nordamerikas nur noch eine
Minorität Wildbeuter (H. A. Feit, 23 f.), und im
tropischen Tiefland und in den Regenwäldern Süd-
amerikas gab es zwar Wildbeutertum in Verbin-
dung mit Gartenbau, eine Art “incipient cultivation
within a mixed economy” (L. M. Rival, 79-81),
aber es stammte nicht direkt von prähistorischen
Jägern und Sammlern ab (A. C. Roosevelt, 90),
sondern von “dekulturierten” Bodenbauern (L. M.
Rival, 80).
16 Vgl. Harris (1996). Das archaische Wildbeutertum geht
auf die Anfangsgründe der Menschheit (genus Homo, 1,5 —
0,5 Ma) und den ersten Werkzeuggebrauch der Hominiden
vor über 2 Millionen Jahren zurück (früheste Belege bei
Roche et al. 1999). Die vor 12 000 Jahren mit ersten
Wildkornzüchtungen einsetzende “neuere” Menschheitsge-
schichte, die in etwa mit der vor 15-30 Ka einsetzenden
Erschließung des amerikanischen Kontinents durch Jäger
und Sammler zusammenfällt, repräsentiert größenordnungs-
mäßig gerade 1 % der Humanentwicklung. Diese ist -
populationsgenetisch gesehen - aus einem “Flaschenhals”
hervorgegangen und hat zur Differenzierung in Gründer-
populationen vor der weiteren geographischen Ausbreitung
nach Asien, Sunda und Sahul (60 Ka) geführt, was ei-
nerseits die große intrinsische Einheit des Menschenge-
schlechts, andererseits die anschließenden Kulturdifferen-
zierungen bis hin zur humangeographischen Pseudospezia-
tion trotz Migrationen und kultureller Entlehnungen erklärt;
vgl. Relethford (1998), Sherry et al. (1998) sowie die
Synthese von Cavalli-Sforza et al. (1994).
So ist das Wildbeutertum zwar ein Spiegel der
primären Existenz der Menschheit gewesen, ein
Spiegel früherer Humandiversität und ein Spiegel
elementaren, freilich äußerst kleveren und intel-
ligenten Sozial Verhaltens, aber in den ethnogra-
phierten Restformen des 20. Jahrhunderts keine
Urkultur, zumal es keine einzige Art gab, sondern
eine Reihe von lokal und regional differenzierten
Formen oder Mischformen, welche der Habitat-
fragmentierung, der wirtschaftlichen Nischenexi-
stenz wie überhaupt der Diversität der Lebens-
weisen Rechnung trugen. Charakterisiert durch ein
insgesamt konservatives Regime der Umweltnut-
zung,17 das durchaus kleinere Ertragssteigerungen
z. B. durch Aussaat ermöglichte, und durch einen
zwar minimalen, in der Regel aber keinen wirklich
mehr primitiv zu nennenden Technologieeinsatz,18
reflektiert es jahrtausendealte Primäranpassungen,
die selbst unter Extrembedingungen zu einer be-
stimmten Art des Naturumgangs, der Handhabung
von Kenntnissen und von Wissen führten (der
Band enthält zahllose, hier nicht im einzelnen
aufführbare Hinweise). Jäger und Sammler be-
völkerten nahezu alle Erdregionen mit Ausnahme
des Südpolargebiets und des spät, vor 3 000-
5 000 Jahren von see- und bodenbaukundigen
Kolonisten besiedelten Fernozeaniens.19 Da sie
abhängig waren von Wasser- und Wildvorkom-
men sowie von sonstigen natürlichen Ressourcen
(wilden Pflanzen und Früchten, meist Kleintie-
ren, gelegentlich größeren Tieren, selten Großwild,
eventuell Fischen und Meeressäugern), war ihre
Lebensweise von relativer Nichtseßhaftigkeit bzw.
jahreszeitlich bedingter Halbseßhaftigkeit gekenn-
zeichnet. Die erforderliche Beweglichkeit impli-
zierte kleine Gruppen auf der Basis von Familien
und Jagdscharen (in der Regel zwischen 15 und
50 Personen), mithin wenige Habseligkeiten und
von vornherein eingeschränkte Besitzansprüche;20 * *
daher das weitgehende Fehlen von materiellem
Reichtum und darauf gegründeter Macht. Aus-
geprägt waren dafür Unabhängigkeitsgefühl und
17 Das freilich verhinderte nicht, daß schon in prähistorischen
Zeiten Wildbestände zurückgingen und Arten ausgerottet
wurden.
18 Obwohl in der Diaspora von Jägern und Sammlern rudi-
mentärer Werkzeuggebrauch und provisorische Unterkünfte
vorkamen, kann von wirklich archaischen Formen nicht
gesprochen werden.
19 Siehe Merriwether et al. (1999) mit einer Zusammenfassung
der Forschungsergebnisse.
20 Ausgenommen ressourcenreiche Gebiete wie an der
Nordwestküste Nordamerikas, wo Nahrungsüberschüsse
durch Fischerträge sichergestellt waren und Bevölkerungs-
zuwachs und Bevölkerungskonzentrationen auch soziale
Ungleichheiten nach sich zogen.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
213
egalitäres Ethos, Prinzipien der Gegenseitigkeit
und des Tausches (sichtbar im Teilen von Nah-
rung, insbesondere von Wildfleisch), ferner ein
spirituelles, nichtinstrumentelles Naturverständnis
und ein von mythischen Prärogativen gepräg-
tes, aber beileibe nicht konflikt- oder spannungs-
freies Intergruppen- und Binnen Verhältnis sowie
die Arbeitsteilung (und Ungleichbehandlung) der
Geschlechter bei ansonsten gering ausgebildeten
sozialen Hierarchien.21 Risikoabsicherung war je
nach Habitat gegeben durch extensive, in Einzel-
fällen auch durch extrem spezialisierte Ressour-
cennutzung, darüber hinaus durch pragmatisches
Raumverhalten mit netzwerkartigen Verbindungen
und weitläufiger Revierabgrenzung, nicht jedoch
durch starr verteidigte Territorialität oder reine,
dem Wirtschaftskalkül unterliegende Nutzenopti-
mierung, wie das gelegentlich unterstellt worden
ist. Kleine, in prähistorischen Zeiten nahezu sta-
tionäre Bevölkerungen waren besonders in dünn-
besiedelten Gebieten demographischen Fluktuatio-
nen mit entsprechenden Reproduktionsrisiken aus-
gesetzt, was durch die Weitläufigkeit der Raum-
nutzung und eventuell mit Hilfe sozialer Tech-
niken (Kooperation) ausgeglichen wurde. Gleich-
wohl blieben Umweltzwänge bestehen, namentlich
für jene 10 Prozent der 350 000 oder mehr austra-
lischen Aborigines in der Vorkontaktzeit, die sich
in dem trockenen Drittel des Kontinents aufhielten
(N. Peterson, 319) und von denen die Pintupi im
westlichen Desert mit einer Bevölkerungsdichte
von 1/100 qkm als Paradebeispiel für Minimalisten
gelten können (F. R. Myers, 348 ff.).22
Letztlich ist Wildbeutertum in hohem Maße
eine Lebensart gewesen - “a way of life, a way of
organizing society and thinking about the world”
(L. M. Rival, 81) -, die zuweilen auch dann durch-
gehalten wurde, als die wirtschaftliche Notwendig-
keit hierfür entfallen war. Ob allerdings Freiheits-
drang und Individualismus für die letzten Wild-
beuteraktivitäten ausschlaggebend gewesen sind,
ütag angesichts der vielerorts erniedrigenden Um-
stände zur Selbstbehauptung bezweifelt werden.
21 Eine zumindest für Australien einzigartige Ausnahme stell-
ten die in einem mediterranen Klima lokalisierten Ngar-
rindjeri am unteren Murray-Flußlauf dar, die in der Vor-
kontaktzeit auf eine halbseßhafte Bevölkerung von 5 000-
7 000 kamen und Ansätze zu formalisierten Strukturen der
Politischen Führung und sozialen Kontrolle erkennen ließen
(R. Tonkinson, 343 ff.).
2 Im Schnitt betrug die Bevölkerungsdichte von Wildbeutern
0,01 bis 0,1 Bewohner pro Quadratkilometer; in den Tropen
lag sie höher, in der Arktis war sie naturgemäß niedriger
(Cavalli-Sforza et al. 1994: 106); siehe die detaillierte Auf-
stellung von Kelly (1995: Table 6.4, 222-226).
Vthropos 96.2001
Not, Armut, soziales Elend, Demoralisierung und
importierte Krankheiten - die Symptome der “Ent-
wicklung” in Rand- und Krisenregionen - ließen
oft gar keine andere Wahl zu als die Rückkehr zur
Subsistenzwirtschaft; dort, wo diese nicht einmal
mehr in eingeschränktem Umfang möglich war
oder sich scheinbar Alternativen für den Lebens-
unterhalt und den früheren Lebensstil boten, hatte
die Assimilations- und Interventionspolitik großen
Stils weitgehende Abhängigkeiten und letztlich die
Pauperisierung zur Folge. Mit alternativer Lebens-
einstellung, die - je nach Sichtweise - Maßstäbe
für selbstgenügsames ökologisches Wirtschaften
setzte und gelegentlich aus dem Vollen schöpfen
konnte, hat dies wahrlich nichts zu tun.23 Dies
gilt um so mehr, als sich die Relationen immer
weiter zu ungunsten der kleinen, einst autarken
Bevölkerungen verschoben haben.
Mehr als 375 Millionen Erdbewohner zählen zu
den indigenen Völkern (R. K. Hitchcock, 480). Sie
teilen sich rund 5 000 der über 6 000 registrier-
ten Sprachen auf der Welt. Mit anderen Worten:
Die kulturelle Basis wird bzw. wurde zu über
80 Prozent von fünf Prozent der Weltbevölkerung
getragen.24 Unter den 375 Millionen machen die
Wildbeuter lato sensu samt Abkömmlingen und
entfernt Zugehörigen einen geringen Prozentsatz
aus:25 * Vielleicht 60 000 Menschen leben in Süd-
ostasien, die entweder einmal Jäger und Sammler
waren oder durch zurückliegende “Respezialisie-
rungen” wieder zu solchen wurden und gelegent-
lich ihrer Tätigkeit nachgehen (K. Endicott, 281,
Tabelle). In Afrika fühlen sich laut Hitchcock
(175) zwar eine halbe Million Afrikaner den (ehe-
maligen) Jägern und Sammlern zugehörig, aber
wohl nicht einmal die Hälfte davon lebte bis vor
23 Wobei die Vorstellung von einer Überflußgesellschaft für
die früheren, vom Einzelfall her nicht generalisierbaren
Verhältnisse doch sehr überzeichnet erscheint. Desgleichen
muß bei aller Sympathie für den Egalitarismus bezweifelt
werden, daß Jäger und Sammler seit Urzeiten sich als
“moralische Gemeinschaft” konstituiert und sich so der
angeborenen Anlage zu Dominanzhierarchien widersetzt
hätten (Boehm 1999). Zweifellos gab es statusnivellieren-
de Mechanismen (Wiessner 1996); darüber hinaus aber
dürften vielerorts langanhaltende Kontakte mit dominanten
Bevölkerungen die Rolle lokaler Führerschaft entwertet und
soziale Strukturen eingeebnet haben.
24 Dies ist leider ein ganz und gar theoretischer Wert ange-
sichts des Umstands, daß viele Sprachen nur noch wenige
Sprecher haben, wenn sie nicht schon ausgestorben sind
(vgl. die Daten von Grimes 1996).
25 Die Relationen bezeichnen ein Dilemma vor dem viele
kleine Völker stehen; sie sind durch die demographische
Entwicklung, welche enkulturierend wirkt, auf Kosten der
Nachkommen von Wildbeuterpopulationen weiter verzerrt
worden.
214
Berichte und Kommentare
20 Jahren vornehmlich von Sammeln und Jagd
(176, Tabelle). In Australien schließlich führte
der Zensus von 1991 über 238 0000 Menschen
auf, die sich den Ureinwohnern zurechneten. Für
die Situation ist es aber bezeichnend, daß nach
einem Jahrhundert schlimmer Segregations- und
Assimilierungspolitk (von 1864 bis 1972) das
unterminierte Zugehörigkeitsgefühl zwar wieder
aufleben konnte und zur kulturellen Anerkennung
führte, diese jedoch trotz - oder gerade wegen
- des Bevölkerungsanstiegs mit einer fallenden
Sprachkompetenz einhergegangen ist, denn allen-
falls 50 000 sind in der Lage, eine der 50 Sprachen
zu sprechen, die von 200-250 übriggeblieben sind
(N. Peterson, 319).26
IV
Als Pendant zu den globalen Umwälzungen ist
die Forderung nach einem erdpolitischen Bewußt-
sein laut geworden, für das kulturelle Unterschie-
de geradezu notwendig für eine ganzheitliche
Umweltethik sind (Weizsäcker 1998). Entwick-
lung dürfe nicht allein weltwirtschaftlichen Erwä-
gungen gehorchen, sondern müsse dem Prinzip
der kulturellen Autonomie, der wirtschaftlichen
Selbstversorgung und Bestandssicherung in Hin-
blick auf künftige Generationen verpflichtet sein.
Einzufordern wäre demnach Nachhaltigkeit nicht
nur der materiellen, sondern der spirituellen Da-
seinsgrundlagen, wie das im übrigen von allen
großen Religionen und alten, stabilen Kulturen
vertreten wird. Das Prinzip der Erhaltung hätte
demnach Vorrang vor dem der Veränderung, wobei
Lebenserhaltung stets auch Erneuerung beinhaltet.
Tatsächlich ist diese Forderung nach globaler Ver-
antwortung allenfalls zur Hälfte eingelöst worden.
Bisher jedenfalls hat das interkulturelle Weltethos
jene Myriade ethnischer Partikularismen ausge-
schlossen, welche zwar nach wie vor das breite
Grundspektrum der menschlichen Lebensart reprä-
sentieren, indes nicht ohne Verwerfungen in natio-
nalstaatliche Gegebenheiten einzugliedern oder gar
dem rücksichtslosen Marktgeschehen auszuliefern
sind. Vielleicht sind deshalb substantielle Eigen-
werte, die dem Interkulturalismus als Gerüst die-
nen könnten, unzureichend dargestellt worden und
früher schwer vermittelbare innere Zusammen-
26 Von den 50 Sprachen haben weniger als ein halbes Dutzend
mehr als 2 000 Sprecher; nur 20 Sprachen werden von
Kindern erlernt, was einer absehbaren Sprachreduktion auf
etwa 1/10 des ursprünglichen Bestandes vor 200 Jahren
gleichkommt.
hänge unberücksichtigt geblieben.27 Was nun die
Wildbeuterkulturen als solche angeht, so mag da-
hingestellt bleiben, ob sie tatsächlich Alternativen
zur “Realpolitik” der Naturbeherrschung darstel-
len.28 Die Ökoidyllen der Neuzeit sind wahrschein-
lich von der Wirklichkeit genauso weit entfernt
wie der immer wieder aufgetischte Mythos von
den “sanften”, technologisch völlig unbedarften
Wildbeutern aus der Steinzeit.29 Wenn Wildbeuter
jedoch eines gezeigt haben, so dies: wie man in pe-
ripherer Lage unter ansonsten höchst unterschied-
lichen Umständen und schwierigsten Bedingungen
durchhalten kann. Sie sind, wie immer sie sich im
einzelnen verändert haben, überhaupt das Beispiel
für Beständigkeit, wobei diese Beständigkeit, wie
nicht anders zu erwarten, Veränderungen unter-
worfen war, unterworfen ist. Die vorliegende Cam-
bridge-Enzyklopädie dokumentiert dies in einer
bislang unerreichten Breite und Fülle. Ihr Gegen-
stand ist die Nachhaltigkeit einer jahrtausendeal-
ten, aber nicht zur Bewegungslosigkeit erstarrten
kulturellen und materiellen Subsistenzweise. Diese
hebt sich ab vom derzeitigen Fortschrittsfieber, das
in bisher nie dagewesener Weise alle Nationen er-
faßt, freilich viele Gemeinschaften einfach beiseite
gelassen oder sich selbst überlassen hat.
Das Schicksal der Wildbeuterkulturen ist nicht
allein deshalb interessant, weil es in stärkstem
Kontrast stünde zum Fortgang der menschlichen
Zivilisation, denn das war im Prinzip schon den
schottischen und französischen Aufklärern bekannt
(vgl. A. Barnard, 375 ff.). Es ist durchaus lehrreich
für das Auf und Ab eigener Kulturanschauungen.
Und es ist eine Warnung vor überspannten Er-
wartungen. Auf dem sich abzeichnenden Tableau
könnten die mit dem Neuen verbundenen Fort-
schrittshoffnungen bald so alt aussehen wie jene
vermeintlichen Kulturrelikte, die in Widerspruch
gerieten zum Modernismus, der seinerseits inzwi-
schen als überholt gilt. Umgekehrt könnten Teile
27 Zumal kleinräumige Gemeinschaften und Gesellschaften
wie die früheren Jäger und Sammler nicht nur durch Be-
weglichkeit ausgezeichnet waren, sondern - entgegen der
Annahme eines undifferenzierten Wildbeutertums - sich
vornehmlich durch Hervorhebung und Aufrechterhaltung
nuancenreicher kultureller Unterschiede definierten.
28 Einer Realpolitik, die den Grundlagen der menschlichen
Existenz, der Erhaltung der Bio- und Kulturdiversität, trotz
zahlreicher Absichtserklärungen geringe Aufmerksamkeit
geschenkt hat.
29 Als warnendes Beispiel mag die 1971 ausgelöste Tasa-
day-Kontroverse dienen. Nach Ansicht von G. D. Berreman
(457 ff.) war die angebliche Entdeckung einer bislang völlig
unbekannten Gruppe von Steinzeitbewohnern ein ethnologi-
scher Schwindel und überdies eine Parodie auf Kosten von
Minoritäten und einer sensationshungrigen Öffentlichkeit.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
215
des Alten, lange Etablierten und die vielleicht doch
behutsamere Art traditioneller Zukunfts Sicherung
als Neuentdeckung eingehen - nicht als ökologi-
sche Heilsbotschaft, aber doch als Korrektiv zur
Wirklichkeit.30
Man muß sich vor Augen halten, was es für
die von der Weltwirtschaft ausgeschlossenen und
von den Wachstumsbranchen ignorierten Bevölke-
rungen, die sich am Rande des Existenzminimums
befinden und ihre kulturelle Integrität verloren
haben, bedeutet, nicht mehr in einer Welt von 1,6
Milliarden, sondern von 6 Milliarden Menschen
mit der Aussicht auf Verdoppelung in den nächsten
50-70 Jahren zu leben.31 Man muß sich indes auch
vergegenwärtigen, daß die Welt zusammenwächst
und daß, trotz enormer Auffassungsunterschiede,
sie nicht mit apokalyptischen Visionen auf den
rechten Weg, auf den Weg interkultureller Verstän-
digung, gebracht werden kann. Schließlich sollte
nicht unterschlagen werden, daß nach Landraub
und Vertreibungen, nach Genozid und Ethnozid
unvorstellbaren Ausmaßes32 das letzte Jahrhun-
dert auch eines der Proklamation der universel-
len Menschen- und Kulturrechte war. Es bleibt
viel zu tun, die oft genug hintertriebene Aner-
kennung unteilbarer Elementarrechte geltend zu
machen und auf den Schutz ethnischer Minder-
heiten auszudehnen bzw. diese Rechte effektiv
durchzusetzen.33 Auf Internationalität und über-
30 Wobei hier nicht zu entscheiden ist, ob Wildbeuter zumin-
dest in Maßen ein Vorbild sein könnten für das Zusammen-
spiel von Natur- und Kulturerhalt, da dieses Zusammen-
spiel nicht mehr kleinräumig zur Überlebenssicherheit zu
organisieren ist. Vgl. hierzu die Überlegungen von Callicott
(1994) und Rolston (1994), die auf eine umfassende Land-
und Kulturethik rekurrieren.
31 Die Vervierfachung der Weltbevölkerung seit 1900 wirft
naturgemäß Fragen nach der Tragfähigkeit der Erde und
den ökologischen Konsequenzen der menschlichen Aus-
breitung auf; angesichts des massiven Energie-, Land- und
Kulturverbrauchs (Pimentei et al. 1999) wirft sie zugleich
ein Schlaglicht auf die für ethnische Minoritäten kritische
Situation hinsichtlich der Habitat- und Kulturerhaltung.
Zur ökologischen Problematik siehe grundsätzlich Raven
and Williams (2000); Cohen (1995) enthält eine Fülle
von Daten und Überlegungen zur Bevölkerungsgeschichte
und zur Frage nach der Tragfähigkeit der Erde, die sich
selbstverständlich nicht nur aus Umweltzwängen und dem
jeweiligen Technologiestand ergibt, sondern ebenso aus
menschlichen Einrichtungen, Werten und Präferenzen, wie
gerade Wildbeuter zeigen.
32 Vgl. Hitchcock and Twedt (1997) sowie die Verweise in
Teil II, Abschn. III der Wildbeuter-Enzyklopädie.
33 Die Thematisierung eigenständiger, d. h. spezifischer
Kultur- und Völkerrechte ist neuen Datums, desgleichen
eine moralphilosophische Begründung kultureller Unter-
schiede und eines moderaten, auf ethnische Differenz
geordnete Kulturregeln kann also nicht verzichtet
werden, gerade um des partikularen Kulturschut-
zes willen.
Kulturdiversität war bisher nicht auszuschal-
ten, und so lange Menschen mit unterschiedlicher
Zunge auf kulturelle Herkunft Wert legen, wird
es bei Differenzierungen und Differenzen bleiben,
wenngleich in anderer Manier und in einem viel
geringeren Grundspektrum als bisher. Außerdem
sind die Motive für und die Mittel zur Abgrenzung
zum Teil sehr unterschiedlich von den vergange-
nen. Zwar gehört anerkanntermaßen die kulturelle
Primärdifferenzierung zum Welterbe.34 Soll dies
nicht ein Lippenbekenntnis bleiben, müßten zu-
mindest Schwerpunkte gesetzt werden, um die Pri-
märdiversität vor weiteren Zerstörungen zu bewah-
ren, die mittel- und langfristig das Verschwinden
vieler Sprachen und Kulturgruppen bedeuten wür-
den.35 Analog zur Habitatzerstörung und Arten-
verarmung verläuft zudem die Entdifferenzierung
durch Sprachangleichungen, Sekundär- und Ter-
tiärdiversifikationen, denen die historische Tiefe
abgeht. Durch Sprachenmix, Sprachnivellierungen
und ethnisch-nationale Akzentuierungen werden
außerdem die großen Kultur- und Spracheinheiten
in Mitleidenschaft gezogen (Joseph 1997), was
wiederum der Erhaltung von Sprachinseln abträg-
lich ist, die mehr denn je eines großen Rahmens
bedürfen.
Es ist schon paradox, daß der Wert allein
der vom Sprachenpotential erbrachten dauerhaften
Kulturleistungen, vom intrinsischen Wert einzelner
Kulturen einmal abgesehen, für den Überlebens-
haushalt der Menschheit bisher nicht einmal nä-
gegründeten Kulturrelativismus (Cook 1999). Zur verfas-
sungsrechtlichen Umsetzung des Prinzips der “ethnokul-
turellen Gerechtigkeit” (Will Kymlicka), das von undiffe-
renzierten, nicht justitiabien Kollektivrechten abzugrenzen
wäre (Bowring 1999), siehe die Situation in Kanada, Aus-
tralien und Neuseeland (Havemann 1999).
34 Die kulturhistorische Ethnologie hat übrigens die Tragweite
dieses humanen Erbes in den spirituellen und religiösen
Dimensionen verwirklicht gesehen und damit der Forde-
rung nach Anerkennung kultureller Identität, nach Achtung
geistiger Werte und menschlicher Würde vorgearbeitet. Als
herausragendes Beispiel mag wiederum Gusinde angeführt
werden (so etwa 1931: 121, 1084).
35 Die Zahl der vom Aussterben bedrohten Sprachen und der
ungesicherte Status von ethnischen bzw. Sprachminderhei-
ten sind ein deutliches Indiz: Zwei Drittel bis drei Viertel
aller 4000 noch gesprochenen Sprachen werden als gefähr-
det angesehen, mehrere Dutzend verschwinden pro Jahr,
weil sie nicht mehr gesprochen werden; vgl. die Übersicht
von Wurm (1996), die grundsätzlichen Überlegungen von
Dixon (1997: 143 ff.) sowie, unter vielen, die Fallstudien in
Grenoble and Whaley (1998).
Anthropos 96.2001
216
herungsweise evaluiert worden ist.36 Dieses Po-
tential müßte aktiviert werden. Dagegen sind die
Erfolgsaussichten zur Aufrechterhaltung distink-
tiver kultureller Identitäten in einigen Fällen als
sehr gering einzustufen. Die vorliegende Samm-
lung von Jäger- und Sammlerstudien, die auf ihre
Weise einen Jahrhundertabschluß bildet und einen
(skeptischen) Blick auf das nächste Jahrtausend
wirft, belegt dies eindringlich.
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1999 Reflections on the Archeology of Linguistic Diversity.
In: B. Sykes (ed.), The Human Inheritance. Genes,
Language, and Evolution; pp. 1-32. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Roche, H., et al.
1999 Early Hominid Stone Tool Production and Technical
Skill 2.34 Myr ago in West Turkana, Kenya. Nature
399: 57-60.
Rolston, H. Ill
1994 Conserving Natural Value. New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press.
Schebesta, P.
1938-50 Die Bambuti-Pygmäen vom Ituri. Ergebnisse zweier
Forschungsreisen zu den zentralafrikanischen Pygmäen
in drei Bänden. Bruxelles: Librairie Falk.
1954-57 Die Negrito Asiens. Bd. II/l und II/2. Wien-Möd-
ling: St.-Gabriel-Verlag. (Studia Instituti Anthropos,
12-13)
Sherry, S. T., M. A. Batzer, and H. C. Harpending
1998 Modeling the Genetic Architecture of Modern Popula-
tions. Annual Review of Anthropology 27: 153-169.
Stanford, C, B.
1999 The Hunting Apes. Meat Eating and the Origins of
Human Behavior. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Weizsäcker, E. U. von
1998 Ökologischer Weltethos. In: H. Küng und K. J. Ku-
schel (Hrsg.), Wissenschaft und Weltethos; pp. 337-
355. München: Piper Verlag.
Wiessner, P.
1996 Leveling the Hunter. Constraints on the Status Quest in
Foraging Societies. In: P. Wiessner and W. Schiefenhö-
vel (eds.), Food and the Status Quest. An Interdisciplin-
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Das Leid mit der “Abstammung”
Thomas Helmig
Beträchtliche Teile der Yerwandtschaftsethnologie
zeichnen sich durch eine Diskussion aus, die bei
Nichtspezialisten für große Verwirrung und wenig
Erhellung sorgt, ganz davon abgesehen, daß sie oft
wenig auf eine möglichst angemessene Beschrei-
bung von verwandtschaftlich gestalteten sozialen
Systemen ausgerichtet ist.
In einem jüngst im Anthropos erschienen Ar-
tikel plädiert Lang (95.2000: 558-564) für eine
Neudefinition von Deszendenz, weil er meint, zei-
gen zu können, daß Arbeiten von Scheffler auf
diesem Gebiet unzweckmäßig und wenig brauch-
bar seien und deswegen eine neue Definition von
Deszendenz notwendig sei. Es sei schon jetzt ge-
sagt, daß Scheffler und Lang sehr unterschiedlich
in ihrer Zielsetzung sind. Scheffler (1986: 339)
forscht, “to detect the conceptual order inherent
in the [...] use of genealogical relationship in
the construction of Systems of social relations”.
Lang geht es um eine zweckmäßige Definition
von Deszendenz. Dabei ist “die Anwendbarkeit
auf den vorhandenen Datenbestand ein zentra-
les Zweckmäßigkeitskriterium” (Lang 2000: 561).
Hier geht es nicht unbedingt darum, Adäquatheit
in bezug auf Gesellschaften auszutesten, sondern
hier entscheidet die vorhandene Datengüte in der
Anthropos 96.2001
218
Berichte und Kommentare
Ethnologie über die Zweckmäßigkeit von Begrif-
fen (Lang 2000: 561).
Worum geht es überhaupt? Es dürfte minde-
stens einigen Ethnologen bekannt sein, daß Vater
und Mutter die Zentralbauelemente der Verwandt-
schaft sind, was aber die Beziehung Elter (Mut-
ter bzw. Vater)-Kind notwendigerweise beinhaltet.
Umgangsprachlich wird diese Elter-zu-Kind-Be-
ziehung als Abstammung bezeichnet. Neben dieser
primären Bedeutung von Abstammung gibt es eine
weitere Bedeutung von Abstammung, nämlich die
Beziehung zu einem vorelterlichen Vorfahren. Für
Abstammung im engeren Sinn hat man in der
Völkerkunde die Wortlautung Filiation reserviert,
bei der sekundären Bedeutung spricht man in
der Fachsprache von Abstammung (jetzt in Ab-
grenzung zum Terminus Filiation) oder um einen
zusätzlichen gestelzten Wortausdruck einzuführen
von Deszendenz (engl, “descent”). Deszendenz
setzt Filiation voraus, weil man sonst nicht zum
vorelterlichen Vorfahren gelangt. Das umgekehrte
gilt nicht: Filiation setzt Deszendenz nicht voraus.
In Anlehnung an Fortes spricht Scheffler
(1986: 339) nur dann von Abstammungsgruppen
(“descent groups”), wenn entweder Patri- oder
Matrifiliation prinzipiell notwendiges und hin-
reichendes Kriterium für Mitgliedschaft in einer
Gruppe ist. Nur in diesem Fall ist die Gruppe durch
das Deszendenzkriterium der Konstitution nach
geschlossen und abgegrenzt, d. h. der Einzelne
hat prinzipiell keine Wahl zu welcher Gruppe er
gehört und die Gruppen sind klar voneinander
getrennt. Ist hingegen Patri- bzw Matrifiliation
prinzipiell nur hinreichendes aber kein notwen-
diges Kriterium, gibt es zumindest ein weiteres
Kriterium, um Gruppenmitglied zu werden. Dies
hat soziostrukturelle Konsequenzen, was hier aber
nicht weiter verfolgt werden muß, da auch ohne
diese Implikationen in der ethnographischen Be-
schreibung die verschiedenen Kriterien in Bezug
auf Filiation beachtet werden müssen, um eine
angemessene Beschreibung zu fertigen.
Fang (2000:558) bezieht Deszendenz bei
Scheffler ausschließlich auf “descent group” und
damit nur implizit auf “descent”. Er führt zu
Scheffler aus: “Deszendenz liegt nur da vor, wo
entweder Matri- oder Patrifiliation notwendige und
hinreichende Bedingung für die Mitgliedschaft in
einer Gruppe sind” (Fang (2000: 558). Im ersten
Teil der Ausführung wird zwar auf “descent” Be-
zug genommen, aber hier handelt es sich um eine
von Scheffler übernommene Formulierung. Der
Begriff “descent group” bei Scheffler wurde oben
bereits eingeführt und legitimiert. Über “descent”
(Begriff wurde von mir anfangs dargelegt) ist bei
Scheffler (1985:5) zu lesen: “no anthropologist
has found it possible to follow Rivers’s advice
and to use ‘descent’ only in reference to the
process of becoming a member of a group.” Aus
dem anfänglichen Versäumnis von Fang (erst auf
S. 561 f. taucht der Begriff etwas verdeckt auf,
der Ausdruck fällt nie), die Begriffe “descent”
und “descent group” sorgsam zu trennen und
bei Scheffler wahrzunehmen, gibt es dann beim
Testfall eins Komplikationen.
Als Testbeispiel verwendet Lang die Mae-Enga
auf Neuguinea. Er sagt: “Die Mae Enga definieren
die Clanmitglieder als “‘line of men,” begotten by
“the one penis’” (Meggitt 1965: 8). ‘Patrilinearer’
geht es wohl kaum” (Lang 2000: 563). Meggitt
schreibt an der angegebenen Stelle: “The Clan
is [...] a ‘line of men’ begotten by ‘the one
penis’ of the clan founder”. Zum “clan” erfahren
wir bei Meggitt (1964: 192): “The youngsters also
learn that within the universe of relatives there
are four major categories: tiwinggi, wananye, wane
tainggi, and imangge. Tiwinggi are agnates, the
people of ‘the erect penis’ begotten by the ‘one
penis’ of the agnatic ancestor. They in turn com-
prise [...] members of one’s own phratry, [...]
members of one’s own clan or sub-clan, and [...]
members of one’s own patrilineage. [...] Wana-
nye are other patrilateral cognates, those born ‘of
females agnates.’ [...] Sometimes male wananye
reside permanently with their mothers’ agnates as
‘nephews’ of the clan. Their hosts then regard
the children of these wananye as quasi-agnates”.
Ergänzen läßt sich hierzu: “In everyday usage
the term [‘the great or long line of men’ als
Ausdruck für Phratrie] refers to all living men who
are believed to be patrilineally descended from
the eponymous phratry founder and who do not
reside permanently with another phratry” (Meggitt
1965: 5). Somit handelt es sich nach der Begriffs-
schema von Scheffler um eine patrifiliale Gruppe
und keine Abstammungsgruppe (“descent group”).
Kehren wir nun zum Bild des Vorfahren mit sei-
nem Geschlechtsorgan zurück. Scheffler (1985: 5)
sagt über “descent”: “genealogical relationship to
a pre-parental antecedent”. Warum sollte bei den
Mae-Enga der Begriff “descent” nicht vorliegen,
zumal Scheffler (1985: 4 f.) auch schreibt: “Rela-
tionship to pre-parental antecedents and, through
them, to other persons is everywhere implicated
in the reckoning of relations of egocentric kin-
ship beyond the range of nuclear family”. Das
Problem liegt bei Langs Versäumnis den Begriff
“descent” bei Scheffler überhaupt zu thematisie-
ren. Nach den Ausführungen von Scheffler sollten
die Begriffe “descent” und “unifiliale Gruppe”
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
219
in ein und derselben Gesellschaft durchaus verein-
bar sein.
Als weiteren Testfall greift Lang zur Stammes-
genealogie der Paschtunen wie sie Ni‘mat Allah
ibn Habib Allah Harawi im 17. Jh. aufgeschrieben
hat (s. Glatzer 1977: 110-112). Legt man Patri-
filiation als notwendige Bedingung zur Gruppen-
mitgliedschaft zugrunde (ob darüber hinaus Patri-
ßliation hinreichend oder nicht ist, braucht hier
nicht nachgegangen zu werden), so ergeben sich
vielleicht auf den ersten Blick Unstimmigkeiten. In
beiden Fällen wird aber durch Adoption patrifiliale
Prinzipientreue eingehalten (Glatzer 1977: 111 Fn.
3, lllf. Fn. 5, 123). Die beiden Fälle von Annah-
me an Sohnes Statt unterminieren nicht die soziale
Ordnung, sondern unterstreichen sie. Die Adoption
ist gerade eine der strukturellen Konsequenzen,
die bei den Mae-Enga mit ihrer anderen Grup-
penverfassung nicht notwendig ist, um Personen
einzugliedem (s. Scheffler 1985: 14). In beiden
Testfällen hat man mit Schefflers Begriffssystem
abweichend von Längs Auffassung wenig Mühe,
ethnographische Wirklichkeit zu erfassen. Gleich-
zeitig sollte unterstrichen werden, daß kulturel-
le Begriffssysteme und soziale Handlungsabläufe
verschiedenen Ebenen angehören, auch wenn diese
verbunden sind. Lang (2000:561) scheint beide
Ebenen nicht immer analytisch zu trennen.
Mithilfe der Yanömami konturiert Lang (2000:
563) seinen Deszendenzbegriff. Nach seiner Auf-
fassung von Deszendenz liegt diese bei den Ya-
nömami nicht vor, weil der gemeinsame Vorfahr
bei Verwandtschaftsverbänden als Kulturelement
nicht faßbar sei. Allerdings weist er nicht auf
eine Textpassage bei Chagnon (Längs Gewährs-
autor) hin, die mit seiner Auffassung schlecht
vereinbar ist: “One of the consequences of this
pattem is that in a given area there will be a
number of villages whose members can trace
genealogical ties to each other because they ha-
ve common male ancestors” (Chagnon 1968: 65;
s. auch Saffirio 1985: 139-153). Wie bereits er-
wähnt, sollte Deszendenz (im anfangs dargelegten
Sinn) bei allen Gesellschaften Vorkommen, weil
sie bei Gruppen von Neffen/Nichten, Vettern/
Kusinen bzw. Enkeln/Enkelinnen und selbst schon
bei diesen Verwandtschaftsrelationen implizit ge-
geben ist. Auch hierzu findet sich die stützen-
de Textstelle bei Chagnon (1968:68, Absatz 3).
Schließlich sei auf die Namenstabuisierung bei
den Yanömami hingewiesen, die sich besonders
für verstorbene Personen bemerkbar macht und ge-
meinsamer Vorfahrenschaft einen verdeckten Platz
in der Kultur zuweist (Chagnon 1968: 10-13).
Somit geht es nicht darum, ob eine Gesell-
schaft Deszendenz hat oder nicht (sie ist in allen
Gesellschaften vorhanden), sondern darum, wie
Deszendenz strukturell verwendet wird und sich
in die Struktur der Gesamtgesellschaft einfügt.
Zitierte Literatur
Chagnon, Napoleon A.
1968 Y^nomamö. The Fierce People. New York: Holt, Rine-
hart, and Winston.
Glatzer, Bernt
1977 Nomaden von Gharjistän. Aspekte der wirtschaftlichen,
sozialen und politischen Organisation nomadischer Dur-
räni-Paschtunen in Nordwestafghanistan. Wiesbaden:
Franz Steiner Verlag. (Beiträge zur Südasienforschung,
22)
Lang, Hartmut
2000 Schefflers Lösung. Brauchbarkeitsanalyse eines Des-
zendenzbegriffs. Anthropos 95: 558-564.
Meggitt, Mervyn J.
1964 The Kinship Terminology of the Mae Enga of New
Guinea. Oceania 34: 191-200.
1965 The Lineage System of the Mae-Enga of New Guinea.
Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd.
Saffirio, Giovanni
1985 Ideal and Actual Kinship among the Yanomama Indians
of the Catrimani River Basin (Brazil). Ann Arbor:
University Microfilms.
Scheffler, Harold W.
1985 Filiation and Affiliation. Man 20: 1-21.
1986 The Descent of Rights and the Descent of Persons.
American Anthropologist 88: 339-350.
Anthropos 96.2001
Academia Verlag
Johannes Maria Hämmerle
Nias - eine eigene Welt
Sagen, Mythen, Überlieferungen
1999. 408 S. 88,00 DM. 16,5 cm x 24 cm.
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Collectanea Instituti Anthropos, 43
Nias — eine eigene Welt. Sagen, Mythen, Überlieferungen, der erste Teil eines auf
zwei Bände angelegten Werkes, unternimmt eine Re- und Neuinterpretation alter
Mythen aus Nord- und Mittel-Nias. Das Hauptgewicht des Buches liegt auf der
Publikation und Interpretation von 13 Mythentexten zur Thematik der Anthro-
pogonie, die der Autor selber aufgezeichnet und übersetzt hat. In seinen Erklärungen
und Deutungen folgt Hämmerle eng und einfühlsam den wenigen alten noch leben-
den kompetenten niassischen Mythenerzählem.
COLLECTANEA INSTITUTI ANTHROPOS
43j
Johannes Maria Hämmerie
Nias, eine eigene Welt
Sagen, Mythen,
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geb. 1941 in Hausach/Schwarz-
wald, Mitglied der Rheinisch-
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Nias/Indonesien (in den Orten
Gunung Sitoli, Lahewa, Teluk-
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Rezensionen
Abram, Simone, and Jacqueline Waldren (eds.):
Anthropological Perspectives on Local Development.
Knowledge and Sentiments in Conflict. London: Rout-
ledge, 1998. 166 pp. ISBN 0-415-18278-6. Price:
£ 14.99
Development anthropology has largely been domi-
nated by a focus on international development and a
critique of the models of a “developed West” providing
aspirational ideals for “the Third World poors,” and
it still has a strong tendency to be “development aid
anthropology for Third World problems.” Less atten-
tion has been paid to development efforts made by
states, especially European nations, within their own
territories and there is a short supply of anthropological
analyses of planning activities of local governmental
authorities.
The present volume is a collection of papers first
presented in a workshop at the 1996 EASA (European
Association of Social Anthropologists) Conference in
Barcelona. The aim of the workshop was to reconsider
the differentiated, local notions of development being
used in routine state-governed development, in contrast
to international aid-sponsored development. The collec-
tion aims at taking a critical anthropological approach
to forms of “development” as they are experienced in
contemporary localities, showing the importance of the
study of protest and power in the governance of devel-
opment, but also how anthropologists can contribute to
this study through examining the conflicting meanings
of common terms involved. Although alternative under-
standings, empirical and normative, of “development”
ure regularly debated, the concept continues to be em-
ployed as if its content is more or less unambiguous
and universally accepted. The authors of the present
volume attempted to redifferentiate the metaphors of
development employed by different social groups who
r®sist development measures and by developers.
The ten contributors are from seven European coun-
ties and four of them wrote about their own country.
Five of eight chapters deal with European regions, and
lhree of these with tourism. Simone Abram’s well writ-
ten and informative introduction is a clear pleading for a
Politically oriented anthropology. She underscores that
Ihere are different development anthropologies, taking
a critical position against fashionable poststructuralist
aPproaches à la Arturo Escobar. Her historical inter-
pretation of the origins of development critiques is
quite interesting, because she identifies them primari-
ly in environmentalism. She recommends to consider
three main dimensions for the analysis of local planned
development: (1) the activity of development planning
as a form of governance and the role of participation
within it; (2) changes to notions of development due
to the popularisation of environmentalism; and (3) their
implications for changing and differentiated notions of
governance and democracy.
Anne Kathrine Larsen’s very well written text on
development discourses in Malaysia shows to us that
we cannot simply reduce different understandings of
“development” to bipolar contrasts between “locals”
and “externals.” The Malaysian case exemplifies that
there exist different notions of “development” among
international development agencies, the Malaysian gov-
ernmental authorities, and the local populations. Aud
Talle’s chapter about female bar workers in a Tanzanian
border town is also very well written, but deals with
“development” in a quite peripheral way, being rather a
good ethnographic description of a local situation. There
is one interesting aspect regarding the bar workers’ no-
tions of “development,” as they are absolutely contrary
to the participatory ideals propagated in contemporary
development cooperation rhetorics, taking a clear mod-
ernization stance and disdaining everything which has
to do with “tradition.”
Duska Knezevic’s chapter about the new Slovene-
Croat state border in the Upper Kolpa Valley is well
written regional history and some ethnography, but by
no means development anthropology. It is rather a good
frontier study from historical, political, and ethnic points
of view. One of the best contributions was made by
Gaspar Mairal Buil and José Angel Bergua, analysing
the conflicts around the construction of an irrigation
scheme on the river Esera in Northern Spain. This paper
has more to do with the volume’s title than any other.
The authors make a thick description and profound
analysis of the different actors’ points of view in a
conflict about natural resources and the impacts of a dam
construction, labeling the two conflicting kinds of dis-
course “economism” and “culturalism.” “Economism”
is the kind of discourse used by the proponents and
defenders of the dam, making recourse to economic and
technological arguments, while the opponents defend a
different rationality based upon general cultural values
related to land and local identity. A shortcoming of
Anthropos 96.2001
222
Rezensionen
the authors’ presentation is that it is not very clear
if the local conflicts are about discourses or natural
resources and if the social actors are human beings
or discourses. Both authors advocate a kind of public
interest anthropology based upon ethnography.
The last three chapters all deal with impacts of
tourism development, an area scantly represented in
development anthropology. Jeremy Boissevain and Na-
dia Theuma present a case study of conflict between
government, environmentalists, and developers about
the construction of a luxury hotel site on Malta. This
very well written text demonstrates how notions of
development can change in different political contexts
and how local protests can influence them. The readers
are left with only one major question about the text: is
it anthropology?
The same question must be asked in the case of
Jacqueline Waldren’s study about development politics
on Mallorca, although it is extremely interesting to read.
The author labels Mallorquín development politics as a
“road to ruin,” but underscores at the same time the
conquest in quality of life in comparison to pretourism
times. Mallorquín politics are described as totally cor-
rupt, in the same way as did Mairal Buil and Bergua for
the Spanish mainland and Boissevain and Theuma for
Malta, not differing in any way from Latin American
situations. Participation and transparency of decisions
seem to be unknown words so that readers may ask
oneselves how European politicians can demand these
ideals from their “Third World” counterparts without
complying with them in their own countries.
The final chapter, by Christian Lindknud, is a case
study from a small rural setting near Saint-Tropez in
Southern France, showing how development discourses
concerning tourism provoke social oppositions and re-
compositions in a setting which at first sight would
appear as yet another case of rural crisis. This case
is very important, because it shows that the conflicting
lines concerning development are not always between
“locals” and “newcomers and secondary residents”, but
between other social groupings with different develop-
mental visions. These visions are not only nurtured by
different notions of development, but are based upon dif-
ferent worldviews and identities, making development
discourse a means to contest identities.
The texts generally represent well written conven-
tional ethnographies, but not always have to do with “de-
velopment” or development anthropology, contradicting
by this way the editors’ and publishers’ announcements.
Even the volume’s title can cause some misunderstand-
ing, for the perspectives on local development dealt with
in the chapters are not anthropological, but local or
“native.”
One of the most important aspects of the volume is
to demonstrate that conflicts about different notions of
development are not only “battlefields of knowledge”
(Norman Long), but also conflicts of sentiments and
identities. Different notions of development are no iso-
lated concepts, but can be outward representations of
diverse worldviews. This is interesting, but the authors,
and especially the editors, owe us an answer to what
this does imply for our knowledge about development
processes and the proper concept of development. If you
finish the volume, there rises a kind of dissatisfaction,
making you ask by yourself: so what? What are the
findings and conclusions? Are there any?
This is the only major shortcoming of this otherwise
very interesting, well readable, concise book. It is a
good lecture for readers who are willing to reflect
about “development” and to rethink its meanings and
implications, but you have to make an effort by yourself
to make your conclusions. Peter Schroder
Ammarell, Gene: Bugis Navigation. New Haven:
Yale University Southeast Asia Studies, 1999. 299 pp.,
maps. ISBN 0-938692-70-4. (Monograph, 48)
This accomplished book is a study of technological
change and adaptation. The Bugis practice a variety of
ways of finding their routes across Indonesia’s seas.
While to some extent retaining older techniques which
bear comparison to those employed in Micronesia and
elsewhere in the Pacific, they have also adopted modern
charts and compasses, as well as introduced engines
and new hull types and modifyed their trading customs
to accord with changing economic circumstances. The
book is based on research in the early 1990s among
seafarers from the small island of Balobaloang, south of
Ujung Pandang (Makassar), Sulawesi. An introduction
is followed by chapters on the ethnographic setting,
local conceptualizations of space and time, navigation,
piloting, the role of the navigator and learning to nav-
igate, and finally an epilogue on the social impact of
technological change. There is an appendix identifying
some economically significant flora and fauna. The Bu-
gis apparently came late to their position as a dominant
force in interisland trade, as a result of a complex
history, the most decisive factor in which seems to have
been the conclusion of the Dutch-Makassar wars of the
mid-seventeenth century.
The Bugis utilize a variety of schemes for ori-
entation, which the author summarizes as contingent
(relative to a person or object) and absolute (principally
a land/sea opposition and lateral directions to that). This
latter system is too imprecise for navigation and is
principally used on land. At sea for most purposes, they
employ the Malay wind compass. They determine time
by the annual cycle of monsoons, the lunar cycle, and
the diurnal cycle. All of these methods of determining
position in space and time are, of course, important to
route planning and navigation.
For navigation, the Bugis have four systems for
naming wind direction. Two of these are the fixed,
indigenous four point system and the wind compass.
The two others are contingent and describe directions
relative to the ship or to the land/sea opposition. The
ability to predict wind shifts in varying conditions and
places is important. Today compasses and charts may
be used with varying degrees of interest (the author
seems unaware that there is a European witness to
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
223
the use of magnetic needle and charts on the route
from Borneo to Jawa as early as 1508). On his first
visit, he confirmed that there was a large body of
traditional navigational knowledge to be studied, in-
cluding star lore, but he subsequently found that many
navigators had little knowledge of stars. Nevertheless,
such knowledge is at the command of some naviga-
tors and permits them to navigate successfully without
reference to compass or chart. The author’s section
on celestial navigation is an important contribution for
those who may have wondered whether and to what
extent techniques comparable to those which have been
described for Polynesia and Micronesia are also used
in Indonesia. The impression he gives, however, is that
Bugis star lore is not nearly so elaborate as what has
been describe for places in the Pacific. The author gives
quite detailed information about interpreting currents
and wave patterns, determining distance and speed, and
achieving and identifying landfall.
Piloting is especially important in Indonesia, where
boats will rarely be for long without some signs of the
presence of land. The chapter on this topic discusses
indigenous knowledge of tides, currents, and the moon,
algorithms used by Bugis to predict the time and relative
height of any tide for any day of the lunar month, ways
of avoiding shallows, rocks, and reefs, approaches to
harbors and anchorages, ritual and magic, and adapting
navigation and piloting to motorization. The penultimate
chapter discusses the qualities and skills that make for a
successful navigator and the circumstances and aspects
of character that lead some to acquire these skills and
others to fail to do so, illustrated by biographies of
serveral of his acquaintances. The epilogue concludes
that the increased prosperity among maritime traders
of Balobaloang resulted from freer access to engines,
parts, trade goods, fuel, and cheaper and more durable
sails and rigging. Among the effects were an increase
in the number and capacities of ships. Another was an
improvement in the position of members of crews and
some decline in the authority of captains and owners.
Much of the improvement in general circumstances
the author attributes to the political stability from the
beginning of the Suharto period. Such a conclusion
is consonant with the views of most economists and
anthropologists, not to mention Indonesians, at the rele-
vant period. However, circumstances have dramatically
changed. It would be interesting to know how the
turmoil around and subsequent to the collapse of the
Indonesian economy and Suharto regime has affected
the people of Balobaloang.
This is a very substantial contribution which com-
plements but does not repeat previous historical and
ethnographic studies of Bugis society and culture. It is
admirable for its extensive and patient detail and for
the clarity and cogency by which it makes these details
Understandable. R. H. Barnes
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witch-
Craft and Magic in Europe. Ancient Greece and Rome.
^nthropos 96.2001
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999.
395 pp. ISBN 0-8122-1705-5. Price: $ 24.95
This is one of six volumes in a proposed series
that will survey the history of witchcraft and magic
in Europe. So far three volumes have appeared. This
volume consists of an “Introduction” by the editors,
Bengt Ankarloo and Stuart Clark (xi-xvi), and four long
essays: Daniel Ogden: “Binding Spells. Curse Tablets
and Voodoo Dolls in the Greek and Roman Worlds”
(1-90), Georg Luck: “Witches and Sorcerers in Clas-
sical Literature” (91-158), Richard Gordon: “Imagin-
ing Greek and Roman Magic” (159-275), and Valerie
Flint: “The Demonisation of Magic and Sorcery in Late
Antiquity. Christian Redefinitions of Pagan Religions”
(277-348). There is a single, collective bibliography of
over 450 items (only seven relate directly to anthropol-
ogy).
Before discussing the volume in general I briefly re-
port the various essays. The editors’ brief “Introduction”
makes no appreciable contribution so I do not discuss it.
Each of the other essays provides a wealth of detailed
information.
Daniel Ogden’s essay focuses on two types of mate-
rial objects, curse tablets (defixiones) and voodoo dolls
(kolossoi) (Any scholar should recognize that fixiones
is Latin and kolossoi is Greek; throughout the text the
authors understandably assume that readers will be able
to recognize Latin and Greek and they often mix such
words even in the same sentence. Unfortunately, they
assume a basic scholarship that is probably gone in many
academic circles, especially in America where this is
published and where some anthropologists who are not
classicists may read this). Archaeologically recovered
curse tablets number over 1,600 and therefore allow
some crude estimations of the kinds of concerns toward
which magic was directed by both Greeks and Romans,
though most of the tablets are written in Greek. Such
tablets were usually made of sheets of lead (a substance
thought to have magic properties) which were often
folded or otherwise contorted to increase their efficacy.
Most appear to have been deposited in places associated
with the dead, malevolent spirits, water, or some other
chthonic force. They were meant to influence litigation,
to harm or inhibit competitors in athletics and theatrical
contests, to influence people erotically (most of these
appear to have been written by men), to influence com-
merce, and to retrieve stolen objects and punish thieves.
The voodoo dolls are less numerous than curse tablets.
They were employed for similar purposes and generally
were small, crudely fashioned figurines, usually of clay,
which were invariably twisted in their limbs, heads, and
necks, or were transfixed with nails or other objects.
These tablets and dolls sometimes also appear to have
incorporated clothing, hair, or other materials associated
with the person to be influenced. These objects were
often also directed at various spirits (daimones) asso-
ciated with underground places, sanctuaries, graves, and
battlefields. The spirits of the unhappy dead, such as
those improperly buried or insufficiently grieved such as
those lost on battlefields, the executed, the shipwrecked,
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or those who died young and unmarried were thought
especially dangerous and easily encouraged through
magic to menace others. Binding, restraining, twisting,
rolling-up, and otherwise contorting were all thought
to aid such negative influences. Often the messages on
the tablets are distorted by being written backwards
(the sentences, the words, and the letters themselves) or
mysterious and magical words employed. Words were
thought to have as much power as objects themselves.
Some such objects also appear to have been employed to
ward off the harmful magic of others in order to protect
oneself as much as to harm others. These materials
reflect a social world in which people appear fearful
of the many hostile forces working against them; they
suggest a dangerous and chancy environment which is
probably an accurate assessment of the ancient world at
this time. These objects also reflect an essentially urban
world, a world in which writing and esoteric knowledge
held by only a few are respected and feared in part
because these were not mastered by the vast majority.
In his essay, Georg Luck surveys many terms re-
lated to magic and witchcraft employed by those in
the ancient Mediterranean, mainly Greeks and Romans
but also Jews, Persians, and Egyptians. His essay em-
phasizes how such terms drifted over the entire area
and changed their implications with time and place.
Among the terms he considers in detail are: Aegyptius
(Egyptian but also a sorcerer since Egyptians like other
alien peoples were often suspected of having greater
occult knowledge than one’s own people); agyrtes or
mantis (wizard or diviner), atheos (one who rejects the
gods, that is, one who flouts the standard controlling
beliefs and practices of the civic society), Chaldaeus
(a Chaldean, again reflecting the assumption that alien
people may have especially powerful occult knowledge
and powers), curiositas (curiosity, interest in magic),
dynamis (power), epoide (charm, incantation), fascina-
tio (bewitching), goeteia (witchcraft), mageia (religious
rituals of the exotic Persians, and hence also the term
magus or magician), mystes (one initiated into the Greek
or Egyptian mysteries), necromancy (conjuring up the
dead), pharmakon (drug, remedy, poison, magical sub-
stance), physikos (investigator of natural phenomena, but
also a magician as well as scientist), pianos (a vagabond,
a deceiver), potio (potion), sortiarius (caster of lots, a
diviner), superstitio (fear of higher powers), thauma-
tourgos (miracle worker), theourgia (contact with the
gods through magic in order to make them do one’s
bidding), thytes (sacrificer, wizard). This long and varied
list illustrates both the range and complexity of some
of the terms involved. The English terms which derive
from these suggest how such notions interrelate yet
represent different senses of the unusual and supernat-
ural. Luck goes on to examine, one by one, a wide
range of well-known figures from the classic and ancient
literature which evince supernatural powers that might
be termed magic by some: Circe, Odysseus, Medea,
Deianira, various Hellenized magi, Moses, Solomon,
Orpheus, Pythagoras, Empedocles, Nectanebus, Dido,
Canidia, Jesus, Nigidius Figula, Hecate, Simon Magus,
Apollonius of Tyana, Alexander the False Prophet,
Erichto, and others. We find intercultural borrowing
and transmutation of these figures, their attributes and
signifances over many places and times.
Gordon’s essay observes that for the most part
Greeks and Romans did not recognize a special priestly
class so that no person or group monopolized access
to the supernatural. Consequently, dealings with the su-
pernatural were viewed as either permissable or banned
mainly depending upon how such activities were thought
to affect respect for civic ritual and public order. What
was viewed as marvelous or even wrong came to
be what infringed on the culturally-stated public rules
encouraging social stability. This seems to show the
beginning of our current widespread popular contrast
which equates magic with individual and subversive
activities and religion with the group and public or-
der. According to this train of thinking the minor and
particularistic daimones so long connected to magic
were also seen as inhabiting more narrow spheres, both
beneficial and harmful, as these related to the dead,
to different localities, and to various personal feelings
and needs. Diamones did not cater to group and public
needs and concerns and could be consulted individually,
privately, even secretly. Increasingly personal magic,
as contrasted to familial or civic ritual, was associated
with personalized, less stable, even antisocial elements.
Magic increasingly became the recognized means of
dealing with concerns and fears that might run against
the interest of the public group and daimones began to
be demonized. Furthermore, the night-witch and sorcerer
became associated with malevolent demons and antiso-
cial behaviour. Similarly, magic and illicit control of
demons, antisocial use of supernaturalism, became asso-
ciated with outsiders, with Asians (Chaldeans, Persians,
Jews), with Africans (Egyptians), and with itinerant
strangers. Governments, especially in Imperial Rome,
began to condemn magical practices and magicians
as subversive to the state and periodically persecuted
such persons, sometimes in unwarranted and politically
concocted witch-hunts.
Flint’s essay explores how magic and sorcery in-
creasingly became associated with evil forces often
epitomized as daimones (now demons). This was the
result of Christianity rejecting most such practices as
opposed to the church which claimed exclusive licit
control of all supernatural powers. The earlier con-
demnation by the imperial state (which had supervised
public ritual) was transmuted into condemnation by
the church. Non-Christian beliefs no longer represented
merely alternate cultural solutions to problems but evil
challenges to Christianity itself and hence to the stability
of the general social order which Christianity took as its
charge. Magic and associated demons were described
in fearful terms that eventually would be associated
with Satan. In this sense exorcism of such spirits and
influences became a good form of Christian counter-
magic strikingly similar to the earlier pagan exorcisms
of possessing daimones. This was but one of many
earlier forms of pagan ritual and magic which were
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
225
absorbed and transformed into important features of
early Christian doctrine and practices. Most daimones
were demonized, but some protective beings were now
associated with the Christian God, being considered
angels, saints, and holy men. Flint repeatedly shows
how the attributes of such figures and the ways that
they were treated had roots in these older practices. Flint
describes how magical ideas about auspicious times of
the day, the power of water, recitation of special words,
laying on of hands, making sacred gestures, the power
of being barefoot, the protectiveness of sacred objects,
and the power of omens and signs became features
now of Christian rituals, customs, and lore. Instead
of pagan magicians blessing charioteers and military
combatants or protecting harvests and people’s health,
such services were now provided through the rituals of
the church and the special powers of priests and other
figures. Finally, those condemned beings and practices
which had not been incorporated into the body of the
Christian church continued to serve another ideological
purpose. Now such rejected spirits and practices were
tranformed into demons, witches, into sorcery and evil
magic and consequently could account for the continued
and disturbing presence of misfortune and danger in a
world where mischief continued to occur even though
Christianity had prevailed and sought to sustain order.
It was maintained that these evil forces posed a con-
stant threat; without the continued efforts of Christians
such malevolent supernatural forces might prevail. In
short, Flint describes the eventual transformation of
pagan magical figures and beliefs into the negative and
necessary protagonists with which Christians needed to
struggle and defend themselves. As a primary illus-
tration of this new situation Flint describes the famous
contests in magic between St. Peter and Simon Magus
m which Peter’s superior magic prevails and defeats
Simon. Flint goes on to show how this famous case
repeats the earlier traditions of Moses’ successful magic
battles with Pharaoh’s magicians, Christ’s defeat of the
Etevil during their confrontation in the wilderness, and
the three alien magi’s humbling of themselves before
the infant Jesus’ superior supernatural powers. Finally,
while demons and witches served to account for that
misfortune and suffering that Christians did not want
t° credit either to God or to their own sinfulness,
astrology offered yet another avenue for explaining
aWay misfortune. Yet astrology was a pagan system
less easily assimilated to Christianity though through
the centuries astrology, alchemy, and other forms of
esoteric learning dangerously resembling condemned,
Pagan magic were frequently pulled into semirespectable
sPheres of learning by being considered higher forms of
knowing God’s world. This was not perhaps suitable for
the masses, but it was sometimes considered amenable
t° the powers of esoterically educated intellectuals. Such
speculation remained a risky and controversial sector
but continued after Late Antiquity and into Medieval
ar)d Renaissance thought. Queen Elizabeth I had her
astrologer and magus, John Dee, and even later, Isaac
Newton devoted considerable effort trying to combine
Anthropos 96.2001
astrological understanding with his scientific and reli-
gious beliefs.
This volume is an indispensible collection for anyone
teaching and studying how ideas related to magic, sor-
cery, and witchcraft have affected Western culture and
society. The essays show powerful and striking continui-
ties in thought and action which continue from antiquity
to modern times. These illustrate the immense power
and persistence of such forms of thought and ritual,
both as attempts to control our world and as attempts
to console ourselves and explain away incertitudes and
misfortunes.
In general, the four contributors seem to see their
tasks as ones of surveying, clarifying, and evaluating
the available classical-historical literature and not as
advancing analyses or theory. Such surveys and eva-
luations are essential for us to grasp any broader picture
of how the materials from antiquity fit into any wider
set of anthropological and sociological theories and anal-
yses. All of the writers emphasize the complexity and
difficulties in sociologically/anthropologically defining
terms such as magic, witchcraft, sorcery, and religion.
In this they do a service to readers by repeatedly alerting
them to the constant dangers we face in misusing such
labels. Yet I am disappointed that none of the essays
mentions one crucial anthropological issue lying at the
center of such discussion over terms. I refer to the
old and dubious dichotomy that Durkheim and later
Mauss made between congregational, public religion
and individualistic, private magic. Such a distinction
is misleadingly pursued by all of the essayist here,
perhaps understandably considering how Greeks and
Romans increasingly employed just such a contrast.
Certainly religions such as Christianity, Judaism, Islam,
and Buddhism all condemn magic if this refers to rituals
practised outside the realm of formal religious services.
Yet such a dichotomy obscures an analytical fact. In
anthropology and sociology the label magic refers to the
belief that ritually employed words, activities, and things
may supernaturally affect us and the world around us.
Now this concept pertains to rituals in all religions so in
a sense all religions evince concepts of magical powers
and activities. Of course, those who belief in a religion
simply see these as true and unquestioned notions and
activities not properly subject to skeptical sociological
or anthropological scrutiny. For believers these remain
matters for theology. Furthermore, anthropologists and
sociologists are confronted with the fact that many
religions also acknowledge that condemned forms of
magic may be dangerous and potentially effective, even
though not legitimate. Such magic may thus be acknowl-
edged as real but morally wrong. Yet as another of
Flint’s examples shows, some magic may sometimes
be considered not real, only the product of ignorance.
In this sense, magic becomes the discredited beliefs and
rituals of the superstitious. That is how much magic
is viewed today by many educated people. Thus we
have several issues conflated here, issues which could
be discussed theologically and issues which could be
discussed sociologically and anthropologically. What we
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must not do is present material in such a way that
we tend to confuse which disciplinary analytical hat
we are wearing when we record and analyze. Perhaps
the four contributors should have acknowledged that
magical thinking seems to be part of the cosmology of
all societies, but that only some forms are deemed ac-
ceptable, depending upon the society in question. Some
recognition of these complex and overlapping categori-
zations would have clarified the reportage and analytical
problems involved and would have facilitated our use
of this collection’s data for comparisons with materi-
als from outside Europe and from other time periods.
Lastly, these essays might have been improved by
a good copy editor. Some are at times clumsily or un-
clearly written. It is difficult to be sure how many errors
occur among the huge numbers of citations made. I state
this because the one citation I found odd and did check
proved wrong (Flint’s citation of the Odyssey [282]
is incorrect. Her references to the incidents involving
Elpenor [10.54.61-65] should read [10: 552; 11: 51,57]).
This is an important and valuable contribution to the
study of witchcraft and magic. Anyone interested in the
study of these topics will profit from studying these
materials. My criticisms are minor when compared to
the usefulness of this excellent work.
T. O. Beidelman
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witch-
craft and Magic in Europe. The Eighteenth and Nine-*
teenth Centuries. Philadelphia: University of Pennsyl-
vania Press, 1999. 340 pp. ISBN 0-8122-1706-3. Price:
$ 24.95
This is one of a projected six-volume survey of
witchcraft and magic in Europe. This volume is orga-
nized into a very brief introduction by the two editors
and three broad parts. Each of these three parts consti-
tutes an independent survey consisting of an introduc-
tion, three expository chapters, and a brief conclusion.
This volume also contains an invaluable bibliography
of over 800 citations (though only a dozen of these
are by anthropologists). The underlying and unifying
theme of this volume concerns the fact that witchcraft
prosecutions, convictions, and executions all over Eu-
rope began to decline or even ceased in the eighteenth
century (depending on the country considered) and such
prosecutions totally ended by the nineteenth. This, of
course, does not mean that beliefs in witches and magic
vanished among the general population (many ordinary
people continued to hold such notions even after such
ideas were abandoned by those in control of the law);
furthermore, suspected witches were sometimes perse-
cuted or even lynched by ordinary people, and many still
continued to believe in and practice all kinds of magical
and other supernatural activities and influences.
Part 1 by Brian Levack is entitled “The Decline
and End of Witchcraft Prosecutions.” “This essay
deals only with the later stages of the process when
witch-hunting finally lost its grip on local communi-
ties and when a decline in the number of trials led
to their complete termination” (3). Levack examines
these changing judicidal practices; makes a comparative
survey of changes in witchcraft persecution in five
sample countries, England, Scotland, France, Germany
(Württemberg), Hungary; and considers the gradual de-
criminalizaton of all practices associated with witchcraft
and magic, even though many of these continued to be
characterized as sinful if not illegal. Levack finds that
in Europe the overwhelming number of persecutions
and executions for witchcraft occurred in Germany,
especially in the small states. He argues that this was
because the more conservative and moderate imperial
judiciary was unable to control the more unreasonable
and illtrained local courts responsive to pressures from
local communities. When imperial authorities were able
to cut down on the illegal torture of suspected witches,
the number of confessions and resultant convictions
dropped dramatically. This century saw a widespread
discrediting of torture - not because it was considered
inhumane but because it was recognized to produce
unreliable evidence. Furthermore, as the levels of legal
training of those involved in prosecutions increased,
the flimsiness and irrationality of most accounts of
witchcraft were acknowledged. The Englightenment and
the New Philosophy and rise of science, however, had
very little directly to do with any general decline in
witchcraft prosecution. In short, all over Europe the
decline in witchcraft prosecution stemmed from the top
of the social-political ladder, from authorities in power
and not from the general public.
Levack’s survey of declining prosecution of witches
in five European countries tends to confirm his assertions
about the reasons for that decline, illustrating this in
contrasting accounts from different countries with dif-
ferent legal procedures and organizations. Levack finds
complex factors involved as he examines the inquisitor-
ial and jural systems of trial, noting liberal and reaction-
ary features in both. Unsurprisingly, he finds that close
examination of materials from any one area involves
an interplay of many procedural and organizational
factors, some even contradictory and conflicting with
one another in their effects. The proceedings in France
and England reflect what are probably the most liberal
and “progressive” attitudes toward witchcraft whereas
his accounts of Scotland and Hungary reveal far less
tolerant and flexible societies. In Scotland and Hungary
local courts and communities were poorly controlled by
central governments; Scotland’s particularly unattractive
history of witchcraft persecution and execution is argued
to be rooted in an exceptionally bigotted and intolerant
Protestant church. It is surprising to learn that even
though actual execution of witches has greatly decreased
over much of Europe by the beginning of the eighteenth
century, witchcraft was not actually decriminalized in
France until 1682, Prussia 1714, Great Britain 1736,
Hapsburg Empire 1766, Russia in 1770, Poland in 1776,
and Sweden in 1779.
Part 2 by Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra is entitled “Witch-
craft after the Witch-Trials.” She shows how beliefs
and persecution of witches and practitioners of magic
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
227
continued long after formal legal prosecutions were
abandoned. She describes continuing witchcraft beliefs
and practices in France and the Low Countries. She finds
considerable evidence that beliefs in magical powers
and supernatural beings were widespread among both
laypeople and the clergy. There were numerous local
persecutions often resulting in lynchings. She describes
believers in the supernatural in Mediterranean lands
as more concerned with sexuality and generally more
tolerant than believers further north. In Britain beliefs in
magic, witchcraft, and fairies were especially persistant
among the rural population. In Scandinavia beliefs in
witches were especially slow in dying out, and in
Iceland and Finland witchcraft beliefs were particularly
different from the rest of Europe in that the majority
of accused and convicted witches were men (90 % in
Iceland). In eastern Europe, central Europe, Germany,
and Switzerland fears about witches and preoccupation
with magic persisted far longer and more intensely than
anywhere else. She reports that at late as 1986 a survey
indicated that one third of all Germans actually still
believed that people have negative supernatural powers
to harm others (viz., were witches). Gijswijt-Hofstra
concludes that earlier beliefs in witches and magic are
remarkably persistant everywhere and that it is difficult
to distinguish between beliefs in witchcraft and other
beliefs in magic and the supernatural and that where
such beliefs have ceased to be projected negatively on
others it is because persons are less directly interdepen-
dent upon their neighbours for their everyday needs but
instead depend on more abstract and impersonal social
structures.
Part 3 by Roy Porter is entitled “Witchcraft and Mag-
ic in Enlightenment, Romantic and Liberal Thought.”
Porter’s essay deals almost entirely with literary, reli-
gious, and philosophical works. He shows that educated
people increasingly disparaged beliefs in magic and
witchcraft throughout the eighteenth century. This is not
surprising since his choice of topics inevitably restricts
him to the beliefs of the literate and well-off. There
are, however, striking exceptions such as John Wesley,
fhe founder of Methodism, and William Blackstone, the
distinguished jurist, both highly educated and successful
characters deeply convinced of the reality of witchcraft.
Porter’s discussion of the nineteenth century reports a
recrudescence of beliefs in the supernatural among the
educated: seances, spirit-writing, and animal magnetism.
also describes the increasing use of psychology
and sociology to explain away behaviour and events
formerly explained in terms of witchcraft and magic.
None of the essays in the collection provides any
general or powerful explanations for beliefs in witchcraft
0r the supernatural. Instead, these essays convey a
general sense of the complexity and variety of the vast
historical literature on witchcraft and magic. No one
should read this book in hope of gaining a clearer sense
0l just what magic and witchcraft mean. What a reader
^dl gain is a keener sense of the scope and depth of the
derature available on these topics as well as a superb
mliography. It is true that the three historians whose
Anthropos 96.2001
essays constitute the bulk of the book are not disposed
toward thinking in anthropological or sociological terms.
We get only scant commentary on social organisation
and particular social relations. We get no commentary
on how culture may account for differences in societies
such as those in Iceland, Italy, Hungary, Scotland, and
Russia, societies each manifesting their own peculiar
forms of magic and witchcraft. Finally, the title itself
suggests three broader difficulties. Nowhere is there any
useful discussion of the differences or characteristics of
witchcraft, sorcery, magic, and other related terms and
practices. Despite the title, this survey does not cover
all of Europe both because not all of Europe is well
reported (eastern Europe, Portugal, Ireland, the Balkans,
for example, are poorly reported) and because none of
the contributors and probably no one is proficient in all
of the relevant languages in which materials may be
available. This is not, however, to diminish the truly
wide geographical and historic breadth of what is re-
ported. Finally, scholarly skills, especially those relevant
to sociology and anthropology, are not well developed
or appreciated in all scholarly circles in Europe, even to-
day. Consequently it is not possible to treat recorded and
analyzed materials as being all of comparable value or
significance, even when reported. For all these reasons,
terms like “witchcraft” and “magic” and an area such as
“Europe” seem somewhat misleading in the general title.
Readers narrowly interested in any anthropological
approach to witchcraft or magic may be disappointed in
this strictly historically descriptive survey volume. Even
so, the study of magic and witchcraft remains central to
much anthropological thought; consequently few social
anthropologists can read this without some benefit and
no one interested in the general study of belief and
religion can afford to ignore it. This is an indispensible
scholarly tool. T. O. Beidelman
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.): Witch-
craft and Magic in Europe. The Twentieth Century.
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999.
244 pp. ISBN 0-8122-1707-1. Price: $ 24.95
This is one of six proposed volumes which will
survey the history of witchcraft and magic in Europe
(only three have so far appeared). This volume consists
of a very short introduction by the two editors (vii-xii)
which repeats some points made by the three contribu-
tors, and three long essays: 1) Roland Hutton: Modern
Pagan Witchcraft (1-79), 2) Jean La Fontaine: Satanism
and Satanic Mythology (81-140), and 3) Willem de
Blecourt: The Witch, Her Victim, the Unwitcher and
the Researcher. The Continued Existence of Traditional
Witchcraft (141-219). There is also a useful bibliogra-
phy of 280 items, over 30 by anthropologists. Of the
three essayists, only La Fontaine is a social anthropol-
ogist (she earlier did fieldwork in Africa), but all the
contributors have had extensive experience interviewing
pagans or professed witches and bewitched in modern
Europe.
Ronald Hutton’s excellent essay surveys the rise of
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modern paganism in western Europe and America. He
notes that “when a historian considers the phenomenon
of modem pagan witchcraft... It is England which is
the heartland, exporting ideas and practices to the rest
of the British Isles and of [sic] Europe, and (above
all) to North America” (1). Hutton argues that the
“well-spring” for contemporary European paganism is
Scottish sixteenth-century Freemasonry. This eventually
spread to the rest of Britain and then France, Germany,
and elsewhere during the eighteenth century. By the
nineteenth century such beliefs were taken up by royalty
and intellectuals (e. g., all subsequent British kings were
Freemasons as were all American presidents before
Kennedy). Other secret societies were based on the Ma-
sonic model. These groups made dubious claims of de-
scent from mystical knowledge and societies of the past,
from Egyptians, Druids, and others. Later, Theosophists
claimed common mystical and symbolic roots with all
religions including Buddhism and Hinduism. While the
new occult societies appealed to the educated, “cunning
people” and beliefs and magic continued among the
uneducated rural folk of Britain and Europe. From the
eighteenth century onward European romanticism glo-
rified ancient pagan Greece and Rome and encouraged
renewed interest in pagan Celtic, Norse, and Germanic
myth. Some associated paganism with a mother religion
which was claimed to have once dominated Europe.
Scholars such as Jules Michelet, Laurence Gomme, and
Margaret Alice Murray claimed that a pagan religion
had persisted underground until now. Murray’s ideas
were given popularity by Gerald Gardner’s “Witchcraft
Today” (1954). Hutton provides a history of various
British promoters of witchcraft powers including the
notorious and colourful Aleister Crowley and other
flamboyant characters. In 1951 neopaganism was made
easier when Parliament repealed the long unenforced
1738 Witchcraft Act thereby allowing self-proclaimed
witches to advertise and openly hold meetings. During
these changes the terms witch and pagan changed their
meanings, no longer necessarily connoting allegiance to
evil.
In the 1970s and 1980s witchcraft literature became
popular in America, becoming associated with ideas
about individualistic freedom to devise one’s own be-
liefs, rituals, and lifestyle. One prominant American
practitioner was Starhawk, a California feminist who
linked witchcraft to feminism by associating witchcraft
to beliefs in a primal mother force which had supposedly
been long suppressed by a male chauvinistic political
and religious conspiracy. Starhawk glorified the poetic
imagination, presenting a dubious historical account of
the mythic past. In contrast, another feminist, Margot
Adler, argued that the notion of an earth mother god-
dess and a surviving primal pagan wicca religion were
useful pseudo-history. While not true, these remained
valuable inspirations for a new women’s movement. The
anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann published a sympathetic
account of English paganists which added scholarly
respectability to the movement (see my review of T. M.
Luhrmann, Persuasions of the Witch’s Craft. Oxford
1989. Anthropos 1990: 621-623). An anthropologist
teaching at an American university published a mono-
graph describing her own experiences as a self-pro-
claimed witch (see my review of L. Orion, Never Again
Burning Times. Prospect Heights 1995. Anthropos 1995:
633 f.). Today pagan witchcraft groups invent their own
ideas and rituals reflecting aesthetic and emotional self-
realization, sexual equality, and a pantheistic oneness
with nature. These select bits (out of context) from
a worldwide array of religions and myths to produce
a do-it-yourself set of rituals and cosmologies. Hutton
reports that today such groups number many thousands.
Academic conferences on neopaganism have been held
at King’s College London (1999), Newcastle University
(1994), and Lancaster (1996). Pagan chaplains serve at
some British universities; witches appear on television
talkshows and provide materials on the internet. In 1989
a pagan ceremony was held in Canterbury Cathedral
(68) and in 1973 the government of Iceland officially
recognized Nordic paganism as a religion (111). Hutton
presents a sympathetic and informative picture of these
movements, showing how the meanings and implica-
tions of the new paganism or witchcraft have become
important topics for social enquiry.
In the second essay Jean La Fontaine surveys con-
temporary European groups that venerate Satan. These
emphasize rebellion against conventional morality and
pursuit of personal desire, though in fact they appear
surprisingly conventional in their adherance to rules and
organization. Some are polytheistic and some emphasize
the Mother Goddess featured in other forms of neo-
paganism. Many are racist and subscribe to right-wing
politics. In general, they appear far less interesting than
the neopagans described by Hutton.
La Fontaine also surveys the beliefs held by fun-
damentalist Protestant Christians who have demonized
Satanic cults and credited them with a wide range
of immoral acts, especially molestation and killing of
children. Such unsubstantiated phantasies are shown to
resemble the earlier delusions of Christians who ascribed
similar abuses to Jews, witches, homosexuals, and other
social outsiders. Surprisingly, La Fontaine makes little
effort to relate these materials to any anthropological or
sociological theory.
In the third essay Blecourt recounts the different
types of evidence available for the study of modern-day
witchcraft. This is organized along the broad themes of
material from folklorists, journalists, criminologists, and
anthropologists. English, German, Dutch, and French
sources are used. Blecourt sorts these materials out
by categories such as gendered legends, witchcraft in
lawcourts, the evil eye, and the culture of witchcraft. He
also provides short accounts of several witchcraft cases
in the Netherlands, France, and Germany. This essay
is not clearly written and is presented in a rambling
manner. A good copy editor who was a native English
speaker might have improved this. It does, however,
contain much varied information and many suggestions
as to how future researchers might investigate modern
witchcraft and magic.
Anthropos 96.2001
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229
Hutton’s essay is the most original and informative
of the three essays, but all three of these provide useful
surveys of witchcraft, magic, and neopaganism in some
areas of western Europe. They are not, however, com-
prehensive surveys of such materials for all of Europe,
and their contribution is one of survey and bibliography
and not analysis and theory. Even so, this is essential
reading for those interested in these topics.
T. O. Beidelman
Barendse, R. J.: The Arabian Seas, 1640-1700.
Leiden: Research School CNWS, 1998. 465 pp. ISBN
90-5789-009-7. Price: hfl 60.00
This is an irritating book and that for several reasons.
Even for a nonnative speaker the author’s English often
causes pain. Grammar and syntax are not the author’s
best friends. Inventing new words (e.g., receival) can be
called creative only when they are better than existing
ones; otherwise it is lax or droll or both. “The archives
consulted can be found in the abbreviations” (iv), but
these “Abbreviations” (i-iii) are a stumbling block: far
from offering detailed information these pages make one
doubt the author’s stay in what he calls - in Portuguese
- the “Bibliotheca (sic) National (sic), Lisbon (sic).”
There is also no double-t nor a c-cedilla preceding an
“i” in Portuguese. Misprints are legion (e.g., viragem
for viagem, frz. origins for origines, marchants for
marchands, even in the author’s native language: enige
for eenige). The “échelles” were in those times more
often called “escalas.” The author - as a service to the
reader? - dispenses “with providing a full bibliography”
and “full-fledged scholarly references.” Networks have
threads, and only occasionally “threats” (1). On map 1
(like all others badly drawn and without scale) the South
China Sea is to the northeast of Taiwan, Bencoolen
seems to be a nickname for Singapore, and the Banda
tslands are located north of Ambon. There is no list of
maps nor a list of the oddly numbered tables. The index
ts of limited usefulness. Looking up Van Leur on pages
tv and 105, as indicated in the index, is in vain. Goitein,
the important scholar, is mentioned in the text but does
not appear in the index. You will not find Andre Gunder
Prank in the index, not even sub Andre. Barendse might
not have been able to include Brouwer’s excellent book
°n 17th c. Mukhâ (1997) into his text, but not to have
the town nor “Yemen” nor Brouwer’s earlier work on
the Dutch East India Company in Jemen (1988; 1989)
nor Brouwer’s name in the index may have lead to the
unprofessional remark that “there are very few studies
°n the Yemen” (7).
But why not recover from these vexing technicalities
Py turning to the content of the book, a comparison
°t “the various European states active in the Arabian
Seas, studying their institutions, their organization of
official and private trade, and the relation between the
4ate and its servants” (3). But there comes an early
Earning that “this essay ... [is] a cruise across the
0ceanic seas with long pauses at the ports to inhale
lhe local atmosphere” (6). In chapter 2, entitled “Ports
Anthropos 96.2001
and Hinterland,” the author acts as Cicerone through the
Arabian seas, starting in the Persian Gulf, sailing around
Arabia and into the Red Sea, and then taking the reader
to the west coast of India, thus portraying the towns and
ports of trade which make up the central network of the
area. Although the author stresses the importance of the
hinterland in writing a maritime history of the Indian
Ocean (9) and in spite of the title of this chapter not
much is said about the hinterland and definitely nothing
systematic.
Barendse informs us about the natio, a concept
covering about the same as the Turkish millet and
used to describe groups of merchants under separate
jurisdiction. Differences between European natio and
local ones are presented, but this would have been clear
just by avoiding to apply the term natio to both groups.
As is the case in almost all parts of the book - and
intentionally so - information within a few paragraphs is
on Persia and Cochin, on Surat and Mokhá, on Muscat
and Diu thus providing the reader with small bits of
knowledge without arriving at a more general picture.
Thus the reader is confronted with a vast amount of
anecdotes, in the philological sense of the word. Some
information on women, the “Caryatids of Empire,” some
information on freebooters, under which entry slaves are
briefly mentioned, some information on desertion. But
the very brief kind of summary of all these pieces of
information, namely that there was no social cleavage
between Europeans and natives, but between “the hum-
ble and the mighty, serfs and masters,” is nothing more
than what we knew since Tomé Pires and through Van
Leur’s work.
Van Leur is at the beginning of chapter 5, “The
Merchants’ World,” and Barendse undertakes to tell us
what Van Leur intended to say. Van Leur cannot defend
himself. Much more interesting is what Barendse has to
tell about credit systems and brokers. That he is on the
line of secondary literature which already was used by
other authors and which he did not want to rely upon is
another matter.
One cannot but think of possible readers of this book.
They either stop reading it because the constant flitting
from here to there and from Steensgard to the Kerala
pepper trade makes them weary, or they start writing an
index of their own. And this would make sense, since
Barendse presents a universe of data which one might
be looking for. But who, interested, e.g., in metal work,
would read through this card index, where almost every
paragraph has a number at its very end referring to an
article or a book, to find some interesting material on
smithies on page 39 and 174, while neither smithies nor
iron nor blacksmiths nor metallurgy are in the index?
“Coromandel” is; and on page 174 we learn that 400.000
lb iron were imported from there. Most probably it was
imported to Kerala, from where “the rice-trade ... was
exported” (173).
More consistent is the chapter on the Estado da India
and its politics. However, the material is known to a
greater part to those who absorbed Boxer and Steensgard
and others, because quite a number of the “unpublished
230
Rezensionen
materials” (back cover) were already published. The
same holds true for the chapters on the VOC and the
EIC.
In the “Afterthoughts” there is a debate about the
beginning of the modern world system. But who is
interested in the view of the author on when this system
started? After reading Frank’s “ReOrient” there is no
need to go into this debate. No doubt: there is much
interesting material in this book (which, although never
mentioned, is a descendant of the Dutch thesis published
in 1991), and many stories are told in a lively manner.
But this book remains irritating as it is a quarry with
only little help to arrive at what is promised on the
cover, i.e., that “for all obvious differences between
regions and localities, the author manages to bring out
the basic unity of the Arabian Seas.”
Wolfgang Marschall
Beaujard, Philippe: Dictionnaire Malgache-Fran-
çais. Dialecte Tanala, Sud-Est de Madagascar. Avec
recherches étymologiques. Paris: Editions L’Harmattan,
1998. 891 pp. ISBN 2-7384-6460-2.
Le “Dictionnaire Malgache-Français” élaboré par
Philippe Beaujard est en fait un dictionnaire du dialecte
Tanala. Les mots et exemples de phrases qu’il contient
sont relevés de récits et discours recueillis par l’auteur
pendant ses séjours chez les Tanala de l’Ikongo, au
Sud-Est de Madagascar (5 ans de séjours entre 1971
et 1995).
Le dictionnaire commence par une introduction sur la
phonétique et la grammaire du Malgache, et du dialecte
Tanala en particulier (7-56). Cette introduction, qui
paraît assez détaillée et instructive, se repartit en trois
chapitres, l’un sur “le matériel phonique” (8-18), le
deuxième sur les “mots et classes de mots” (18-47),
et le dernier sur les “énoncés” (47-56).
Les “sources du dictionnaire” sont bien spécifiées
(57), sa présentation précisément décrite (58-65). L’ap-
proche qu’a choisie l’auteur, de la présentation des
mots d’après leurs racines (méthode de R. Blust 1988),
demande un peu d’habitude à qui consulte le dictionnaire
- les verbes étant, dans d’autres dictionnaires malgaches,
le plus souvent présentés sous leur forme active -,
mais elle peut certainement contribuer à rendre plus
intelligibles les structures de la langue ainsi que des
affinités à d’autres langues apparentées. L’auteur a, en
plus, effectué des recherches étymologiques sur les mots
figurant dans son dictionnaire.
La bibliographie (65-71), structurée selon les dif-
férents champs d’études concernés, fait une bonne im-
pression.
Le dictionnaire propre (73-891) contient plus que
6000 entrées. Sous chaque radical, on trouve ses di-
verses formes dérivées, des expressions composées ou
idiomatiques, des exemples de phrases, tirés des corpus
de récits et discours à partir desquels le dictionnaire est
construit. L’occurence d’un mot dans d’autres diction-
naires malgaches est indiquée. Pour une bonne partie
des entrées, l’auteur a réussi à relever les étymologies
ou à faire des rapprochements avec d’autres langues, ce
qui rend le dictionnaire très utile à qui s’intéresse aux
origines complexes de la langue malgache (y sont cités
plus que 200 langues et dialectes austronésiens, et 38
langues et dialectes africains dont 13 dialectes swahili).
Souvent, si un mot fait partie d’un dicton ou pro-
verbe, celui-ci est donné, traduit et interpreté (p.ex. sous
le mot kankàfo: “Enon-drakankafo, omaly tsy miova,
‘Cri de l’oiseau kankafo, il ne change pas de se qu’il
était hier’ [on ne revient pas sur une parole donnée]”,
389). Avec ses traductions, surtout des expressions
composées, l’auteur fournit des détails ethnographiques
qui témoignent d’une connaissance acquise pendant des
longs séjours dans le terrain (p.ex. “volada lo, vola
lo: ‘lune pourrie’, éclipse de lune. En cas d’éclipse
de lune, une femme enceinte devait aller se baigner,
habillée [pour que la grossesse se déroule bien]”, 859).
De nombreux noms de végétaux sont inclus dans le
dictionnaire, avec leurs déterminations botaniques, et
leurs emplois bien spécifiés (on suppose que l’auteur
en a fait collection, mais l’origine des déterminations
n’est pas indiquée).
Parfois, on dirait que dans les traductions les nuances
de signification ne sont pas très bien saisies, ou qu’on
n’y trouve pas toutes les significations possibles (p.ex.
mivàndy, mavàndy, souvent utilisé dans le sens de “in-
venter, raconter des histoires” est traduit tout simple-
ment par “mentir”, p. 816; pour le mot tambàvy, on
trouve bien la traduction “qui n’accouche que de filles,
qui n’a que des filles pour enfants”, mais pas celle, tout
au moins aussi courante, de “maladie transmise par la
mère à l’enfant” ou “remède contre une telle maladie”,
p. 681; sihànaka fait entrée comme nom d’une plante
médicinale sans qu’il y ait mention du fait que c’est
aussi le nom d’une ethnie de Madagascar, p. 643).
Somme toute, il est évident que l’auteur a réalisé un
travail énorme - il faut se rendre compte qu’il y existent
peu d’ouvrages sur les dialectes de l’est de Madagascar
et que presque un quart des radicaux présents dans son
dictionnaire ne se retrouvent pas dans d’autres diction-
naires malgaches. Etant la première description aussi
complète du dialecte Tañala, ce dictionnaire constitue
une contribution très valable à l’ensemble de connais-
sances de la langue malgache. Les étymologies bien
documentées, les exemples d’expressions et de phrases,
l’introduction grammaticale et les explications détaillées
le rendent utile à tout malgachisant et même à tout
linguiste intéressé par d’autres langues austronésiennes.
Christine Paulsen
Beaujard, Philippe: Le parler secret arabico-mal-
gâche du Sud-Est du Madagascar. Recherches étymo-
logiques. Paris: Editions L’Harmattan, 1998. 165 pp-
ISBN 2-7384-6794-6.
L’influence arabe a été considérable surtout dans
le Sud-Est de Madagascar. Les contacts prolongés des
malgaches avec des marchands arabes ont marqué la
médicine, la divination et l’astrologie de T île entière.
L’existence d’un véritable argot arabico-malgache qui
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
231
persiste jusqu’à nos jours chez les Antaimoro, ethnie du
Sud-Est, est moins connue.
Philippe Beaujard réunit dans son livre sur “Le parler
secret arabico-malgache du Sud-Est de Madagascar”
quelque sept cents termes de cet argot, recueillis au clan
Anakara, clan noble “pour une part détenteur du pouvoir
religieux dans l’ancien royaume antemoro, spécialiste
des phénomènes célestes” (5). Il y présente un parler
qui est transmis et par l’orale et par l’écrit, et dont
l’existence est étroitement liée au système d’écriture en
caractères arabes sorabe, pratiqué chez les Antaimoro
dès le XVe siècle. On trouve, dans des manuscrits sorabe
anciens et récents, des petits lexiques malgaches-arabes
ou, plutôt, malgaches-kalamo tetsitetsy comme est ap-
pelé le parler que décrit M. Beaujard.
Le livre commence par une introduction sur les publi-
cations antérieures concernant le kalamo tetsitetsy, puis
l’auteur nous donne quelques caractéristiques générales
de ce “pidgin arabico-malgache” (c’est ainsi qu’il le
qualifie; l’appellation d’argot me paraît pourtant plus
justifiée; 5-8). Le kalamo tetsitetsy est un langage secret
gardé par certains groupes nobles Antaimoro. Une partie
assez limitée de son vocabulaire est partagée par tous les
membres de la communauté dans laquelle il est parlé,
quelques mots d’origine arabe se sont répandus dans tout
Madagascar, mais la plus grande partie du vocabulaire
n’est connue qu’à quelques initiés (7). La grammaire du
kalamo tetsitetsy suit entièrement celle du malgache (8).
L’auteur, qui s’est consacré entièrement aux recherches
étymologiques, ne donne, dans son livre, aucun exemple
de phrase parlée ou écrite en kalamo tetsitetsy. Le lecteur
aura donc du mal à s’imaginer comment fonctionne ce
parler. Y-a-t-il mélange entre malgache et argot? Des
expressions d’origine arabe, sont elles insérées dans des
phrases malgaches? Si l’on manque d’informations sur
ce point, celles sur les étymologies sont d’autant plus
riches. En fait, l’auteur a réussi à déterminer l’origine
de 89 % des mots recueillis, et il donne, pour chacun de
ces mots, une documentation assez détaillée (lexique,
41-154).
La plûpart du matériel lexical est, évidemment, d’o-
rigine arabe (“70 % du matériel lexical total, et 78 % du
matériel lexical dont l’étymologie a pu être déterminée”,
9). Beaujard explique comment les lettres arabes sont
Prononcées en kalamo tetsitetsy, et comment les mots
arabes sont adaptés à la phonétique du malgache, ou
même pourvus de préfixes et suffixes malgaches (9-
18). Le lecteur trouvera aussi une liste de mots d’origine
arabe qui sont connus dans d’autres régions de Mada-
gascar ou même sur toute l’île (18-21). Fait curieux:
une bonne partie des mots arabes entrés dans le kalamo
tetsitetsy se retrouve en swahili (236 sur 520) ou en
malais (204 sur 520). Un passage par une de ces langues
Paraît pourtant peu probable pour la plûpart des mots
c°ncernés (21).
Il s’ensuit l’énumération des langues autres que
1 arabe qui ont contribué au vocabulaire du kalamo tetsi-
tet$y. La présence de 15 ou 16 termes d’origine persane
Paraît particulièrement intéressante, comme on en sait
assez peu sur les influences persanes à Madagascar (22s.,
Anthropos 96.2001
31s.). Il n’y a que trois mots dans le vocabulaire examiné
pour lesquels une origine swahili a pu être établi, mais il
existe un certain nombre de termes arabes dont la forme
indique qu’ils pourraient être passés par le swahili. Un
ou deux mots sont d’origine comorienne, et deux autres
mots dérivent probablement du shona et du makwa.
De nombreux mots malgaches sont entrés dans le
kalamo tetsitetsy après avoir subi un changement de sens
ou de forme “par des procédés de codage analogues à
ceux que l’on trouve dans l’argot français” (25), ou,
parfois, en association aux termes d’origine arabe.
Le nombre de termes originaires d’autres langues est
plûtot négligeable, et leur étymologie parfois incertaine:
deux mots d’origine malaise ou indonésienne, un mot
qui pourrait dériver d’une langue dravidienne, un mot
qui est peut-être d’origine anglaise et un mot qui dérive
du français.
Dans sa conclusion (31-36), l’auteur fait remarquer
comment le vocabulaire du kalamo tetsitetsy est spéciali-
sé. La majorité des mots recueillis relève du vocabulaire
des devins-guérisseurs (p.ex. parties du corps, termes
astrologiques, termes en rapport avec les maladies et
la guérison, termes qui désignent des plantes et des
animaux). Il mentionne aussi que le kalamo tetsitetsy
a subi un certain appauvrissement dû aux phénomènes
d’acculturation étrangère (implantation du christianisme,
déclin du royaume antaimoro...) sans pourtant être
menacé d’extinction comme l’ont cru certains auteurs
(35). Nous sommes présentés avec l’hypothèse, avancée
par A. Adelaar, selon laquelle l’écriture en caractères
arabes sorabe serait venue à Madagascar via l’Indonésie
(34). L’essai est terminé par une bibliographie (36-39).
Le “Lexique du parler arabico-malgache et étymo-
logies” apparaît aux annexes mais occupe en fait la
plus grande partie du livre (41-154). C’est la liste des
707 mots du kalamo tetsitetsy recueillis par l’auteur,
avec leurs traductions malgaches et françaises et leurs
étymologies respectives. Les mots arabes y sont donnés,
et en lettres arabes et transcrits selon le système de H.
Wehr (A Dictionary of Modem Written Arabie. New
York 1976).
Les “Annexes II” contiennent des photocopies avec
transcriptions de deux pages de manuscrits sorabe dif-
férents qui comportent chacune un lexique arabico-mal-
gache. L’un d’eux traite des noms de plantes cultivées
ou comestibles, l’autre des différentes parties du corps
(155-163).
Avec son livre sur le kalamo tetsitetsy, Philippe
Beaujard nous a procuré un travail bien fondé sur une
tradition ancienne - et déjà fixée dans des documents
anciens -, mais qui reste bien vivante et qui continue à
évoluer. Christine Paulsen
Bickel, Balthasar, and Martin Gaenszle (eds.): Hi-
malayan Space. Cultural Horizons and Practices. Zürich:
Vôlkerkundemuseum 1999. 279 pp. ISBN 3-909105-36-
X.
The papers collected in this volume use various
linguistic and cultural data to analyze relations between
232
Rezensionen
physical space and its representations in seven different
communities in Nepal. Evidence is drawn from ordinary
language use, grammar, everyday practices (including
the organizations of domestic and urban space), and
most prominently from ritual oral texts (verbal journeys
performed by shamans or tribal priests providing the
major source of data for four of the seven contributions).
Overall, a major conclusion that can be drawn from
the volume is that spatial conceptualizations, expres-
sions, cultural horizons, and the practices informed
by those horizons all differ considerably in different
communities, challenging, as has a growing body of
anthropological literature, Kantian assumptions of the
universality of spatialization.
The volume begins with a brief account by its editors,
Balthasar Bickel and Martin Gaenszle, of the (primarily
Durkheimian) anthropological legacy regarding symbol-
ic classification systems and their expression in ritual
practice, connecting these traditional issues to the papers
that follow and showing the incremental theoretical
and ethnographic progress that each author achieves.
This is followed by the most Durkheimian contribution,
Gérard Toffin’s “Spatial Categories of the Newars of the
Kathmandu Valley: The Inside - Outside Opposition,”
one of the best essays in the volume. As the essay’s title
suggests, Toffin is concerned with how the dichotomy of
inside/outside appears at different levels and in various
forms in urban Newari society. His analysis ranges from
the Newari vocabulary of space through the structures
of homes, temples, and settlements. Toffin delineates
the content of the pervasive inside/outside distinction in
each context using patterns occurring in diverse types
of rituals that he has observed. Key to each iteration
is the prevalent South Asian theme of the mandala, a
miniature reproduction of the universe that diagrammat-
ically unifies mind, body, and cosmos. Mandalas repre-
sent the extreme conjunction of two distinct ways that
space may be represented, geomorphically (based on the
landscape), and physiomorphically (based on the human
body). Of course, this ideal unity tends to collapse into
its constituent parts, and it neglects still other forms
of spatial representation. These limitations are well
documented in Michael Oppitz’s “Cardinal Directions in
Magar Mythology.” Oppitz suggests that a society may
simultaneously employ several differing constructions
of space, each with varying cultural values, each with
unequal degrees of coherency. He concludes that, for
the Magar of Western Nepal specifically, there may
be “tribal” versions of mandala-like concentric circle
space conceptions in place alongside territorial concep-
tions that emphasize sacred features of the surrounding
landscape. For any outside observer, of course, the most
immediately striking aspect of the Himalayan landscape
is its verticality, a quality that requires esoteric vi-
sualization training to appreciate in two dimensional
mandalas. It is therefore not surprising to see that
mandala-like patterns may not adequately express all the
features of space important to Himalayan communities.
The specific issue of verticality is explored in the vol-
ume’s most linguistically rigorous contribution, Karen
Ebert’s “The Up - Down Dimension in Rai Grammar
and Mythology.” Ebert analyses the way this fundamen-
tal quality of the landscape, its “altitudinal dimension,”
as she prefers to call it, is inscribed in grammars
and displayed in everyday speech. Comparing Thulung,
Bantawa, and Camling material, Ebert demonstrates how
these languages include a grammatical category for spa-
tial reference, with markers for “up(hill),” “down(hill),”
and “across/traverse” inclinations. Not only do these lan-
guages have adverbs that indicate the altitudinal level,
but relative altitude is also marked (in the mythological
recitations, at least) in demonstratives and locatives, an
aspect unique among the world’s languages. Verticality
is also the main theme of Martin Gaenszle’s “Travel-
ling Up - Travelling Down: The Vertical Dimension
in Mewahang Rai Ritual Journeys,” which concludes,
probably with no pun intended, that “there is a high
degree of convergence between the cosmological no-
tions as expressed in the oral tradition and the linguistic
resources of both ordinary and ritual language” (159).
One essay whose title provides a concise summary to
its thesis is András Hofer’s “Nomen est numen: Notes on
the Verbal Journey in Some Western Tamang Oral Ritual
Texts.” Demonstrating that place-name enumeration is
basically a ritual technique to reduce distance, “putting
the individual participant in a position to re-define and
re-create the nexus of points, spheres, boundaries, and
stages himself’ (205), Hofer shows that by uttering a
place-name, the performer appropriates the power of that
site, hence, nomen est numen.
Although the editors suggest, rightly, that the rela-
tionships connecting categories to actions and texts to
performance have become major issues in the analysis of
both ritual practices and of cultural patterns manifested
in language, there is disappointingly little such analysis
in this volume. A partial exception is Balthasar Bickel’s
contribution, “Cultural Formalism and Spatial Language
in Belhara,” which adds “ecomorphic” (based on the
environment) and “aristomorphic” (based on social im-
portance) spatial representation systems to the picture.
Nevertheless, it is the up/down of the landscape that
remains the most prominent spatial property found in
both Belhare culturally formalized activities and every-
day language.
Other than in Bickel’s essay, non-ritual practices and
the pragmatic spatial considerations of daily life tend to
be neglected, perhaps because they are much more diffi-
cult to document or less intrinsically interesting than are,
for example, verbal journeys or mythological recitations
performed in ritual contexts. Since all but one of these
papers (Pettigrew’s very short ethnographic account of a
politicized Tamu-mai [usually referred to as “Gurung”]
shamanic “soul journey” being the exception) were
originally presented at a workshop sponsored by the
Cognitive Anthropology Group at the Max-Planck-Insti-
tute for Psycholinguistics in 1995, it is surprising that so
little cognitive science appears in these papers. There is
likewise slight discussion of philosophical appreciations
of space in general, and little attempt to explore the
phenomenology of everyday experiences of Himalayan
Anthropos 96.2001
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233
space in particular. Another shortcoming of the volume
is the scant attention that each author pays to other
contributions. Only Hofer’s essay solidly incorporates
such readings into his analysis, while the volume could
have been considerably enhanced had it incorporated
responses and discussions between all the contributors.
Attractive landscape photographs are inserted between
the chapters, but their relation, if any, to the volume, is
left unexplained. Given that representation of space is
the central theme of this volume, the few maps included
are unsatisfactory: that showing the location in Nepal
of groups discussion in the volume, on pages 28-29,
shifts Magar, Newar, and Tamu-mai areas too far to
the north, while that on page 141 of Gaenszle’s article
omits several key places discussed in his analysis. The
index has a strong bias toward the articles by the book’s
editors and is less satisfactory as a guide to the other
contributions. Despite these flaws, the volume is a wel-
come contribution to Himalayan studies, validating with
considerable ethnographical detail earlier impressions
that the cultural horizons and practices associated with
Himalayan space have significant value and warrant
extended study. Gregory G. Maskarinec
Boyd, Robert: The Coming of the Spirit of Pes-
tilence. Introduced Infectious Diseases and Population
Decline among Northwest Coast Indians, 1774-1874.
Vancouver: UBC Press; Seattle: University of Washing-
ton Press, 1999. 405 pp. ISBN 0-7748-0755-5; ISBN
0-295-97837-6. Price: $ 50.00
Robert Boyd’s book, a substantial revision of his
1985 Ph.D. dissertation at the University of Washington,
is a masterly study of historical epidemiology and de-
mography on the Northwest Coast. Boyd has examined
these issues carefully for the past two decades. For those
who are familiar with Boyd’s previous work, and have
used his data in their own analyses, the publication
of this book is an important event in Northwest Coast
bibliography.
The strengths of Boyd’s work on disease history
are many. His mastery of many, often obscure, sources
bespeaks decades of intensive work in the archives. He
is especially knowledgeable on the southern Northwest
Coast and the Columbia River drainage, but, unlike
most Northwest Coast scholars who limit themselves
to one side of the international border, Boyd’s knowl-
edge of the data on British Columbia and Alaska is
also impressive. He is particularly strong on the fur
traders’ archives, but shows a familiarity with accounts
of explorers, travelers, missionaries, and early scholars
and scientists, as well as newspaper accounts. He really
cannot be faulted for ignoring any significant source of
information. His grasp of the theoretical models of dis-
ease history and ecology, demography, and social orga-
nization is likewise faultless. Although his main concern
|s to present empirical data on disease and demography,
tt is placed within the context of a sophisticated under-
standing of the dynamics of disease-caused depopula-
tion, and its interaction with social and cultural factors.
Anthropos 96.2001
v
Boyd is concerned to show how aboriginal groups
responded to the repeated assault of communicable
disease. Although some such diseases were native to
the New World, the vast majority of them arose in dense
Old World communities, whose populations as a result
developed resistance to them. New World populations
had no such resistance, and so morbidity and mortality
rates for imported disease were astronomical. The most
important diseases in this regard were smallpox, malaria,
and measles. Boyd sees average population loss from
the earliest postcontact figures (such as those collected
by Lewis and Clark in 1805-06) to late-nineteenth-
century population nadirs to be between eighty and
ninety percent. Moreover, if one takes into account
the smallpox epidemic that Boyd believes, with good
evidence, to have ravaged the southern Northwest Coast
in 1775, then the figures are even greater. The greatest
of these killers was smallpox, which arrived twice
in the nineteenth century, delivering severe blows to
populations, and causing the extinction of many local
groups. Smallpox was, in effect, aided in its grim task
by measles and other diseases that affected primarily
children. It is worth pointing out here that Boyd tends
to use fairly conservative population estimates, such as
those of Douglas Ubelaker. This may not settle well with
the radicals in this debate, but it certainly puts to rest
any criticism that Boyd may be exaggerating the degree
of population decline.
Population loss of this scale and precipitousness is
bound to have a profound impact on culture. (Culture
was, of course, not merely a passive element in the
spread of disease, which frequently traveled along spe-
cific sociological paths, and was exacerbated by eth-
nomedical practices, such as sweating and cold bathing.)
For some groups, especially in British Columbia, the
mortality actually contributed to a cultural efflorescence,
at least in ceremonial life. The Haida, for example,
carved scores of mortuary poles during the periods
after the two nineteenth-century smallpox epidemics. As
Helen Codere observed for the Kwakiutl, the potlatch
system was made more dynamic by both the infusion of
wealth and the number of vacant positions to be obtained
through potlatching. However, other effects may more
easily be interpreted as examples of loss and decline.
Boyd borrows the concept of devolution from Elman
Service to explain what happened to many groups facing
profound depopulation. Social organization - seen in
things such as marriage rules and status structures -
often becomes simpler and more flexible in the face
of population reduction, as it becomes impossible to
find the genealogically correct marriage partner or of-
ficeholder. Even “core” cultural patterns can change,
as certain subsistence tasks (e.g., whaling) may be too
complex or too marginally productive to engage in
any longer. More commonly discussed is the question
of belief systems, which are especially vulnerable to
disruption due to disease. The sheer loss of population
meant that many ritual experts died without passing their
knowledge on. Moreover, disease itself was seen as a
spiritual force, which seemed to mock native ritualists.
234
Rezensionen
Their power and credibility was seriously undermined,
causing many groups, such as the Heiltsuk, to look
elsewhere for spiritual power. This gave the missionaries
their opening. Indeed, the key historical effect of disease
mortality was probably the shift in power that occurred
between aboriginal and Euro-American groups. One
interesting point that Boyd makes is that both groups
at times explicitly viewed disease as a sort of power
exercised by Whites over Indians. Whether it involved
deliberate infection, the opportune depopulation of ab-
original villages situated in prime land, or the acceptance
of vaccination along with the accompanying beliefs, the
appearance of disease was the critical factor in history
of White-Indian relations on the Northwest Coast.
Michael Harkin
Byer, Doris: Der Fall Hugo A. Bernatzik. Ein Leben
zwischen Ethnologie und Öffentlichkeit, 1897-1953.
Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 1999. 456 pp. ISBN 3-412-08399-
2. Preis: DM 78,00
Dass erfolgreiche Autoren beneidet und im Namen
einer strengeren Wissenschaftlichkeit kritisiert werden,
ist kein Spezifikum der deutschen Völkerkunde. Es
gehört zum Selbstverständnis der Wissenschaftlerzunft,
dass Hingabebereitschaft und Opferwille sich nicht mit
Popularität und Markterfolgen vertragen. Der “Fall” des
deutsch-österreichischen Photographen, Reiseschriftstel-
lers und Völkerkundlers Bernatzik gewinnt seine Bri-
sanz durch die historische Einbettung in das zentral-
europäische Interbellum mit angeschlossener Katastro-
phe, die zugleich einen erschreckenden Einblick in das
Innenleben kleiner Wissenschaftlergemeinden eröffnet.
Die Rekonstruktion durch Doris Byer, die sich gleich
in der Einleitung zu ihrer voluminösen “Aufarbeit” zur
Befangenheit als Tochter bekennt, ist ein authentischer
Beitrag zum Thema “Ethnologie und Nationalsozialis-
mus”, an dem noch lange getragen werden muss.
Ausgangspunkt für Bernatziks überhaupt nicht ein-
malige Biographie ist der 1. Weltkrieg mit dem Aus-
schluss der Verlierer aus dem Abendland; die Suche
nach Fremderfahrung scheint ein Ausweg aus der Misere
zu bieten. Der gescheiterte Industrielle wird Berufs-
abenteurer, der seine Erlebnisse vermarktet, auch um
die nächste Expedition finanzieren zu können. Dazu
gehören Kontakte mit Völkerkundemuseen und Fach-
vertretern, die den erwachten akademischen Ehrgeiz
Bernatziks aber skeptisch beurteilen. Und dass sie ihn -
bis in die Nachkriegszeit hinein - von den universitären
Trögen fernhalten, motiviert seine Biographin zu einer
generellen Abrechnung mit der Ethnologengemeinde.
Die sicher verständlichen ira et Studium verleihen dem
Werk einen einheitlichen Strich, gemahnen aber auch
zur Vorsicht beim Blick in die Abgründe gelehrter
Verkehrsformen.
Subtile Diskreditierungen, versteckte Denunziatio-
nen und öffentliche Plagiatsvorwürfe sind nach Byer
die Standardwaffen der deutschsprachigen Ethnologen,
und die damaligen Konfliktlinien zwischen westlichem
Ausland, Austrofaschismus und deutschem Nationalso-
zialismus scheinen dafür ein günstiges Gelände abgege-
ben zu haben, zumal auch noch letzterer, dem Bernat-
zik üblicherweise zugerechnet wird (J. F. Glück, Hugo
Adolf Bernatzik. Tribus 1954/1955:412; H. Fischer,
Völkerkunde im Nationalsozialismus. Berlin 1990), zu-
mindest in die drei Lager der “Rosenbergianer”, des
“Ahnenerbes” und der Neokolonialisten um Ritter von
Epp gespalten war. Dieser aufrechte Don Quichotte hielt
seine eiserne Hand über den von den Schulethnologen
Abgewiesenen und sorgte für lukrative Aufträge, die die
allgemein ersehnte “Unabkömmlichkeit” vom gefürchte-
ten Kriegsdienst garantierten. Das zweibändige “Afrika.
Handbuch der angewandten Völkerkunde” (erschienen
1947/51) war z. B. ab 1940 eine Frucht dieses gegen
schärfste Konkurrenz (z. B. seitens des von Baumann,
Westermann und Struck vorbereiteten “Handbuch für
afrikanische Stämme”) durchgedrückten kolonialreviva-
listischen Projekts, an dem sich auch italienische und
französische Ethnologen beteiligten.
Die Autorin hat unter dem unheimlichen Druck,
dem sich Recherchen in illo tempore ausgesetzt sehen,
nachlesbar gelitten: “Alles was vorher war, drängte zur
Katastrophe, alles was nachher kam, war nur noch deren
Folge” (12). Und der Untergang, der alles damalige
Handeln zu überschatten schien, prägte auch Bernatziks
ethnologische Themen: Es waren Heldenepen unterge-
hender Völker, denen ihre “Stammessittentreue” zum
Verhängnis wurde. Im Interesse dafür sieht Byer die
Ambivalenz bürgerlicher Aufklärung: “Gleichzeitig tö-
ten und lieben, hegen und jagen, benützen und bewahren
...” (44). Zugleich ist es auch die Philosophie des
Erstkontakts, der Bernatzik wie ein echter Ethnologe
verpflichtet war und die ihn in die fachspezifische Neid-
kultur voll integrierte.
In dem, von der Autorin bald als bellum omnium
contra omnes, bald als mit unwissenschaftlichen Mitteln
betriebene Ausgrenzung des “österreichischen Außen-
seiters” durch die deutschen Vollakademiker geschil-
derten Nebenkriegsschauplatz repräsentierte Bernatzik
eine anwendungsorientierte Ethnologie, und 1938, dem
Jahr seines Parteieintritts, bot er den an kolonialer Wie-
derbetätigung Interessierten an, “Forschungsarbeit zu
leisten, um die Völkerkunde von einer abstrakten Geis-
teswissenschaft zu einer angewandten Wissenschaft mit
naturwissenschaftlichem Einschlag auszubauen” (409).
Der Traum der damaligen Völkerkundler war “Koloni-
alforschung auf eigenem Grund und Boden - wunderbar,
endlich!”, wie der 1942 gefallene Eckhard von Sydow
an Bernatzik geschrieben hatte (416).
Die Leidenschaft ihres Vaters für den damaligen
deutschen Revivalismus bleibt aber in Byers Rekon-
struktion weit hinter seiner Rolle als Opfer “etablierter”
und “reichsdeutscher” Konkurrenten zurück. Hier ist die
Autorin selbstverständlich Partei; auf der Strecke blei-
ben manche sicher nicht objektiv beurteilte Zeitgenossen
wie Heinz Sölken (315) und das Resultat sind immer
wieder Überzeichnungen wie die eines 1942 “durch ganz
Europa gehetzten” Bernatzik (durch polizeiliche Ladun-
gen im Disziplinarstrafverfahren des Berliner Museums
222).
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
235
Ganz besonders bedauerlich aber sind die auch ei-
ner zweiten Durchsicht offenbar entgangenen Fehler:
Friedrich Rudolf Lehmann war 1941 nicht in Stuttgart,
sondern in Südafrika (292). 1934 gab es noch kei-
ne “Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft” (41). 1928 war
Plischke noch nicht Direktor des Instituts für Völkerkun-
de der Universität Göttingen. Frobenius war mit seiner
Hamitenkonzeption in der damaligen Völkerkunde nicht
“dominant” (71). Ob Winthuis der “Wiener Schule”
zugerechnet werden darf (105), müsste man erst ein-
mal P.W. Schmidt fragen. Um “objektive” Fehler aber
handelt es sich, wenn Klaus. E. Müller (417), Hermann
Niggemeyer (317 u. 426) und Elisabeth Pauli (335)
falsche Vornamen bekommen oder Katja Geisenhainer
(442) eine entstellte Namenswiedergabe.
Wie viele Nationalsozialisten sah auch Bernatzik in
den Juden Feinde; auf den Seiten 127, 248, 348, 287 und
414 werden dafür Belege angeführt. Erstaunlicherweise
sollen aber 1942 dem sich nach Fluchtmöglichkeiten
umsehenden Bernatzik “‘judenstämmige’ Freunde aus
Wien” in Holland eingefallen sein (332). Dies und ande-
res dürfte eine erneute Revision des umfangreichen Wer-
kes lohnend machen. Überhaupt wird die fortschreitende
Forschung zur Fachgeschichte immer wieder eine Über-
prüfung der hier erarbeiteten Thesen gebieten, die aber
nicht, wie es in der Auseinandersetzung mit P. Linimayr
(Wiener Völkerkunde im Nationalsozialismus. Frankfurt
1994) den Anschein hat (404), die 30er und 40er Jahre
fortsetzen oder sich weiter aus dem Ressentiment ge-
gen das Establishment nähren sollte. Das Kapitel über
Marianne Schmidl, die in keiner Beziehung zu Bernatzik
stand, scheint einzig zum Zwecke der Anklage gegen die
akademische Ethnologie mitaufgenommen worden zu
sein. Auch wäre für die weitere Forschung jener Konnex
zu überprüfen, den Byer zwischen Intrigantentum und
Mediokrität für zwingend hält. Hermann Baumann, der
in ihrer Rekonstruktion denkbar schlecht wegkommt,
wäre das bekannteste Gegenbeispiel.
Ethnologische Fachgeschichte studieren, ist im deut-
schen Sprachraum kein leichtes Unterfangen - schon gar
nicht, wenn besondere Bindungen bestehen, die bessere
Quelleneinsichten, aber auch größere Belastungen zur
Folge haben. Bernatzik war wie Findeisen ein akade-
mischer Außenseiter, in wissenschaftlicher und ideolo-
gischer Hinsicht gilt das aber nicht. Byers beachtliche
Forschungsarbeit überwindet in ihrer materialreichen
Argumentation das in der Popularliteratur eingeübte
Muster von Politlagern, uneingestandenermaßen erinnert
sie aber auch an das auf Radcliffe-Brown zurückgehende
ethnologische Wissen, dass Institutionen von Menschen
gemacht werden, dass Abstrakta wie Völkerkunde und
Nationalsozialismus also weniger brauchbar sind als die
Kategorien Völkerkundler und Nationalsozialisten. In
diesem Sinne darf das verdienstvolle Buche vielleicht
als Anstoß für eine neue fachgeschichtliche Diskussion
begrüßt werden. Dazu sei der Schluss aus dem Kapitel
‘Semper aliquid haeret” zitiert:
“Daher sei die These gewagt, dass diese struktu-
rell bedingte Denunzierbarkeit des Fachs Völkerkunde
seine besondere Qualität ausmachte, durch welche eine
Kompatibilität mit dem NS-Herrschaftssystem gegeben
war. Daher war die Integration des Fachs zumindest
für jene, die nicht unmittelbar verfolgt waren, kaum
bewusst wahrnehmbar. Dies ist das eigentliche Erbe
der Disziplin, an dem bis heute in Deutschland und
Österreich ‘gearbeitet’ wird” (283).
Bernhard Streck
Califano Mario (coord.): Los indios Sirionó de
Bolivia Oriental. Buenos Aires: Ciudad Argentina, 1999.
347 pp. ISBN 987-507-153-6.
This volume compiles the outcomes of a series of
investigations conducted by “centro Argentino de Etno-
logía Americana” among the Sirionó of eastern Bolivia
over more than twenty years. The purpose of the book
is twofold: on the one hand, to review, classify, and
compile the scattered bibliographical data concerning
this Tupí-Guaraní group, and on the other, to provide
this corpus with a baseline ethnography that could enrich
and clarify its contents.
The first article is called “Fuentes históricas y bi-
bliográficas sirionó.” Here Alicia Fernández Distel and
Mario Califano have tried to update the Sirionó ethnog-
raphy by thoroughly analysing the bibliography devoted
to the subject, not only from an ethnographic viewpoint,
but also considering the linguistic, archaeological, geo-
graphical, psychiatric, biological aspects, as well as the
history of the missionary action in eastern Bolivia. The
authors undertake a neat and detailed study of a profuse
series of varied testimonies, ranging from the earlier
Jesuit missionaries to the first members of the Summer
Institute of Linguistics, and from the first travel books
to the functional ethnographies of the 1950s. Thus, they
trace and provide a context for the opinions of all those
who have attempted to account for the Sirionó’s origin
or their ethnic and linguistic affiliation, by critically
reviewing their assumptions and motivations, such as is
the case of ethnographer Wanda Hanke, the Franciscan
scholar Anselmo Schermair, or the American anthropolo-
gist Allan Holmberg (author of the now classic “Nomads
of the Long Bow: The Sirionós of Eastern Bolivia”).
Finally, the authors comment on the argument raised
about the always controversial kinship issue, which in
the Sirionó case set at odds such contemporary authors
as Eyde, Postal, Schapiro, and Needham.
The second article, “Etnografía de los Sirionó,” is a
baseline ethnography, where Mario Califano discusses
the outcomes of the series of expeditions he carried
out among the Sirionó of the Bolivian Beni between
1973 and 1980. In minute detail the text describes such
topics as place-names and interethnic relations, subsis-
tence activities and housing, as well as the structural
dimensions of Sirionó society - chieftainship, marriage,
age-groups, and warfare. The author then explains the
life cycle (conception, initiation, funeral rites, and the
like) and includes a comprehensive classificatory list of
diseases and their corresponding native pharmacopoeia
and therapy: chants, dances, taboos, and ritual prescrip-
tions.
Nnthropos 96.2001
236
Rezensionen
The analysis of the psychic and spiritual components
of the Sirionó “person” concept is of particular interest.
Califano breaks down the subject into what he names
as “the four entities.” The first one is the éínge, which
along with the body (eréte) represents the humanity of
men (miá). Translated as “soul” by the missionaries, the
éínge is the individual’s vital principle, both psychic,
intellectual, and emotional; its actions can be good or
evil, and it “leaves” the body during sleep or at the
time of death itself. The second component is the abat-
shyekwáyá. It seems this notion is similar to that of aña
used by the Chiriguano-Chané. The missionaries living
among the Sirionó translate abatshyekwáyá as “devil”
or “evil spirit.” Califano, instead, prefers to stress the
polysemy and semantic complexity of the term, which
refers to the spirits of the dead, the masters of the
forest roaming thereabout at night. This semiamorphous
entity, of ape-like appearance and unknown identity,
shows a behaviour that, although ethically ambiguous,
is always associated with suffering, disease, and death.
The third entity is etshyiwke. The Sirionó think of it
as the individual’s skin or his external appearance. It
is a kind of vessel that can either contain the éínge
or, in some cases, the abatshyekwáyá. Finally, the last
entity is the kurúkwa, a monstrous tall, dark, and very
hairy human-like entity, frequently associated with the
night, the forest, the spirit of the dead, and also with
the Sirionó’s classic enemies - the Ayoreo. Califano’s
analysis especially underlines the concrete and experi-
ential dimensions of each of these imprecise and fluid
notions.
In our understanding, the third article is the most
interesting and original of the series. In “La narrativa
mítica,” Califano presents a phenomenological study
that describes in detail the various meanings the Sir-
ionó give to the myth of the moon (Dshyási). A real
cornerstone of their worldview, this lengthy narrative is
of paramount importance as its rich and varied semantic
contents deal with a series of themes, which are related
not only to the symbolic universe but to several cos-
mological, economic, aesthetic, legal, and ethic issues.
After providing the different versions of the myth, the
author goes on to describe the various universes of
meaning involved in the narrative: the origin of time and
space, aesthetics and chieftainship, courage, economy,
and a primary ontology of “otherness.” The singularity
of the analysis, however, lies in the fact that the myth’s
axiological and legal nature is significantly emphasised.
Beyond the symbolism and the etiology founded and
expounded in the narrative, the Sirionó therein find
a kind of embodied values code to which their daily
behaviour should be adjusted. It is precisely in this
sense that Califano considers Dshyási as an “ethical
teophany.” His interpretation, therefore, highlights the
archetypical, legal, and punishing dimensions that the
myth manages to vividly express in the hunting ethos
of the Sirionó male. In his mythical doings Dshyási
outlines a moral exemplar that in the everyday existence
embodies values which otherwise are too abstract and
distant.
“Nuevos datos sobre el parentesco sirionó” is the
fourth article in the series, by Andrés Pérez Diez. Com-
paring his own field observations against Holmberg’s
and Califano’s, the author presents in the first place
a reviewed terminology of Sirionó kinship and then
relates it with certain social and family organisation
issues. The article describes, for instance, the nuclear
family, the extended and compound family, the chiefs’
(ererékwa) polygynous family, as well as the bands. It
then relates these organizational units with their cor-
responding forms of political authority. The structural
principles of the band’s exogamy and matrilocal or neo-
local residence are also analysed. Finally, Holmberg’s
opinion is discussed who claimed to have found traces
of matrilines among the Sirionó, a hypothesis that raised
bitter arguments.
The last article, “La concepción del cuerpo en el ca-
zador sirionó,” is by Silvia Balzano. The author attempts
to clarify the Sirionó idea and praxis of corporality. To
this end, she provides details about body physiology,
morphology, functions, and structure. She also analyses
the role of blood, initiations, and “corporal techniques”
in everyday life. The article includes illustrations drawn
by the Sirionó themselves, where each of these aspects
is actually drafted. The conclusion then is that, in spite
of the fact that on the surface the body seems to be a
mere biological or physiological matter, to the Sirionó
it involves various universes of meaning of a mythical
and symbolic nature.
The final pages of the book contain a brief glos-
sary and an extensive and comprehensive bibliography
compiling all the literature on the Sirionó.
As a final word, we should point out that the volume
has undoubtedly met its twofold objective. On the one
hand, the amount of detail, quantity, and extension of
the ethnographic information presented is particularly
noteworthy. The methodology used is to be commended
as well, because of the extreme accuracy with which
the data have been analysed and the respect shown
for the meanings or “contents of conscience” that the
Sirionó themselves attribute to certain dimensions of
their existence. On the other hand, thanks to the authors’
great effort to compile, review, and update the Sirionó
literature and related materials, this book stands as
an unavoidable reference material, not only for those
specialising in this particular group, but also for all those
studying Tupí-Guaraní ethnic groups, and in general
for all those who are concerned with rescuing the rich
cultural heritages of South American peoples.
Diego Villar
Ceballos Gómez, Diana L.: Zauberei und Hexerei.
Eine Untersuchung magischer Praxen im Neuen König-
reich Granada. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2000. 259 pp-
ISBN 3-631-35952-7. (Europäische Hochschulschriften,
Reihe 3: Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften, 859)
Preis: DM 84,00
Diana Ceballos Gómez wird auf dem Buchrücken
vorgestellt als “eine ‘amphibische’ Existenz, die sich
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
237
kundig zwischen den Kulturen bewegt”. Indem sie als
Kolumbianerin einer europäischen akademischen Öf-
fentlichkeit die Konzeptionen von Magie in einer Kultur,
die sich aus europäischen und indigenen Wurzeln nährt,
zu vermitteln versucht, bewegt sie sich in mehreren
Grenzbereichen gleichzeitig. Nutzt sie diese Chance?
Die Autorin geht davon aus, dass “die Hexerei und die
Zauberei lebendige Praxen derer sind, die an sie glauben
und die sich innerhalb eines bestimmten Kulturkreises
befinden. Das heißt, dass magische Praxen für diejenigen
Personen, die den Glauben daran teilen, eine Wirklich-
keit darstellen, solange sie sich in dieser kulturellen Um-
gebung befinden” (xix) Wer sich in einer Gesellschaft,
deren Angehörige ein magisches Weltbild haben, bewegt
hat, muss der Autorin hierin zustimmen. Jedoch frage
ich, ob ein Europäer in Afrika, ein Afrikaner in Euro-
pa wirklich “schwerlich Opfer einer Zauberei werden”
kann, wie die Autorin (ebenda) behauptet. Ihrer Deutung
nach sind magische Praxen nur wirksam “für diejenigen
Personen, die den Glauben daran teilen”. Indem die
Wirkungskraft magischer Praxen zur Glaubensfrage er-
klärt wird, haben sie keine objektivierbare Wirklichkeit.
Ist dies das Zugeständnis an die Fachöffentlichkeit, die
eine Glaubenswirklichkeit nur als ein fait social im
Dürkheim’sehen Sinne anerkennt? Ich kenne zahllose
Beispiele (auch aus der Literatur) von Europäerinnen
in Afrika, die mit der Deutung, ihre Krankheit sei an-
gehext, konfrontiert wurden und die durch Anwendung
magischer Praxen wieder gesund wurden.
Die Auswirkungen der europäischen Hexenverfol-
gung auf das Bewusstsein der Kolonialisierten wird
angesprochen, könnte allerdings deutlicher herausgear-
beitet werden. Wir erfahren, dass die Indios und Schwar-
zen es schwierig fanden, “über Begriffe zu sprechen,
die ein moralisches Werturteil beinhalteten. Manchmal
unternahmen sie dies ausgehend von ihrer ursprüngli-
chen Kultur, manchmal ausgehend von der, die sie zu
erlernen begonnen hatten” (9). Welche Gewalt hinter
dem Erlernen der fremden Kultur zu finden ist, kann
ich als Leserin nur erahnen. So erfahre ich: “Um in den
Dienst der Inquisition treten zu können, war ein Beleg
der ‘Blutreinheit’ des Anwärters und seiner Ehefrau
erforderlich, das heißt der Nachweis, dass es in keiner
der beiden Familien ketzerische Vorfahren gab” (12),
Wobei ‘“Rassenmischung’ ... zwar nicht direkt einer
ketzerischen Abstammung gleichkam, wohl aber den
Bang ‘alter Christ’ ausschloss” (13). Die Nähe zwischen
Bassismus und der Verfolgung indigener Weltbilder wä-
re es wert, näher ausgeführt zu werden.
Ich hatte von dem Titel des Buches ausgehend er-
wartet, dass dessen Hauptgegenstand eine Abhandlung
darüber ist, wie in dem Neuen Königreich Granada Ma-
gie praktiziert wurde. Doch darüber erfahre ich relativ
Wenig. Lediglich das zweite Kapitel ist den “Praxen”
gewidmet. Indessen werden kaum magische Praktiken
beschrieben. Vielmehr muss ich mich auch hier durch
em Geflecht von Deutungen arbeiten, die ich immer
Nieder hinterfrage. Zum Beispiel bezweifle ich die fol-
gende Aussage (49): “In der Frühen Neuzeit war man
Unfähig, Gift als rein neutrale Gabe zu verwenden.”
War man wirklich unfähig, oder lag der Anwendung
von Medizinen und Giften nur eine andere Weitsicht zu-
grunde? Lediglich bei dem “Rezept für die Liebe” (72-
74) wird die Beschreibung konkret. Diese Darstellung
wirkt aber eher wie ein Exkurs als wie das zentrale
Thema.
Die Autorin projiziert die Deutungsmuster, mit denen
die Historikerinnen die Epoche der europäischen Hexen-
verfolgung bearbeiten, auf die entsprechende Epoche in
Kolumbien: Sozialdisziplinierung, Gerüchte, Denunzia-
tion waren die treibenden Faktoren, die Hexerei zum
Gegenstand von Prozessen machten. Die ausführliche
Darstellung des “Falls einer indianischen Schamanin”
aus dem Jahre 1601 habe ich mit Interesse gelesen.
Inwiefern die Autorin allerdings davon sprechen kann,
dass die Verfolgung magischer Praxen in Spanien “sehr
gering war” (39), ist mir unklar, wenn sie gleichzeitig
aufzeigt, dass die Verfolgung auf die Kolonien über-
schwappte und welche Willkür die Handhabung der
spanischen Gesetze auch in den Kolonien ermöglichte
(170). Immerhin wurden der Hexerei Bezichtigte dort
in “Geheimgefängnissen von der Außenwelt isoliert
[gehalten] und [hatten] nur Kontakt mit dem Inquisi-
tionspersonal” (13). Ich halte es für müßig, die ohnehin
unzuverlässigen Statistiken zwischen sog. verfolgungs-
dichten und verfolgungsarmen Ländern miteinander zu
vergleichen, statt sich das Ergebnis der Verfolgung
anzusehen; und das war in Spanien wie in Kolumbien
die gewaltsame Durchsetzung des herrschenden Welt-
bildes. Von daher befremdet mich, gelinde gesagt, ein
Satz wie der folgende: “Die spanische Gesellschaft war
zur Zeit der Reformation multikulturell und tolerant.
Nach mehreren Jahrhunderten des Zusammenlebens von
Juden, Moslems und Christen war sie eine pluralistische
Gesellschaft mit einer seit dem Mittelalter andauern-
den Tradition der Meinungsfreiheit ... Es war eine
multikulturelle Gesellschaft, die mit der Kolonisierung
Amerikas und dem dort anschließend eingerichteten
Sklavenhandel noch viel multikultureller wurde und sich
der Differenz, der Andersartigkeit bewusst war” (20 f.),
Im Epilog stellt die Autorin Betrachtungen an zum
“eigenen Anderen” innerhalb Kolumbiens im Unter-
schied zu den “äußeren Anderen” Europas. Sie fordert
dazu auf, “über die Beziehung zwischen all den eigenen
Anderen nachzudenken” (171). Das allerdings tut sie
selber nur unzureichend. Denn das würde bedeuten,
die Paradigmen der “anderen” gelten zu lassen. Wenn
sie z. B. von “ländlichen Räume[n]” spricht, “die fast
im 17., 18. oder maximal 19. Jahrhundert verblieben
sind” (17), dann entsteht der Eindruck, dass es sich
bei den Vorstellungen dieser Bevölkerungsgruppen nur
um Überbleibsel anderer Epochen handelt, die noch in
ein irrationales Denksystem verstrickt sind. Den Satz
“Wer fähig war, das Wirrwarr der magischen Praxen zu
rationalisieren, war bereits außerhalb deren Reichweite
und wurde nicht mehr deren Opfer” (51) verstehe ich als
die Quintessenz der Ausführungen. Auch die üblichen
“Sündenböcke zur Lösung individueller oder gemein-
schaftlicher Konflikte und Spannungen” (51) fehlen im
Deutungsmuster der Autorin nicht. Damit steht sie aber
^nthropos 96.2001
238
meines Erachtens dem offenbar auch für sie “anderen”
Weltbild der Urbevölkerung Kolumbiens nicht näher
als z. B. die britischen Sozialanthropologen mit ihrer
funktionalistischen Deutung. Godula Kosack
Dahl, Jens: Saqqaq. An Inuit Hunting Community in
the Modem World. Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
2000. 277 pp. ISBN 0-8020-8237-8. Price: $ 24.95
In Saqqaq, an ethnography about a peripheral Inuit
hunting community on the central West coast of Green-
land, Jens Dahl sets himself the task to portray the
changes in an Inuit hunting mode of production as
they have occurred during the last two decades of
the twentieth century. The book, which is based on
data that have been gathered between 1980 and 1996,
tries to show “how hunting in this small Greenlandic
community coexists with or, better, has become part of
a modern way of life” (6). Considered by outsiders to
be a “model community” that represents what is left of
the “traditional Greenlandic hunting culture,” Dahl sets
out to demonstrate that it would be fallascious to think
of Saqqaq in those terms.
In the introduction of the book key concepts such as
tradition, hunting mode of tradition are explained and a
brief outline is given of the colonial era, of the period
of decolonization, and of the establishement of Home
Rule. The consequences of Home Rule for the former-
ly decentralized communities are far reaching. These
local communities now face increased intervention in
social and territorial control matters from the evolving
national community control mechanisms, intervention
that is increasingly at variance with “traditional” ways
of handling matters. It is this growing intervention by
the national community that sets the stage for Dahl’s
description of the hunting life in late twentieth century
Saqqaq.
Chapter 1 describes the daily life in Saqqaq, an
ethnically homogenous community that is strategical-
ly located in an ecologically rich environment. Small
in size (212 inhabitants in 1996), the community is
characterized by a hunting way of life which is subject
to considerable seasonal variations. Unlike in the past,
today’s Saqqaq is a permanent community, no longer
leading a nomadic way of life.
Demographically Saqqaq has known considerable
population fluctuations, the deficit of women being a
marked characteristic which resulted from girls mov-
ing out for schooling. Some, however, have recently
returned due to the establishment of a fishing plant.
Due to in-migrations Saqqaq is no longer a typical
Greenlandic settlement. Social life as seen in terms
of geography, life career, and developmental cycle of
families is no longer synonymous with past settlement
life. Saqqarmiut are now much more globally oriented
(media) than their ancestors and new identities have
entered the arena (political parties, Greenlandic nation,
pan-arctic cooperation).
The chapter then goes on describing briefly the varia-
tions of social life in Saqqaq as it contracts and expands
Rezensionen
according to the seasons. The author briefly mentions
some of the social traumata (widespread alcohol abuse)
that has affected the community as a result of rapid
change. Dahl suggests a positive change since the early
1990s but that claim is not substantiated by empirical
detail. Saqqaq’s social network functions as a safety net
in adverse situations and much effort is taken to either
get into the network or to remain in it through constant
confirmation and reconfirmation of its significance.
The basis of the community is the household which
varies in composition. In it, the hunter’s role as a
provider is still of great importance, but this role is
now increasingly undermined by the rise of women to
positions of institutional authority and by the decrease
in returns from collective hunting.
The Greenland Home Rule authority has taken over
the colonial structure from Denmark and as a result
of Greenlandization, the content of the system has
now changed. For Saqqarmiut there is some continuity
between Danish Rule and Home Rule in that life is run
by a hierarchical structure from the outside. The effects
are, however, far reaching.
The 2nd chapter of the book describes in great detail
beluga hunting, the most significant collective and com-
munal activity in Saqqaq, the epitome of “real” hunting
life. During two periods of the year beluga hunting is a
focal point of life in Saqqaq. It is particularly exciting
because it is something public. Beluga hunting entails
sharing which is a prestigious process that focusses
attention to the hunter-provider. It also has an integrative
function: participation in the hunt and sharing of the
spoils publicly display local authority, communal values
as well as conflicts. In doing so, beluga hunting also
contains a symbolic reflection of communal relations
and values. Hunting, flensing, and sharing a beluga are
thus a collective and public activity that it is supervised
by everyone in the community. It is the domain par
excellence of the hunter(s) of influence and authority and
a public display of social relations. Hunting and sharing
beluga becomes a decisive forum for securing a cohesive
and legitimate authority structure for the community.
Dahl then describes the way the hunt is carried out,
and how the spoils of the hunt are shared. Only those
who participate are entitled to hunting shares. Strict rules
apply. Today participation per se is more crucial than the
specific role played during the hunt, as was the case in
the past. Then everybody was allowed to hunt belugas.
Nowadays there are restrictions from Home Rule which
issues hunting regulations to enhance sustainability of
the hunt as there are indications of stock depletion.
Local specificity can be added through by-laws for
further regulation. Dahl argues that globalization of
hunting regulations and resource exploitation will tend
to institutionalize authority. The latter contradicts the
traditional way of making decisions and Saqqarmiut
are faced with change from authoritative to authoritarian
forms of decision making, from open forum decision
taking in the community to closed forum decision taking
which is done by segments of the community, e. g., by
political parties.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
239
As for the economic aspects of beluga hunting Dahl
remarks that such hunting is a strategic activity in
that some families in some years use it to organize
their use of mattak and meat according to their need.
Economically beluga hunting was profitable in 1980
when value of harvested belugas surpassed the traded
value of sealskin and fishing products. To what extent
this has changed in the 1990’s when halibut fishing has
taken over as the most important cash activity is difficult
to say since comparative data are missing: continued
significance is suggested, yet not substantiated!
Chapter 3 of Dahl’s book discusses fishing, an in-
creasingly important economic activity. Ammassat (cap-
elin) are an important staple fish. When caught, they are
spread out on the rocks and dried, which is a laborious
process. During ammassat fishing the community is
literally spread out along the coast to dry ammassat.
There is a kind of use right, but only in case of
continued use. This use right is always associated with a
hunter. The closer to the settlement, the stronger the use
rights. These rights confirm specific social relations and
the spatial distribution of drying sites recalls, according
to Dahl, a symbolic identification.
The typical division of labour in capelin fishing is
that men do the fishing and are the procurers, whereas
women, elders, and children are the processors. This
was different in the past, when women did the pro-
curing and processing. Dahl consideres this change as
a strengthening of the hunter’s position. However, the
empirical basis of this contention is rather small and
contradicts the growing importance of the role of women
in the commercialized processing of the ammassat,
which represents an important source of diversification
of income.
Halibut fishing is another important activity pursued
in Saqqaq, and this activity, too, has been commer-
cialized over the last decades. In the hunting mode
of production fishing halibut was fishing by choice
(flexibility in exploitation of niches). As a result of com-
mercialization, fishing halibut has now become fishing
by priority in order to pay for significant capital invest-
ments (purchase of fishing vessels). It is a household
°r family oriented activity which is increasingly taking
over from hunting as the main cash generating activity.
Dahl argues that incorporation into the world market
has never eliminated hunting as a mode of living and as
a mode of production. I do agree with Dahl that non-
commercial activities (e. g., hunting) have often played
the role of relief when markets collapsed or market-
able resources dwindled and that maintaining hunting
thus safeguards Saqqarmiut from too high a market
dependency through preading risks. This does, however,
n°t automatically mean that hunting as a “mode of
Production” is being continued. I will return to this in
discussing chapter 7 of Dahl’s book.
In the following chapter Dahl describes the various
techniques of hunting seals, the staple food of the
Saqqarmiut. Seal hunting is a rather constant activity and
§°es on all year. As to its significance, Dahl argues that
f°r Saqqarmiut successful sealing is the way to make
Aathropos 96.2001
social and economic ends meet. Charateristic of sealing
in Saqqaq is that there is a negative correlation between
economic cost (gas, etc.) and return (price of sealskin).
This points to the great significance of the social and
symbolic dimension of sealing. Through sealing the
family has “real” food, there is small income from the
skin, and food can be given to relatives (accumulation
of social capital, i. e., prestige). The role of the male
provider is acknowledged and the exchange of meat
reproduces social relations. Hunting seal is therefore an
important cultural achievement.
In chapter 5 Dahl explores the territorial dimension
of the hunting mode of production. For Dahl, territory is
the cultural landscape that is occupied, used, and appro-
priated. Territorial rights are collective or communal.
Rights to territory might be bestowed to individuals
as a member of the community. From a community
perspective right to use of and access to territory and to
participate in hunting is the same for all members. As a
member one is part of a network of social relations and
social obligations. This includes abiding by the rules of
the community and the sharing of vital information. One
may settle into the community’s territory as long as one
enters the social sharing and exchange network and thus
adds to the security and well-being of the community.
Territorial rights thus have an important social control
dimension. But nowadays, territory is no longer a regu-
lating mechanism in hunting and fishing: national and
international institutions determine harvest levels. The
effect is that the right to make autonomous decisions and
freely to dispose of means and methods is taken away
from the hunters. Hunting and fishing are nowadays a
matter of management exerted by a centralized national
community. There is thus an evolution away from a
situation where everyone has a right to hunt and fish
as a member of a local community to a new situation
where rights are allocated to individuals as members of
socioeconomic groups.
In chapter 6 Dahl discusses the social dimension of
hunting and fishing. Sharing, exchange, and coopera-
tion are the key words here. Meat gifts and sharing
are pivotal institutions: it is a symbolic expression of
community. In general, Dahl notes that in Saqqaq and
other Greenlandic communities an evolution is taking
place from a society based on sharing and exchange to a
society based on husbandry (management) of resources.
It is also a move away from the egalitarian society. The
latter point is not well elaborated in the book where re-
marks on the growing social stratification of Greenlandic
society are hard to find. Dahl mentions that there are
many changes now: education offers new opportunities
for status achievement, technical innovations offer new
types of jobs, capital investment can be inherited, and
access to resources is increasingly allocated to selected
groups of people. While this causes a lot of change, its
consequences are hardly discussed. Instead, the focus is
on traditional institutions - sharing and exchange, level-
ling mechanisms within the community that counteract
misfortune - that link the community to the past while
allowing the customs to develop new patterns.
240
Rezensionen
Dahl then discusses the concept of sharing. For him,
sharing follows from a right that some persons have
to specified parts of an animal or specified amount of
meat or mattak. This in contrast to the moral obligation
to give away meat and to lend things to others. The
meat gift is a voluntary distribution, the receiver has
no claim to it. Sharing follows a cooperative hunt
(task group sharing) and follows rules heeded by all
in the community. Giving away meat or mattak is an
act of generalized reciprocity that confers prestige and
confirms or establishes social relationships. Exchange
(meat giving) is a process largely controled by the wife
of the hunter who thus has an important impact on
the management of social relations. The nonobligatory
aspect of the gift is significant and it is in contrast to
hunting shares.
Dahl then discusses the division of labour in Saqqaq.
He argues that in Inuit communities the division of
labour between men and women didn’t relate to two
different labour processes but to a complementary di-
vision of labour within the same process of production:
man the provider, woman the processor. This processual
division of labour exists today only in rudimentary
form. Processing of hunting products locally is on
the decrease, sealskins being an exception but this is
changing too. Nowadays roles in processing a hunted
seal are no longer as fixed as before. Preparing the
skin, however, remains the task of the woman. Skin
is sold by either the man or the wife. It is, however,
always registered as being sold by the man. His role as
provider is hereby symbolically affirmed. Young women
increasingly dislike scraping and preparing of sealskin
for it is hard work and the returns are small. Instead,
they take up part-time or full-time work. The state of
affairs in relation to jobs changed radically in the 1990’s:
young women taking over from men because they are
well-trained; 75 per cent of all wage jobs are occupied
by women. What consequences this has for social life is
not mentioned. No word about the tensions and traumas
this creates in the basic social unit of Inuit society:
the nuclear family. We only read that the ramifications
of this change might significantly alter the resource
harvesting strategies of the hunters towards increased
investment in means of production and that the focus
of economic relations will change towards the market.
What the effects of this change are for gender relations
is conspicuously absent from the book, in which there is
reference to conflicts that are not further described and
specified.
In chapter 7 Dahl integrates the data provided in
chapters 2 to 6 and describes what he calls the “seven
pillars” of the Saqqaq hunting mode of production, a
concept that denotes an analytical approach that focuses
on how community members act towards one another in
order to pursue a culturally accepted way of living. The
approach is cultural materialist and purposely chosen
so by Dahl who states that he wants to dissociate
himself from an approach that transforms community
studies into sheer symbolic affairs. Yet, even Dahl
cannot escape the significance of symbols: reference to
symbolic values constantly pops up in his description
and argumentation.
In Dahl’s materialist vision, the seven pillars of the
hunting mode of production are:
1. the household as a unit of production; 2. the
hunter’s control over the process of production and
ownership of the means of production; 3. the collective
network and system of exchange of goods and informa-
tion; 4. collective and free access to the land (and sea); 5.
the role of the hunter as a provider of essential cultural
and identity-carrying goods; 6. flexibility (careful bal-
ance between individual decision making and collective
control); 7. sustainable use of nature and resources.
Combined, Dahl argues, these seven pillars give
hunting as a way of life and a mode of production the
chance to survive and to prosper. And that is what Dahl
strongly believes in. Dahl himself, however, provides
data that do raise questions as to the viability of the
hunting mode of production. The household as a unit of
production is perhaps the only pillar that shows some
continuity since Saqqaq society still is a family based
society. But even there changing gender roles (women
become increasingly the “providers” of the money to
purchase means of production) may affect this pillar. All
other pillars are subject to profound change: control over
the production process is quickly eroding; ownership
of means of production changes when large capital
investments have to be made; the collective network and
system of exchange of goods and information is starting
to become bifurcated as a result of the social division
of Saqqaq community following the establishment of
local branches of national political parties, and social
stratification of society is an apparent phenomenon (see
chapter 8); collective and free access to the land and
the sea is increasingly restricted; the role of the hunter
as a provider of essential cultural and identity carrying
goods faces pressures of redefinition in an economy that
is increasingly market oriented; the flexibility of the
system is being eroded by the advent of nation-wide
regulations and systems of control that escape local
influence; and, last but not least, sustainable use of
nature and resources is no longer a matter dependent
upon local traditional knowledge, on the contrary, it has
become a national and international affair (for a detailed
description see chapter 9).
Taking into account all these changes, I think, it will
be difficult to uphold the view that the Saqqaq hunting
mode of production has a good chance to survive and
prosper. The data provided by Dahl to substantiate this
conclusion are unconvincing. This may well result from
the approach he has taken in writing this book, an
approach that results in a description of the skeleton
of Saqqaq life. The meat to share, however, is missing-
C. H. W. Remie
Drechsel, Paul, Bettina Schmidt und Bernhard
Gölz: Kultur im Zeitalter der Globalisierung. Von Iden-
tität zu Differenzen. Frankfurt: IKO-Verlag für Interkul-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
241
turelle Kommunikation, 2000. 172 pp. ISBN 3-88939-
516-3. Preis: DM34,80
Alle reden von Globalisierung, nur die Ethnologie
nicht. Dem wollten die drei Autoren abhelfen mit dieser
nachgeholten (Post-)Modemisierung einer Disziplin, die
es mit ihrer eingefleischten Kulturalität bisher kaum zur
Interkulturalität, schon gar nicht zur Transkulturalität
gebracht hat. Damit sind auch schon die Entwicklungs-
stufen genannt, die nun an die Stelle der ehrwürdigen
Wildheit, Barbarei und Zivilisation treten sollen. Noch
schöner klingen sie in den Termini Spielgrenzen, Grenz-
spiele und Spiel ohne Grenzen, wie sie das Schema
auf S. 68 anordnet. Das Ziel der Geschichte ist der
Global Player, der aber als Kulturträger nicht wie Atlas
unter dem Gewicht der Welt ächzt, sondern die Kugel
wie ein Transnationalspieler beliebig auf dem Rasen
herumkickt.
Was die drei Autoren bewegt, ist die verspürte Not-
wendigkeit einer “neuen Kulturtheorie”; dazu muß, wie
schon auf S. 29 zu erfahren ist, nur Derrida mit seiner
Differance als der fraglosen Differenz für die Ethnologie
fruchtbar gemacht werden. Es soll also nicht mehr nach
den Gründen oder Grenzen von Differenz gefragt wer-
den, sondern die Differenz als Konstruktionsmerkmal
einer Weltkultur akzeptiert werden. Wenn aber alles dem
gleichen Gesetz, nämlich dem der Differenz folgt, wozu
taugt dann noch die Wissenschaft von den Kulturen?
Den Nachweis, wie überflüssig die Ethnologie im
globalen Zeitalter geworden ist, führen die drei Auto-
ren auf logische Weise. Das zweite Kapitel ist die
Geschichte der Ablösung der aus der scholastischen
Substanzenlehre herrührenden Identitätslogik durch die
Beziehungslogik und die Differenzlogik. Lyotard, De-
leuze und Wittgenstein stehen für die neue Logik, die
jedes Festschreiben verbietet und doch jede Konstruk-
tion erlaubt. Für diese konstruktivistische Radikalität
wird Maturana in langen, oft unverständlichen Zita-
ten bemüht, bis das Bedürfnis nach einem Bindemittel
zwischen all den Sätzen, Konstrukten, Kulturentwürfen
spürbar wird. Das nun stillt Siegfried Schmidt mit seiner
Medientheorie. Die weltweit präsenten und wirkenden
Medien bestechen hier nicht wie bei Enzensberger
durch ihre Nullbotschaft oder wie bei vielen Kultur-
kritikern durch ihre McDonaldisierung, sondern durch
thre Vermittlung der Pluralität, in der Realität, Virtualität
und Hyperrealität durcheinander liegen und - freilich
tttedial gebunden - das “Pluriversum” des 21. Jhs. auf-
schichten.
Während das alte Denken und die Ethnologie ihr
Universum noch in “Container-Kulturen” (U. Beck)
°rdnen konnte, zeichnet sich die neue Welt durch Unor-
dentlichkeit aus und durch die Abwesenheit allgemein
Verkannter Ordnungsprinzipien. Der Augiasstall stinkt,
er läßt sich aber nicht mehr ausmisten. Hier erscheint an
Stelle von Herakles Wolfgang Welsch mit seiner “trans-
versalen Vernunft”, die pragmatisch die verschiedenen
Gespinste” verknüpft und damit Überleben erlaubt. Nur
n°ch solche Lösungen läßt die Postmoderne zu. Wieder
sind wir am Ende eines Dreisprungs: die frühe Moderne
suchte den “guten Staat”, die klassische Moderne den
Anthropos 96.2001
“legitimen Staat”, die Postmoderne will überhaupt kei-
nen Staat mehr, nur noch “Verfahren”.
Die “glokalen” Kulturen, die die drei Autoren allen-
falls noch gelten lassen, sind ebenso lokale Lösun-
gen globaler Vorgaben wie virtuelle Medienwelten in
ihrer konkreten Rezeption. War die alte Kultur we-
sentlich durch Raum und Zeit definiert, hat die neue
“Transkultur” diese Ordnungsdimension verloren; Zeit-
und Raumreisen, faktische wie virtuelle, haben alles
durcheinandergebracht. Die Weltbürger des 21. Jhs., die
auf den Müllbergen der Geschichte leben und mit den
Bruchstücken der Containerkulturen spielen, bringen
nichts Dauerhaftes mehr zustande. Die Kulturgeschich-
te ist zum Urspiel zurückgekehrt, zum antiautoritäten
Weltkindergarten, in dem so ziemlich jede Kombination,
Bastelei oder Collage möglich ist und wo das Türmchen,
das der eine aufgebaut hat, vom andern gleich wieder
kaputt gemacht wird - unter dem Beifall der Medien.
So endet das Buch auch in Gleichungen von sich ver-
lierendem Sinn (163):
“Differance/Urschrift/Spur/Supplement/ = Virtualität
Kultur = Schrift = Medien = Vernunft
Virtuelle Medienkulturen = Transkulturen = Virtuelle
Vernunft”
Eine Führung in das Wahndenken? Die Ethnologie ist
infolge ihrer langen Schulung in der Rationalitätsdebatte
und ihrer Vertrautheit mit Rauschkulturen hinreichend
vorbereitet auf mentale Kataklysmen. Nicht nur die
indianische Mythologie weiß von den Geburtskräften
kultureller Zusammenbrüche und von der Rhythmik
aus Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion. Die drei Autoren
haben in ihrer Suche nach einer zeitgemäßen Kultur-
theorie vielleicht das Kind mit dem Bade ausgeschüttet,
stellenweise wie bei der Etymologie von Sollizitation
(161) haben sie sich überhoben. Trotzdem ist das Buch
anregend und mit Gewinn zu lesen - nicht zuletzt auch
deswegen, weil es die Meisterdenker selbst als Kinder
auftreten läßt, deren Werke flüchtig sind und deren
Tränen schnell trocknen. Bernhard Streck
Dunbar, Robin, Chris Knight, and Camilla Power
(eds.): The Evolution of Culture. An Interdisciplinary
View. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999.
257 pp. ISBN 0-7486-1076-6. Price: £ 14.95
Die Entstehung und Entwicklung der menschlichen
Gesellschaft und Kultur, insbesondere der Religion,
Sprache, Kunst können als Beispiele von Problemen
gelten, die in den Mythen der Völker, in Religionen
und der Philosophie, in der Wissenschaft immer wie-
der angegangen werden, deren befriedigende Lösung
jedoch weiterhin aussteht. Das bedeutet nicht, daß die
bisherigen Klärungsversuche nutzlos waren oder daß es
schier unlösbare Fragen sind, die zweckmäßiger mit
einem “ignoramus et ignorabimus” zu beantworten wä-
ren. Analysiert man die reichhaltige wissenschaftliche
Literatur über diese Themen, so kann man feststellen,
daß man weitgehend von Spekulationen und kaum zu
beweisenden Hypothesen abgerückt ist, sich aber dafür
mit einer Vielfalt konkreter Teilprobleme und Einzelfra-
242
Rezensionen
gen, die mit dieser Thematik Zusammenhängen, ausein-
andersetzt.
Im vorliegenden Sammelband, der aus 12 Beiträgen
besteht, die (außer dem ersten) 3 Themenkreisen zu-
geordnet sind, versuchen die Verfasser, auf interdiszi-
plinärer Basis die Grundzüge der Kulturententwicklung,
vor allem die Evolution der menschlichen Gesellschaft,
der Kunst und Religion, sowie der sprachlichen Ver-
ständigung zu verfolgen. Den Anstoß zur Verfassung
dieses Buches gab eine Konferenz über das Ritual und
die Anfänge der Kultur, die 1994 an der Londoner Uni-
versität tagte, während welcher eine engere Zusammen-
arbeit zwischen Vertretern verschiedener Disziplinen bei
Behandlung dieser Themen befürwortet wurde.
Auf das Hauptproblem dieser Publikation - die evo-
lutive Einstellung zur Kultur - weisen im Einleitungs-
artikel die Herausgeber hin. Treffend charakterisieren
sie die intensive Forschungsarbeit, die bisher zwecks
Lösung verschiedener Teilprobleme des menschlichen
Verhaltens geleistet wurde. Es wurden jedoch nicht
selten reduktionistische oder ideologisch ausgerichtete
Ansichten vertreten, die einen vertieften Dialog zwi-
schen Evolutionisten und Kulturanthropologen wesent-
lich erschwerten. Die Herausgeber bemühten sich dar-
um, dieses interdisziplinäre Gespräch wieder zu beleben,
jedoch bei Wahrung der Aussagekompetenz der Vertre-
ter verschiedener Disziplinen im Bereich des eigenen
Forschungsfeldes, denn wie treffend die Autoren be-
merkten: “Es wäre dadurch nichts erreicht, wenn die
Sozialanthropologen nur Biologen sein wollen” (9).
Den Themenkreis über die Entwicklung der mensch-
lichen Gesellschaft eröffnet C. A. Keys und L. C. Aiellos
Beitrag über die Evolution der sozialen Organisation.
Bekanntlich bildet die Zusammenarbeit von Individuen
auf verschiedener Ebene einen wesentlichen Zug der
menschlichen Gesellschaft; jedoch verschiedene For-
men des Zusammenlebens und der Kooperation können
schon bei nichtmenschlichen Primaten, selbst bei ver-
schiedenen anderen Tierarten festgestellt werden.
Die Bildung und Verwendung von Symbolen in
den zwischenmenschlichen Beziehungen wie auch deren
Rolle in verschiedenen Bereichen der menschlichen Kul-
tur untersucht P. G. Chase. Die Symbolik bildet einen
unabdingbaren Bestandteil des typisch Humanen; ana-
lysieren wir z. B. unsere Kultur, so haben ihre Erschei-
nungsformen einen durchwegs symbolischen Charakter.
Das Verhalten der heutigen Wildbeuter- und Samm-
lerethnien im Zusammenhang mit der frühen symbo-
lischen Kultur erörtert in diachronischer und synchro-
nischer Sicht A. Barnard. Das Spektrum der von ihm
behandelten Fragen ist verhältnismäßig weit. Für Ethno-
logen dürfte von besonderem Interesse seine Zusammen-
stellung der Ähnlichkeiten zwischen Wildbeutern und
Sammlern oder der Unterschiede zwischen Buschmän-
nern und Australiern sein.
Der zweite Themenkreis umfaßt vor allem Probleme
der Entwicklung von Kunst und Religion. G. F. Mil-
ler versucht, die Bedeutung der Geschlechtswahl für
die menschliche Kultur zu ermitteln, wobei er darauf
hinweist, daß verschiedene Kulturelemente, wie Kunst,
Musik, Mythen usw. mit großem Energieverbrauch ver-
bunden sind, jedoch keine direkten Überlebens vorteile
bieten. Erst in den letzten Jahren kam man auch hier
einer Lösung näher: die Zeit und Energie, die für
Ästhetik und für Kulturverhalten aufgewendet werden,
können als Fitnessindikator im sexuellen Wettbewerb
gewertet werden. Die Anfänge der Kunst verlegt C.
Power in die Zeit des Auftretens des archaischen Homo
sapiens. Die Verfasserin stellt in diesem Zusammenhang
eine sinnreiche Hypothese auf, wonach die Körperbema-
lung der Frau und der Tanz als Kunstausdrucksformen
eine wesentliche Rolle in der Sexualkonkurrenz und
Fortpflanzungsstrategie spielten, lange bevor es eine
Darstellungskunst gab. Ebenso versucht I. Watts in
seinem Artikel, die archäologischen Ockerfunde mit
dem Beginn der symbolischen Kultur zu verbinden.
Die Körperbemalung, zu einem habituellen Verfahren
entwickelt, konnte mit der Zeit auch für rituelle Zwecke
sinnvoll eingesetzt werden.
Für Forscher, die sich mit der Vorgeschichte des
Religiösen und seinen ältesten archäologischen Spuren
befassen, dürften von besonderem Interesse die Ausfüh-
rungen von S. Mithen über das Verhältnis von Symbolik
und dem Übernatürlichen sein. Bekanntlich galt die Re-
ligion bisher als unangefochtenes Wesensmerkmal des
Menschen, das ihn von subhumanen Wesen distanziert.
Der Glaube an übernatürliche Wesen ist ein universelles
Merkmal der menschlichen Gemeinschaften sowohl in
der Vergangenheit wie auch in der Gegenwart, obwohl
aus adaptiver, evolutionistischer Sicht manche religiöse
Ideen und Verhaltensweisen negativ zu beurteilen wä-
ren. Nach Ansicht des Verfassers ermöglichte erst die
Darstellung religiöser Ideen in materieller Form ihre
kulturelle Weitergabe. Es gibt jedoch keine zwingen-
den Beweise, daß derartige Symbole schon vor 30 000
Jahren existierten. Es bleibt natürlich offen, inwieweit
diese Beweisführung S. Mithens zugunsten einer späten
Datierung der Religionsanfänge anfechtbar ist, da sie
mehr Probleme aufwirft als löst, zumal andere Argu-
mente eine frühere Existenz religiöser Anschauungen zu
rechtfertigen scheinen.
Die letzte Themengruppe umfaßt vornehmlich lin-
guistische Probleme. Die Literatur aus dem Bereich der
Paläoneurologie, Archäologie, Linguistik und anderer
Disziplinen, die über Probleme des Sprachbeginns, sei-
ner Ursachen, zeitlicher Fixierung und Entwicklung der
Verbalkommunikation handelt, ist immens, doch eine
zufriedenstellende Lösung scheint sich noch nicht ab-
zuzeichnen. J. R. Hurford befaßt sich in seinem Artikel
mit den biologischen Vorbedingungen der menschlichen
Sprache. Er spricht sich für eine rasche Sprachentwick-
lung aus, nachdem diese Vorbedingungen erfüllt waren,
was seinem Ermessen nach schon vor dem Verlassen des
Homo sapiens sapiens aus Afrika größtenteils stattfand;
die endgültige Sprachentfaltung, die unsere heutigen
Sprachen kennzeichnet, erfolgte jedoch erst später.
Von besonderem Interesse ist der Beitrag R. Dunbars
über die Kultur, Ehrlichkeit und über die Ausnutzung
der Sozietät durch Personen auf Kosten anderer (free-
rider problem). Die Menschen mußten gewisse Vor-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
243
kehrungen treffen, um negative Verhaltensstrategien zu
unterbinden, wobei eine wesentliche Rolle der Sprache
zukam, da sie einen effektiven Informationsaustausch
über asoziale Handlungsweisen ermöglichte. Die Ent-
wicklung sozial anerkannter Verhaltensregeln verlegt der
Verfasser in die Zeit zwischen vor 500 000 und 50 000,
evtl. 40 000 Jahren.
Das Verhältnis von Sprachdifferenzierung und Ge-
sellschaftsentwicklung diskutiert D. Nettle. Durch die
Entstehung der Sprachen und Dialekte wurde das ethni-
sche Solidaritätsbewußtsein kooperierender Gruppen ge-
fördert, da es eine problemlose Informationsübertragung
in der eigenen Gruppe ermöglichte, das Anwachsen der
Sprachunterschiede dagegen die Gruppen-Abgrenzung
begünstigte. Im letzten Beitrag behandelt C. Knight
das Problem des Sexualverhaltens und der Sprache als
Täuschungsspiel.
Es ist verständlich, daß im vorliegenden Sammel-
band nur gewisse Themen der Kulturentwicklung aus-
führlicher behandelt werden konnten. Die damit ver-
bundenen mitunter scharfsinnigen und beeindruckenden
Argumentationen können als gut fundierter Versuch
gelten, wenigstens einige Fragen der komplexen Pro-
blematik der Anfänge, Entwicklung und Differenzierung
der Kultur, aber auch deren wahrscheinlichen Ursachen
einer Lösung näherzubringen. In verschiedenen Fällen
bemühten sich die Autoren, ihre Beweisführung u. a.
mit empirischen, statistischen, völkerkundlichen Daten
abzusichem. Natürlich ergibt sich damit die Frage der
Tragfähigkeit und Stichhaltigkeit der Argumentationen,
Begründungen und Schlußfolgerungen zugunsten der
Kulturevolution, zumal sie mehr oder minder einen hy-
pothetischen Charakter haben und bezüglich der vorge-
schichtlichen Kulturentwicklung im Grunde genommen
meistens nur einen Wahrscheinlichkeits-, Indizien- oder
A.pproximativwert haben. Besondere Vorsicht ist z. B.
bei der Erstellung von Zusammenhängen zwischen dem
materiellen Kulturinventar und der geistigen kulturellen
Entwicklung geboten. Bei nomadisierenden Wildbeutern
ünd Sammlern wird der materielle Kulturbefund, be-
sonders aus nicht vergänglichen Rohstoffen gefertigt,
§ering sein, was aber nicht von der “geistigen” Kultur
dieser Menschen behauptet werden kann. Anerkennend
kann bemerkt werden, daß die Autoren in diesem Sam-
naelband ihre Ansichten nicht apodiktisch verfechten
uad ihre Schlußfolgerungen eher moderat formulieren,
gelegentlich auch auf ihren zum Teil hypothetischen
Charakter hinweisen.
Es war inhaltlich kaum zu vermeiden, daß gewis-
Se Teilprobleme in dieser Arbeit wiederholt behandelt
Wurden. Da es jedoch aus verschiedener Sicht und
ln unterschiedlichem Zusammenhang geschah, wirkte
Slch dies nicht störend aus. Hervorzuheben ist, daß die
Beiträge bibliographisch gut dokumentiert sind und das
an ge führte Schrifttum meist neuesten Datums ist. Selbst
Wenn man nicht allen Ausführungen in den Beiträgen
v°rbehaltslos beizupflichten geneigt ist, so ist das Buch
d°ch als ganzes sehr informativ, interessant und von
hervorragender wissenschaftlicher Qualität.
FranciszekM. Rosinski
Edgar, Robert R., and Hilary Sapire: African
Apocalypse. The Story of Nontetha Nkwenkwe, a
Twentieth-Century South African Prophet. Johannes-
burg: Witwatersrand University Press; Athens: Ohio
University, Center for International Studies, 2000. 190
pp. ISBN 1-86814-337-6. (Monographs in International
Studies, Africa Series, 72) Price: $ 20.00
In this volume two historians describe the life of
Nontetha Nkwenkwe, a Xhosa woman prophet who
flourished during the severe influenza epidemic that
killed hundreds of thousands of South Africans in 1918.
Nontetha had been afflicted with the illness but recov-
ered; she claimed that she had died and been reborn and
that she was now commissioned by God to preach moral
reform among her people. She claimed that the influenza
epidemic had been sent by God to punish Xhosa and
other Africans for their wickedness. Nontetha preached
conversion to Christianity and condemned witchcraft,
beer-drinking, traditional dancing, and male circumci-
sion, as well as adultery and fornication. Eventually she
and her followers appeared to threaten the authority
of local African leaders who filed complaints with
the colonial government. She and many of her group
were arrested on the pretext that they had refused to
obey a government order to kill locusts during a local
infestation because they argued that this plague was the
result of God’s will.
In the past, the Xhosa and neighbouring peoples
had a long tradition of prophetic movements, the most
famous being the cattle-killing movement of the 1850s
which had disastrous economic and political effects.
This also occurred during the outbreak of an epidemic
(in livestock). Even during Nontetha’s own time she
was not the only African prophet to arise. The most
famous, Enoch Mgijima, founded a movement called
the Israelites whose assembly was forcibly dispersed
by government troops who shot nearly two hundred
people in 1921. While Nontetha’s movement was ba-
sically socially conservative and peaceful, the European
government had become alarmed at this increase in
prophetic activity and deemed Nontetha subversive and
contributing to local disorder. Consequently, she and
some of her followers were arrested and imprisoned in
1922. She was later freed but refused to desist from
preaching or assembling her followers. As a result,
she was rearrested in 1923 and eventually committed
to an institution for the insane. She remained incar-
cerated until her death in 1935, despite pilgrimages,
protests, and petitions by her followers seeking her
release.
The authors present Nontetha’s story in narrative
fashion with only slight social analysis. They do brief-
ly fit her into a broader tradition of Xhosa prophets
and indicate how White South African governments
viewed all African prophets with alarm since several
earlier prophets, especially those involved in the mass
catle-killings of the 1985s, had caused immense social
and economic disruption. The two authors make it clear
that Nontetha’s confinement for life in an institution for
the insane was due to European fears about Nontetha
244
Rezensionen
causing unrest and not based on any honest belief that
she was dangerously mad. During the colonial period
it was common for the South African government to
label some troublesome Africans as mentally ill, both to
discredit them and to put them away for an indefinite
period without specifying any legal charges. (Of course,
such abuse has also been a practice among various
modern governments in Europe as well.)
The authors contrast Xhosa’s relatively benign and
(by today’s standards) constructive treatment of the
mentally ill with the far harsher and unimaginative treat-
ment that Africans encountered from colonialist Whites.
They point out how such mistreatment and mislabelling
were the results of both racism and failure to grasp
cross-cultural differences in interpreting the meanings
of deviant behaviour.
Even after death, Nontetha was mistreated; her fol-
lowers and kin were not allowed to claim her body
which was put in a grave inaccesible to them. The
authors describe how the South African authorities frus-
trated all African efforts to secure Nontetha’s remains,
presumably because they feared that her body could
become the focus for a local religious shrine.
The authors emphasize how European definitions of
mental illness among Africans in South Africa served
to bolster White ideas about racial superiority, justi-
fied a double medical standard of diagnosis and treat-
ment, and provided means for controlling and segre-
gating troublesome Africans. Their discussion is highly
suggestive, but it is not accompanied with a sufficient-
ly detailed descriptive account for their arguments to
have proper weight. Still, this discussion of the cross-
cultural and colonialist implications of mental illness
remains the most interesting and provocative portion of
the study.
The authors also provide an account of how they
eventually persuaded the new, Black South African
government bureaucracy to repatriate Nontetha’s bones
to her kin and followers. The difficulties involved in
this make fascinating reading. Nontetha is now reburied
in her homeland and indeed her grave is now a shrine
to her religious movement who still persists. The issue
of repatriation of human remains and cultural artefacts
is a huge and intensely debated issue in contemporary
anthropology, especially among archaeologists, physical
anthropologists, and museologists. The authors’ book
makes a convincing and moving case for why such
repatriation is so important to indigenous peoples.
This is an attractively presented and useful study of
one South African prophetic movement, imaginatively
connected to current anthropological issues involving
both the study of mental illness and its relation to
colonial oppression and the study of the repatriation of
culturally valued materials. The moral issues are clearly
put and the case materials interesting. This volume
therefore would make an excellent work to assign as
a case study in a college course dealing with these cur-
rently hotly contended issues, especially as they relate
to how moral issues are imbedded in social research.
T. O. Beidelman
Ellis, Stephen: The Mask of Anarchy. The Destruc-
tion of Liberia and the Religious Dimension of an
African Civil War. London: C. Hurst, 1999. 350 pp.
ISBN 1-85065-417-4. Price: £ 16.50
This book falls into what Christopher Clapham once
described as the “no man’s land between politics and
anthropology.” To add to the complications it is written
by an historian, since Stephen Ellis holds a PhD in Af-
rican History from Oxford, albeit with wide experience
as editor of Africa Confidential and wide travel on the
continent. It should be said from the outset that, in writ-
ing this book, Ellis has shown great courage and scant
regard for being seen as politically correct. It asks very
awkward questions, ones that African political elites
would prefer to have us overlook, and yet questions
that are essential if the continent is to have any political
future.
Recent events in Sierra Leone will have brought
West Africa back to the headlines and an article in the
Times (9 May 1999), linking events in Sierra Leone
to the earlier Liberian conflict, shows that problems
in the area are not tribal or national but regional. The
Liberian War and its actors, including President Charles
Taylor, one of those featured in this book, are worthy
of study. For the average newspaper reader, and the
seasoned Africanist alike, these wars have presented a
series of images and reports that are almost impossible
to believe, let alone understand: men and boys dressed
in women’s clothing, even young girls, toting AK47s
high on drugs looking to kill; reports of ritualised killing
and cannibalism; a country, a whole geopolitical region
in total anarchy. Images of the cruellest mutilation lead
us to think that, although war is always cruel, these
conflicts are somehow different, that they reach a level
of depravity we find impossible to comprehend. Of
course, there may be no difference in human terms
between the awful effect of napalm or mustard gas and
that of a machete, and it is politically correct to point
this out, but the images of the Liberian war, and more
recently the Sierra Leone conflict, do ask questions that
have to be answered. What has happened here and why?
What are the implications for other zones of conflict in
Africa?
Stephen Ellis has set out to attempt to answer these
in this fascinating, and very worrying, book. Not just
why the Liberian War happened, that may be the easiest
question to answer, wars always have winners, but
why has it happened in the way it did, from Samuel
Doe’s accession to power in 1980 up the most recent
developments in Sierra Leone.
The first part of this book is what Ellis simply calls
“A Chronicle”: a history of the conflict from Samuel
Doe’s ritual murder of President Tolbert on the night
of 12 April 1980, and the bloody overthrow of the
Libero-American coastal oligarchy, to the election of
Charles Taylor as President of the remnants of the
Republic of Liberia, after a most brutal war, on 19 July
1997. Almost twenty years of uninterrupted horror. All
of this is interesting as history and provides important
background. However, the real matter of this book ts
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
245
dealt with in chapters 6 and 7 of Part II which is entitled
“An Inquiry.”
As he makes clear in the title, the war in Liberia,
and indeed all of Liberian history since the arrival of
the first American free slaves in 1822, had a strong
religious dimension. It is probably fair to say that this
is religion run amok. The symbols and rituals of both
endogenous and exogenous religions have been turned
on their head and reinvented in what to many will seem
like almost diabolical fashion. The real locus of political
power, in Africa, lies in the invisible and the route of
access passes through religious ritual. Ellis shows how
traditional religious ritual of the Poro and Sande cults
has been assimilated by the political elite and detached
from their cultural milieu to give rise to the kind of
aberrations which have shocked the world.
Reports of human sacrifice and cannibalism abound
and, Ellis claims, this has reached the highest levels
of the state. Professional “heartmen” have developed a
trade in obtaining and selling human body parts (the
heart and the liver are of greatest importance) to be
used in the ritual search for power. Children have been
torn from their homes and, through an aberration of
traditional initiation rites, turned into killing machines,
as two striking pictures opposite page 187 show. The
effects of this are shown on our television screens
and newspapers every day in gruesome detail. These
children, high on drugs, fed on a diet which is also
said to include human flesh, and drunk on their own
incredible violence, grow to glory in graphic names,
such as General Butt Naked, adapted from violent US
videos. The crude video of Samuel Doe’s brutal murder
at the hands of Prince Johnson has fed the potential
blood lust of thousands of young West Africans.
This is a deeply disturbing book. As I noted in
the beginning, it eschews all pretensions of political
correctness. It is not enough to say that the war in Gulf
claimed, in four days, many more lives than this local
conflict. That is quite simply another question, though
the Gulf War is in fact indirectly tied into this conflict
as he shows. In the opinion of many Africanists the
Third World War has actually started in Africa and
Presently engulfs large areas of the continent from the
Grat Lakes across central Africa to these conflicts which
risk involving the whole of West Africa (ECOMOG
Forces figure strongly here). It is revealing a brutality
that is almost impossible to comprehend and which
demands investigation. Ellis has searched deeply within
Liberia, making extensive use of interviews and particu-
larly contemporary newspaper cuttings in an attempt to
Patch together an idea of what has been going on. He
Underlines the possible role of the Christian churches,
'vhich abound in the country, in the process of healing
aud reconciliation. He asserts that they are providing
the vocabulary of personal and national redemption, as
y°ung people who have committed the most dreadful
Crirnes try to overcome the trauma and be “born-again,”
Certainly a useful term in this kind of hopelessness.
Ellis runs the interdisciplinary risk of satisfying
neither the political scientists nor the anthropologists but
he has had the courage to walk into the field and open
it up for investigation. He writes with evident horror at
what is going on and human concern for those involved.
While we await the work of more academic specialists,
this book deserves great attention. Patrick Claffey
Erb, Maribeth: The Manggaraians. A Guide to
Traditional Lifestyles. Singapore: Times Editions, 1999.
168 pp. ISBN 981-204-059-5. Price: $ 16.50
“Gushing Forth from the House: History and Culture
in Manggarai, Western Flores” was the original title
of this book, which is generously illustrated by many
photos. To make it fit better in the “Vanishing Cultures
of the World” series, the author simply changed the title
(9). In no way does the book describe a culture in the
process of decline, but rather deals with a culture which
is seeking to become newly aware of its traditions and
to revivify itself. The book concentrates its efforts on
the house in Manggarai culture, presenting, discussing,
and illustrating its importance.
The occasion for this book was the rebuilding of
an adat house which had been constructed 200 years
ago and had collapsed in 1960. This took place in
Todo (south central Manggarai) and was made pos-
sible by Swiss Intercorporation. This group financed
the development of the region by constructing a road
to the area and also by rebuilding the adat house to
provide an additional tourist attraction. For her part,
the author, among other things, wanted to help tourists
to recover meaning and a sense of authenticity in their
own life in modern civilization. In this very attempt is
expressed the dilemma in which the author finds herself
as well as the problem which faces the book itself:
is this an ethnography or a travel book with greater
aspirations?
The book is divided into three chapters. After a brief
introduction, the first chapter, “Traditional Manggaraian
Life” (21-63), deals with origin myths, life in the
village, birth, family, clan, marriage, death, and the
relationship with the ancestors and the environment.
Chapter two, “History” (65-99), tries to put Flores in
the context of internal Indonesian migration and early
modern trade (10th to 17th century), in which legends
related to the royal clan of Todo and the time of coloni-
zation play a special role. This history is interpreted
differently if one is a member of the group which
migrated from Minangkabau with Mashur and, as the
Todo clan, took over the power, as contrasted with one
who is a descendant of the aboriginals, who “see the
descendants of Mashur as just another rapacious set of
foreigners set on taking wealth and land away from the
autochthonous populations” (84). In the same way there
are variations in the reports about the conquest of the
Cibal clan by the Todo army which led to the supremacy
of the Todo in the Manggarai and the intrigues of these
enemy clans.
Chapter three, “The House and Village” (101-153),
contains an extensive description of the original house
of the royal clan of Todo. This represents the ideal type
246
Rezensionen
of house in which all social, economic, and political
components of life are discussed. A “Pronunciation
Guide to Manggaraian Languages” (154 f.), an extensive
“Glossary of Terms” (156-164), and an “Index” (166—
168) make up the rest of this small book. Especially
noteworthy is the layout of the book, with its many
photos and diagrams.
The book initially creates the impression of being a
smoothly written and very easy-to-understand ethnog-
raphy. The use of the ethnographic present, however,
often veils the situation and clouds one’s view of the
present condition. For one who does not know better, it
is sometimes very difficult to establish exactly whether,
where, and which customs, which rites, and ways of life,
only existed in the past or, if anything, still survive. In
the descriptions of the death customs, for example, one
can get the impression that even today bamboo poles
are used to dig the grave (48) even though this is a
thing of the past. Without doubt, many of the traditional
customs surrounding death still survive. For example,
objects which the dead used to eat are still placed on
their grave, even though not all Manggaraians have this
practice.
The comments about the typically traditional circular
way of laying out rice fields (lingko), which the village
as a whole owns and cultivates, are also certainly
interesting. The field should be an exact reflection of
the traditional round house. “Sections in the field are
partitioned out by the ... ‘leader of the land’ in portions
resembling the slices of a pie, very similar to the way
the ... [family] rooms in the house are sectioned off.
And each ... family receives one of the pie sections
of the field to work” (56). The symbolism is explained
(22-28, 54-57, 122 f.) by photographs and diagrams
related to the myths and rituals, to the round house and
the compang (village center comprised of a mound of
rocks). One gets the impression, however, that newly
cultivated rice fields still follow this pattern today, which
certainly is not true.
To be sure, myths and rituals, the way people live,
and in this particular study, the house, are especially
prone to be interpreted in a symbolic way. Symbols,
therefore, must be taken into account. Also gender
considerations are important. But if everything possible
has to be explained and linked somehow symbolically,
one is overdoing things. Symbolism can be enlivened
by fantasy and imagination, but not everything that is
round, for example, need be a symbol of the feminine.
Using the complex and ambivalent symbol of blood (135
and passim), the author often enters the realm of pure
speculation.
Chapter three, the core chapter, goes into detail
regarding the symbolism of the house, which can be
quite useful for an anthropology of architecture, space,
and gender. The reader, nevertheless, is well advised
that many of the interesting reflections of the author
are her own generalizations and cannot always be taken
at face value, as when she simply states: “It could
be said that for people in Manggarai, everything they
work at or construct becomes symbolic. Everything is a
multidimensional expression of everything else” (102).
Or, “The house is logically feminine because it encloses
its inhabitants within, just as a mother encloses within
her body the children that she later bears forth. The
house is a female in which life/people are nestled and
nurtured. If all goes well, if the house and its people
maintain the blessings of the ancestors, life indeed will
‘gush forth’ from the house... People see the house
as a symbol of society. Particularly for the royal clan of
Todo, they see the house as representing the democratic,
yet hierarchically organised, political system that their
ancestors set Up in Manggarai” (116).
To this reviewer it does not seem to be particularly
useful to call the social structure of the Todo democrat-
ic, even though it exhibits some egalitarian traces. A
study of the symbolism of the political tradition in this
context might indeed be fascinating, but insights from
history and remarks from informants allow for one to
suspect that there are many contradictions which are
not so easily resolved, which, therefore, allow for other
interpretations based on other sources. For sure, these
and other interpretations presented by M. Erb are not
shared by all Manggaraians.
The statements contained in the section “Inside the
Manggaraian House” (102-116), in spite of its general
title, do not refer to houses in Manggarai as such, but
primarily to the newly constructed round house in Todo,
built according to ancient traditions as the ideal type of
house. In such a house there were originally five “family
rooms,” whose members were associated with a specific
lineage (116-118). M. Erb admits that by 1999 a new
division of this house existed, because six families
now lived in the house (152 n. 24). When this reviewer
visited the house (17.08.2000), eight families lived there.
What is described in the ethnographic present as the
ideal does not always correspond to reality, neither in
the past nor in the present.
The hearth is a very important place where the people
interact among themselves and with the spirits; in many
ways it is a symbol of the family and of life (109-112,
145). “The rocks of the hearth represent the unity of
the family and especially the unity and interdependence
between anak rona [wife givers] and anak wina [wife
takers]” (110). Actually, the Manggaraians are them-
selves not very aware of this “Manggaraian ideology-’
In any case, it is very difficult for members of the house
to express this hearth symbolism for there is no longer
a hearth in this house. The perfectly thachted house in
its traditional form exists no more in such a wonderful,
original manner (1, 128); now, for example, people cut
holes in the roof of the house and put in clear plastic
to let daylight in. Even though it was a good idea to
build the house in its original form, it was not such a
good idea to have people live there. Had this unique
house, worth seeing to be sure, been built as an “open
air museum,” it would have been useful both as an
item of culture-historical heritage and served as a tourist
attraction at the same time.
Unfortunately the wonderful photos, most of which
are of recent vintage, are not identified by place or
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
247
date. This would have been especially useful for the
time when the Todo house was rebuilt (presumably after
1993; see p. 18), but nowhere in the book is this firmly
established. Because of such imprecise documentation,
it is not always apparent whether an old or recent picture
is meant to recall a tradition or to illustrate its continuity.
The picture of a large stone placed at the entrance of a
house, over which a person can barely climb because
it is meant to block entry to the house, was apparently
taken before the house was finished (106) and gives a
false impression. It does not document how the stone is
set in the ground now.
Even though she does not always succeed, M. Erb
tries to provide a complete picture of the history and
living traditions of the Manggaraians. To do this she can
fall back on her fieldwork (1983-86 and periodically
after 1991). She also often relies on the works of earlier
missionary anthropologists and on conversations with
missionaries, who were good ethnologists and linguists.
One example of this is Msgr. Wilhelm van Bekkum
SVD, whom she properly calls the “‘grandfather’ of
Manggaraian history and culture” (11). Another source
is Jibs A.J. Verheijen SVD. She puts the observations
and interpretations she has gathered both from the past
and the present together like stones in a mosaic to
produce a picture. She has also performed a good
service by calling attention to and making available
in English some of the important Dutch works on the
Manggaraians. Her citations and fine paraphrases of
these works will be of interest not only to ethnologists
but to educated Manggaraians as well, especially since
the book is not all that expensive. She makes the
Manggarai, whose culture and life, as we are told in
the introduction and in the conclusion, were promoted
particularly by Catholic missionaries, also available to
tourists. With this book she offers a wealth of material
for them to ponder over, to question, and by which they
might be inspired. Othmar Gàchter
Fardon, Richard: Mary Douglas. An Intellectual
Biography. London: Routledge, 1999. 315 pp. ISBN
0-415-04093-0. Price: £ 15.99
Die Wahrnehmung einer akademischen Disziplin
verändert sich, wenn man ihr nicht nur Namen, sondern
auch Gesichter zuordnen kann. Deshalb ist es vermutlich
auch so reizvoll, Kongresse zu besuchen und Biogra-
phien zu lesen: Zu bekannten Namen gesellen sich
Gesichter, die häufig in einem überraschenden Kontrast
zu den Vorstellungen stehen, die man sich von den
betreffenden Personen gemacht hat.
Bei der Biographie, die der britische Afrikanist Ri-
chard Fardon über Mary Douglas vorgelegt hat, verhält
®s sich etwas anders. Zunächst einmal will dieses Buch
gar kein biographisches Werk im herkömmlichen Sinne
sein, sondern - der Untertitel weist darauf hin - “An
Intellectual Biography”. Was das ist, wird dem Leser
schnell klar, der zum Beispiel nachschlagen möchte,
wie lange Mary Douglas in den USA gelebt hat, wo sie
heute wohnt oder womit sie sich gerade beschäftigt. Er
wird es nicht finden. Zumindest nicht ohne Mühe. Denn
persönliche Angaben dieser Art teilt Richard Fardon
allenfalls zwischen den Zeilen mit, um sich ansonsten
ganz einer Auseinandersetzung mit den Publikationen
von Mary Douglas zu widmen. Und das ist eigentlich
schade - vor allem für Leser, die sich gerne ein Bild
von der Person Mary Douglas gemacht hätten.
Von den zahlreichen Publikationen, die Mary Doug-
las über fünf Jahrzehnte hinweg veröffentlicht hat, sind
es wiederum zwei, die im Zentrum dieser Biographie
stehen: “Purity and Danger” (1966) und “Natural Sym-
bols” (1970). Diese beiden vergleichenden religions-
ethnologischen Untersuchungen haben den Ruf von Ma-
ry Douglas über die Grenzen der Sozialanthropologie
hinaus begründet. Und von daher macht es Sinn, wenn
sich Richard Fardon ausführlich mit ihnen beschäftigt.
Doch die Ausführlichkeit, die seine Besprechung der
oben genannten Werke kennzeichnet, rührt vor allem
daher, daß er eine Gewichtung der darin vertretenen
Thesen weitgehend vermeidet. Fast jeder Gedankengang
von Mary Douglas wird noch einmal aufgegriffen und
in aller Ausführlichkeit diskutiert. Was der Leser ange-
sichts der daraus resultierenden Unübersichtlichkeit ver-
mißt, ist jener elegante Federstrich, der zwischen wich-
tig und unwichtig unterscheidet. Denn Richard Fardon
scheint alles wichtig - was nicht zuletzt darin deutlich
wird, daß sich der Leser am Ende dieser Biographie in
eine Konkordanz zu “Natural Symbols” vertiefen kann,
in der die Abweichungen zwischen erster und zweiter
Auflage minutiös festgehalten werden. Doch spätestens
da wird ihm klar, daß er es eigentlich so genau gar nicht
wissen wollte.
Interessant sind eher die einleitenden Kapitel, in
denen Bezüge zwischen Douglas’ sozialem Hintergrund
und ihrem intellektuellen Werdegang hergestellt werden
- der Biograph also das tut, was Douglas vornehmlich
selbst getan hat: Ideen und Vorstellungen auf ihre sozia-
len Bedingungen zurückzuführen.
Die Bedingungen, unter denen die 1921 gebore-
ne Mary Douglas aufgewachsen ist, waren sicherlich
nicht ideal: Ihre Eltern lebten in Burma, da ihr Vater
im Dienst der dortigen britischen Kolonialverwaltung
stand. Also verbrachte Mary, geb. Tew, den größten
Teil ihrer Kindheit bei den Großeltern in Südengland.
Die ursprünglich aus Irland stammenden Großeltern
sorgten für eine konservativ-katholische Erziehung, zu
der auch der Besuch des “Sacred Heart Convent”, einer
ultramontanen Klosterschule in Roehampton gehörte.
Vermutlich wurde hier der Grundstein dafür gelegt,
daß sich Douglas später nachdrücklich für hierarchisch
strukturierte Institutionen und gegen den - wie sie es
nannte - Antiritualismus ihrer Zeit aussprechen konnte,
was vor allem in den unruhigen Jahren, die auf 1968
folgten, zu einer gewissen Marginalisierung ihrer Person
innerhalb der britischen Sozialanthropologie führte.
Die Entscheidung, sich überhaupt der Sozialanthro-
pologie zuzuwenden, war während der Kriegsjahre ge-
fallen, als Mary Douglas für das britische Kolonial-
ministerium arbeitete. Ihr weiterer beruflicher Werde-
gang läßt sich mit Fardon folgendermaßen skizzieren:
Anthropos 96.2001
248
Rezensionen
Im Oktober 1946 nimmt Mary Douglas ihr Studium
am “Oxford Institute of Social Anthropology” auf,
wo sie Vorlesungen von Edward Evans-Pritchard und
Franz Baermann Steiner besucht. Da sie unmittelbar
vor dem Krieg sechs Monate in Paris gelebt hatte, ist
sie an der französischen Soziologie und den Debatten
um L’Année Sociologique interessiert; hier ist es vor
allem Emile Durkheim, von dem sie nachhaltig beein-
flußt wird.
Ein Forschungsaufenthalt führt Mary Douglas 1949/
50 nach Belgisch Kongo zu den Leie, über die sie eine
Reihe von Aufsätzen und die Monographie “The Leie
of the Kasai” (1963) verfaßt. Einschneidend ist das Jahr
1951, insofern es private und berufliche Veränderungen
markiert: Die frisch promovierte Sozialanthropologin
heiratet James A. T. Douglas, bekommt ihr erstes Kind
und wechselt zum “University College” nach London,
wo sie bis Ende der 70er Jahre tätig sein wird.
Die vielfältigen Beziehungen ihres Mannes, der als
Politiker der konservativen Partei Karriere im Wissen-
schaftsministerium macht, erleichtern ihr den Zugang
zu Zeitschriften und Rundfunkanstalten: Sie publiziert
regelmäßig Artikel und Rezensionen und wird ihrerseits
aufmerksam rezensiert. Allgemeine Beachtung erlangt
Mary Douglas mit “Purity and Danger” (1966), ihrem
bis heute bekanntesten Buch. Insbesondere das Kapitel
“Die Greuel des dritten Buchs Mose” gewinnt nahe-
zu paradigmatischen Stellenwert, insofern es ihr darin
gelingt, die interne Logik der im Leviticus erlassenen
Speisegebote aufzudecken: Das entscheidende Kriterium
für die Reinheit von Tieren ist - mit Ausnahme von
Kamel, Schwein und einigen anderen Grenzfällen - ihre
Bewegungsweise; als rein gelten diejenigen Tiere, deren
Bewegungsapparat vollständig ausgebildet ist, so daß sie
sich auf der Erde, im Wasser oder in der Luft ihrer Art
entsprechend fortbewegen können; als unrein werden
hingegen diejenigen Tiere angesehen, die sich in ihrem
jeweiligen Element nicht eindeutig fortbewegen und
von daher gegen die zugrundeliegende klassifikatorische
Ordnung verstoßen.
Die bereits in “Purity and Danger” begonnene Aus-
einandersetzung mit dem menschlichen Körper als Sym-
bolsystem wird in “Ritual, Tabu und Körpersymbolik”
(1974), wie die deutsche Ausgabe von “Natural Sym-
bols” heißt, wieder aufgegriffen und vertieft. Douglas
entwickelt hier die These von der Analogie von Körper
und Gesellschaft: Die sozialen Bedingungen finden ihren
symbolischen Ausdruck in der Einstellung zum Körper
und seinen Funktionen, wie sich auch umgekehrt in
der Wahrnehmung des Körpers eine bestimmte Ge-
sellschaftsauffassung manifestiert. Douglas gelangt hier
nicht nur zu äußerst spannenden Einsichten, sondern der
ehemaligen Klosterschülerin kommt auch das Verdienst
zu, den menschlichen Körper als Gegenstand der Sozi-
alanthropologie entdeckt zu haben.
Im Anschluß an die beiden Hauptwerke von Mary
Douglas wendet sich Richard Fardon anderen Veröf-
fentlichungen von ihr zu; so erfahren “Implicit Mea-
nings” (1975), “The World of Goods” (1978), “Risk and
Culture” (1982) und “How Institutions Think” (1986)
eine ausführliche Würdigung. Den Abschluß bildet eine
Bibliographie der Publikationen von Mary Douglas so-
wie eine Auflistung der Rezensionen, die diese Werke
erfahren haben. (Nur in Parenthese sei erwähnt, daß die-
se Auflistung umfangreich, aber nicht vollständig ist:
Martin Silvermans Besprechung von “Natural Symbols”
in American Anthropologist 1971 fehlt ebenso wie die
von Wolf Lepenies in der Frankfurter Allgemeinen Zei-
tung vom 12. 11.1974.)
Man wird Richard Fardon nicht absprechen kön-
nen, die intellektuelle Entwicklung von Mary Douglas
sorgfältig und in aller Ausführlichkeit rekonstruiert zu
haben; ihre breitgestreuten Interessen, die in Publika-
tionen über Wirtschaft und Warenwelt, Risikobereit-
schaft und Umweltbewegung, Institution und Kognition
etc. deutlich werden, kommen ebenso zur Sprache wie
ihr auf Durkheim verweisender methodischer Ansatz.
Doch ungeachtet dieser Fülle im Detail spürt der Leser
recht deutlich, daß dieser “Intellectual Biography” etwas
Entscheidendes fehlt. Es ist die kritische Distanz ihres
Verfassers zu Person und Werk. Dies mag vor allem
damit zu tun haben, daß Richard Fardon nicht nur
der Biograph von Mary Douglas ist, sondern zugleich
auch ihr ehemaliger Schüler. Jedenfalls findet der Leser
in dieser Biographie keine offen vorgetragene Kritik,
keine ironischen Spitzen, keine kleinen Indiskretionen -
sondern nur Ehrfurcht vor der großen alten Dame der
britischen Sozialanthropologie, was auf die Dauer rasch
eintönig wird.
Dabei wäre es für den neugieren Leser sicherlich
spannend gewesen, zum Beispiel etwas über den Dau-
erstreit mit M. G. Smith zu erfahren, der 1970 als
neuer Leiter des Instituts für Sozialanthropologie am
“University College” der ambitionierten Douglas ge-
wissermaßen vor die Nase gesetzt wurde. Immerhin
dürfte dieser Konflikt mit ein Grund dafür gewesen
sein, warum Douglas 1977 in die USA ging, wo sie
zunächst für die “Russel Sage Foundation” tätig war,
bevor sie einen Lehrstuhl an der “Northwestern Univer-
sity” bekleiden konnte. Doch was die Gründe für die-
sen scheinbar verbittert geführten Kleinkrieg mit M. G.
Smith waren, bleibt ebenso offen wie die Bedeutung
der etwas kryptischen Wendung Fardons, auch Douglas
habe ihre schwierigen Seiten. Die Befangenheit Fardons
gegenüber seiner früheren Mentorin findet ihren bered-
eten Ausdruck jedoch darin, daß die erzkonservative
Haltung, die Douglas in den 70er Jahren gegenüber der
Studentenbewegung und der sogenannten Neuen Linken
eingenommen hat, von ihm mit keiner einzigen Zeile
kommentiert wird.
Statt der offiziellen Seite von Mary Douglas neue
und bislang unbekannte Facetten hinzuzufügen, verliert
sich Fardon in einer Aneinanderreihung von Rezensio-
nen altbekannter Publikationen. Von einer Biographie,
die diesen Namen tatsächlich verdient, wäre jedoch zu
erwarten, den Leser mit der Person hinter dem Werk
vertraut zu machen. Wer dem Namen Mary Douglas
nicht nur eine Reihe von Publikationen zuordnen möch-
te, sondern auch ein Gesicht, wird von dieser Biographie
eher enttäuscht sein. Volker Gottowik
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
249
Feest, Christian F. (Hrsg.): Sitting Bull - “der
letzte Indianer”. Begleitbuch zur Ausstellung im Hessi-
schen Landesmuseum Darmstadt, 13. 6. bis 17. 10. 1999.
Darmstadt: Hessisches Landesmuseum, 1999. 128 pp.,
Fotos. ISBN 3-926527-53-6. Preis: DM 35,00
Selbstverständlich war Sitting Bull nicht der letzte
Indianer - der Titel der Publikation basiert auf einem
Zitat, mit dem er die Einwilligung Angehöriger seines
Volkes in eine Landabtretung kommentierte. Dies und
viele weitere Details über einen der bekanntesten In-
dianerhäuptlinge sowie Hintergrundinformationen über
die Lakota, deren Abteilung der Hunkpapa Sitting Bull
angehörte, bieten die 34 kurzen Kapitel von insgesamt
25 Autoren.
Den Einstieg in den Themenkomplex bilden die
ersten zwei Kapitel mit einigen Überlegungen zur viel-
schichtigen Persönlichkeit Sitting Bulls und einer Ein-
führung in die politische und soziale Organisation sowie
in die Geschichte der Lakota und der verwandte Dialekte
sprechenden Dakota und Nakota bis 1862. Mit der
verheerenden Niederlage der US-Kavallerie am Little
Bighom durch Lakota, Cheyenne und Arapaho von 1876
und der daraufhin entstehenden Legendenbildung um
Sitting Bull beginnt ein Abschnitt der besonders seiner
Person gewidmet ist; zwei weitere Kapitel schildern die
Beziehung Sitting Bulls zu dem Maler und Schriftstel-
ler Rudolf Cronau und William Frederick Cody alias
Buffalo Bill.
Zurück zu den Lakota allgemein: Die nächsten vier
Kapitel beschäftigen sich mit Bereichen der traditio-
nellen Kultur vor der Reservationszeit. Den Anfang
macht hier eine ausgezeichnete, knappe Einführung in
die Thematik der als Winter Counts bekannten Stam-
meschroniken, gefolgt von einer weiteren, die alles
Wesentliche über den Bison als Lebensgrundlage für die
Lakota und anderer Völker im Plains- und Präriegebiet
umfaßt. Ebenso kurz, aber ebenfalls die wichtigsten
Informationen enthaltend, sind die Kapitel über die
Rolle des Pferdes in dieser Kultur sowie über das
kegelförmige Stangenzelt als typische Wohnform der
Lakota, dessen von ihnen gebrauchte Bezeichnung Tipi
zum allgemeinen Begriff für diese Zeitform avancierte.
Bezüglich des Tipis wäre an einer Stelle eine ausführli-
chere Erklärung desiderabel gewesen, um Mißverständ-
nisse zu verhindern: Hier wird von 1,5 bis 2 m hohen,
an den Zeltstangen befestigten umlaufenden Vorhängen
gesprochen, die das Zelt in Gepäckraum und Wohnraum
unterteilten (38). Diese Art der Raumaufteilung wurde
jedoch nur in der kalten Jahreszeit praktiziert. Voll-
kommen unerwähnt bleibt dagegen das multifunktionale
Innenzelt des unteren Zeltbereiches, welches an den
Zeltstangen befestigt wird und parallel zu ihnen verläuft.
In besonders harten Wintern konnten auch zur besseren
Isolierung beide Formen der Innenraumgestaltung unter
Nutzung des entstandenen Raumes zu Lagerzwecken
gleichzeitig auftreten; da die senkrecht verlaufende
Zwischenwand mit Pflöcken am Boden gehalten wird,
lst “Vorhang” eine etwas unglücklich gewählte Bezeich-
nung.
Auf diese generellen Abschnitte über die Lakota
folgt erneut ein Kapitel, das sich speziell auf Sitting
Bull bezieht und seinen Stammbaum behandelt. Damit
beginnt der Themenkomplex Familie; zunächst erfährt
der Leser, wie die Kinder der Lakota aufwuchsen.
Anschließend wird die Rolle der Frau bei den Lakota
dargelegt, bevor Frauen, die im Leben Sitting Bulls
eine Rolle spielten, vorgestellt werden. Ebenso wie die
der Kinder und Frauen wird die Welt der männlichen
Lakota aufgezeigt, die durch einen kurzen Abschnitt
zum Thema “Häuptling” und Sitting Bulls Stellung
abgerundet wird.
Drei weitere Kapitel decken den religiösen Bereich
ab; auch hier folgt auf den generellen Teil - die Re-
ligion der Lakota - der besonders auf Sitting Bull
zugeschnittene Teil, seine Erfahrungen mit dem Über-
natürlichen. Das dritte Kapitel, welches die christliche
Missionstätigkeit bei den Lakota umfaßt, dokumentiert
gleichzeitig Sitting Bulls Kontakte zu Geistlichen und
sein Festhalten an der traditionellen Religion.
Der Krieg wird in den folgenden drei Abschnitten
thematisiert; der erste beschäftigt sich mit den Sioux-
kriegen von 1862 bis 1876, also den Kämpfen mit
der US-Armee, während im zweiten, der Sitting Bull
in der Rolle des Kriegers präsentiert, auch indianische
Gegner erwähnt werden. Sitting Bull hatte jedoch nicht
aktiv an der Schlacht am Little Bighorn von 1876
teilgenommen, der hier ein weiterer Abschnitt gewidmet
wird; trotzdem wird seine Darstellung des Kriegsgesche-
hens neben denen anderer indianischer Beteiligter beider
Seiten diskutiert, da die indianische Perspektive hier den
Schwerpunkt bildet.
Nach der Schlacht wurde der Druck der US-Armee
auf die Lakota intensiviert, daher entschlossen sich um
die 1200 Lakota, unter ihnen Sitting Bull, zur Flucht
nach Kanada, dem Schauplatz des nächsten Kapitels.
Dort erhielten sie ein Aufenthaltsrecht, da man sie
jedoch nicht als kanadische Indianer betrachtete, hatten
sie keinen Anspruch auf staatliche Rationen und mußten
sich selbst versorgen. Zunächst gelang dies durch die
Jagd und den Tausch von Pferden und anderem Besitz
gegen Nahrungsmittel, aber nach der Ausrottung der
letzten nördlichen Bisonherden kehrten die hungernden
Lakota nach und nach in die USA zurück; 1881 ergab
sich auch Sitting Bull. Bevor aber weitere Stationen
seines Lebenswegs vorgestellt werden, dreht sich der
folgende Abschnitt um “Souvenirjäger” und die gesam-
melten Gegenstände aus “Sitting Bulls” Besitz.
Nach Sitting Bulls Rückkehr in die USA beschreibt
das sich anschließende Kapitel seine 20 Monate dau-
ernde Internierung in Fort Randeil, zu der die nächsten
beiden Abschnitte ebenfalls in Bezug stehen: Mehrere
Zeichnungen von Sitting Bull, der hier unter dem Aspekt
des Malers und Dichters angesprochen wird, sind in Fort
Randeil entstanden ebenso wie einige Photographien
von den dort festgehaltenen Lakota, wobei nun auch
generelle Bereiche der Photographie erläutert werden.
Zwei weitere Abschnitte beschäftigen sich mit der Re-
servation Standing Rock, auf welche Sitting Bull 1883
gebracht wurde. Darauf folgen, auf zwei Kapitel verteilt,
Darstellungen aus dem Jahr 1890 über den Geistertanz
Vnthropos 96.2001
250
Rezensionen
bei den Lakota und Sitting Bulls Haltung zu dieser
religiösen Bewegung, das Massaker von Wounded Knee
sowie Sitting Bulls gewaltsamen Tod bei der versuchten
Verhaftung und seine mögliche Ruhestätte.
Erfreulicherweise endet das Buch nicht mit dem Tod
der Person Sitting Bull, sondern untersucht außerdem
die weiteren Entwicklungen um den Mythos Sitting
Bull. Zunächst werden die vielseitigen Verwendungs-
möglichkeiten seines Konterfeis und Namens zwischen
Kunst und Kitsch sowie als Werbeträger für politische
und kommerzielle Ziele beschrieben. Sitting Bull in
der Literatur, ob in angeblich eigenen Schriften, Ro-
manen und mehr oder weniger wirklichkeitsgetreuen
biographischen und historischen Werken, wird im fol-
genden thematisiert. Den Abschluß dieses Komplexes
bildet ein Blick in die Welt des Films, denn auch
dort fanden Sitting Bull und Indianer im allgemeinen
immer wieder Eingang. Zu korrigieren ist hier aber,
daß Chief Chauncey Yellow Robe in dem Stummfilm
“The Silent Enemy” nicht, wie von der Autorin an-
gegeben (117), den Rivalen von Buffalo Child Long
Lance um die Häuptlingstochter darstellte, sondern den
alten Häuptling selbst. Ferner ist es auch gewagt, den
Selbstmord von Long Lance allein mit der Entdeckung
seiner wahren Identität zu begründen. Der Autor der um-
fangreichen Biographie “Long Lance” (1982), Donald
B. Smith, schrieb, eine Ermittlung der genauen Beweg-
gründe für den Suizid sei aufgrund von Long Lances
ständiger Verbreitung von Unwahrheiten über die eigene
Person nur schwer möglich; den Einfluß der Gerüchte
über seine Abstammung auf die Tat hält Smith jedoch
für gering. Als schwerwiegender führt er die Heirat der
Frau an, die Long Lance liebte, in Verbindung mit Pro-
blemen, das eigene Altem zu akzeptieren, finanzieller
Abhängigkeit, Unerfüllbarkeit beruflicher Erwartungen,
übermäßigen Alkoholgenuß, fehlenden engen Freund-
schaften etc.
Weiter abgerundet wird das Werk durch das letzte
Kapitel, welches sich mit den Lebensverhältnisses der
heutigen Lakota beschäftigt. Auch im ganzen betrachtet,
erweist sich der Aufbau der Publikation als logisch
und übersichtlich, indem z. B. häufig zuerst jeweils
ein Bereich aus dem Leben der Lakota und daran an-
schließend der gleiche Bereich auf Sitting Bull bezogen
vorgestellt wird. Die Abbildungen, die im vorliegenden
Fall natürlich Ausstellungsexponate wiedergeben, unter-
stützen den Text in anschaulicher Weise. Obwohl die
Publikation als Begleitbuch zur gleichnamigen Ausstel-
lung konzipiert wurde, also für ein breites Publikum
verständlich sein mußte, birgt sie, dadurch daß eine
einzelne Person in den Mittelpunkt gerückt wird, auch
für Leser mit Vorkenntnissen bisher unbekannte Details.
Diese Konzentration auf eine Person ist nicht nur des-
halb so gelungen, weil eine äußerst bekannte Persön-
lichkeit wie Sitting Bull gewissermaßen entmythisiert
wird, gleichzeitig aber durch Facettierung wieder an
Spannung gewinnt, sondern auch, weil die Darstellung
der Lebensgeschichte eines Einzelnen den Lakota die
sonst vorhandene Anonymität nimmt.
Dagmar Siebelt
Fuglerud, 0ivind: Life on the Outside. The Tam-
il Diaspora and Long Distance Nationalism. London:
Pluto Press, 1999. 203 pp. ISBN 0-7453-1433-3. Price:
£ 13.99
The flight of Tamil people from war-torn Sri Lanka
started in the early 1980s. Tamils have fled to South
India and to various Western nation-states. So far, only
very few studies have focused on this recent develop-
ment. Fuglerud’s study is thus highly welcome for it
takes stock of this ongoing process of flight, resettlement
in a new sociocultural environment, and maintaining
contact with the country and culture of emigration. The
account combines both empirical work, the case study
of Tamils in Norway, and theoretical reflections. With
these wider considerations, the research is stimulative
for comparative research on other settlements of Tamil
refugees in different countries in the West.
The book is divided into ten chapters. Following the
introduction, chapters 2 and 3 focus on the situation of
Tamils in Sri Lanka. The chapters provide an informed
account of the history of the ethnic conflict and the
“semantics of terror” (38) which evolved. Chapter 4
describes the process of migration to Norway, stating
exemplary distressing and extraordinary cases of flight.
The following three chapters concentrate on subsequent
processes of Tamil people getting settled in Norway,
aiming to reconstruct aspects of their cultural patterns
and customs. Fuglerud singles out the role of marriage
and its ascribed meaning as one of the crucial elements
of Tamil culture. Also, the role and impact of the
organisation of the “Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam”
(LTTE) is highlighted. Based on these accounts, chapters
8 and 9 analytically portray two poles or models of
Tamil society and identification, that of a tradition-
al and of a revolutionary society. The former model
takes its roots in kin and marriage patterns, having
been shaped to its present form during colonial times.
The latter model, that propagated by the LTTE, relates
back to precolonial ideals and their glorification. This
juxtaposition of traditional versus revolutionary models
serves to highlight the mutual distrust and criticism
apparent between the supporters of each strand. A brief
concluding chapter rounds off the analysis, featuring
concepts of self, honour, and refugee identity.
The study is rich in reconstructing Tamil cultural
patterns and aligning them to a variety of theoreti-
cal approaches and concepts. The evolving analytical
accounts are insightful, although at various times the
results become too general and jargon laden. Two points
should not go unmentioned: Unfortunately, the author
had missed that in 1996 Christopher McDowell had
already published a detailed study on Tamil migration,
settlement, and politics in Switzerland (A Tamil Asylum
Diaspora. Oxford). Taking note of McDowell’s accounts
would have provided many fruitful points for compar-
ison and contrast, thus highlighting the generalities as
well as the specificities of the case of Tamils in Norway-
Secondly, as a historian of religions I missed a more
detailed consideration of the impact of religion for Tamil
refugees in Norway. As often is the case, refugee and
Anthropos 96.2001
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251
migration studies do not take into account the role of
religious views and orientations. Rather, they attribute
a limited importance to and impact of the effect of
religion only, as does Fuglerud. This negligence is in
contrast, however, with data given by Fuglerud himself:
In letters from refugees sent back home to relatives in Sri
Lanka, repeatedly trust in God’s blessing and his help
is expressed (61). Fuglerud’s disregard of religion in
the study might have been led by the rather insufficient
importance of the only existing temple in Norway (in
Oslo). The author thus states that “religion, for example,
is largely irrelevant for organisation outside the immedi-
ate family” (87). This, however, strongly contrasts with
the situation in Great Britain, Canada, or Germany. In
Germany, for example, during the recent decade some
20 Hindu Tamil temples have been opened. Religion, not
only political bondages (i.e., the impact of the LTTE),
serves for organisational and collective gathering and
provides an identificational focus. Although Fuglerud
promises to tell us more about the Oslo temple (79), an
absence of material on this theme is notable later on.
More importantly, however, within chapter 8 on tradi-
tion, Fuglerud does not allude to religious concepts and
their importance for giving sense to daily life, both in
Sri Lanka and abroad. This tradition, strongly contested
by the revolutionary model of the LTTE, is, however,
steeped in cosmological and religious understandings.
These areas of meaning and sense, which the author only
explores for the marriage ceremony (110), constitute a
deeply meaningful domain of personal experience. It has
not been lost at all with the transplantation of Tamil
people to new regions. In contrast, often a heightened
awareness of religion can be observed and migrants
emphasise the importance of religious actions and con-
cepts. Despite these caveats, Fuglerud has presented a
theoretically ambitious account, based on a solid basis
of data and knowledge. The study provides stimulating
insights for research on other cultural or national migrant
people living in diaspora. Scholars and students pursuing
research on long distance nationalism will find Fugle-
rud’s interpretations and analysis very helpful indeed.
Martin Baumann
Gade, Daniel W.: Nature and Culture in the Andes.
Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1999.
287 pp. ISBN 0-299-16124-2.
Der allgemeine Titel des Buches von Daniel W. Gade
ist Programm, denn der Autor legt hier eine Art Re-
sümee seiner jahrzehntelangen Beschäftigung mit der
Kulturgeographie des Andengebietes vor. Darüber hin-
aus nimmt Gade in diesem trotz des weiten Blick-
winkels dennoch bündigen Text zu allgemeineren Fra-
gen Stellung, wie etwa zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte der
Geographie und verwandter Disziplinen, oder auch zu
erkenntnistheoretischen Problemen, die ihn besonders
bewegen. Als Ergebnis präsentiert Gade mit “Nature
and Culture in the Andes” ein reifes Werk, in dem er
dem Leser die Summe seiner Erkenntnisse aus 35 Jahren
Forschung vermitteln möchte.
Im Vordergrund von Gades Arbeit steht die Er-
forschung der Zusammenhänge zwischen Natur und
Kultur, vor allem der Wunsch, zu erkennen, in wel-
cher Weise diese Elemente Zusammenwirken und sich
gegenseitig beeinflussen. Obgleich seine Überlegungen
durchaus auf einer soliden empirischen Basis ruhen,
ist die Anhäufung von Datenmaterial nicht das Ziel
seiner Bemühungen. Gade plädiert vielmehr dafür, die
gewonnenen Informationen als Grundlage für die Inter-
pretation zu nutzen, die sich, falls nötig, auch durchaus
der Intuition bedienen darf, um das empirische Materi-
al in sinnvollen Zusammenhang zu bringen. Genauer
gesagt, möchte Gade die dem Verhältnis von Natur
und Kultur zugrundeliegenden Zusammenhänge zutage
fördern, also durch die Erforschung des Tandems Natur/
Kultur zu einer Art Welterkenntnis gelangen. Zentral
für die Konzeption dieses Vorhabens sind die Vorga-
ben einiger Gelehrter, besonders diejenigen von J. W.
von Goethe, A. von Humboldt und des Geographen
Carl O. Sauer, auf die Gade immer wieder zurück-
greift. Goethes Einfluß wird in mehrfacher Hinsicht
wirksam. So beruft sich Daniel W. Gade speziell auf
Goethes Ansicht, daß der Zusammenhang zwischen
Erscheinungen nur in bestimmter Weise erfaßt werden
kann, durch eine Art “verstehendes Sehen”, das über
die bloße naturwissenschaftliche Betrachtung hinausgeht
(7), und daß es außerdem darauf ankommt, wie man
die Dinge ansieht (13). Auch Goethes Warnung vor
vorschnellem Theoretisieren nimmt Gade sehr ernst,
wobei er - wie ich meine, zu Recht - auf die Gefahr
hinweist, daß Zeitströmungen und Wissenschaftsmoden
bei der Theoriebildung eine unverhältnismäßig große
Rolle spielen (12, 215). Gänzlich ausschalten lassen sich
diese Faktoren ja ohnehin nicht.
Das erste, einleitende Kapitel enthält neben den Aus-
führungen zur Entwicklung der Kulturgeographie bezie-
hungsweise der Disziplinen, die zur Erforschung des
Natur/Kultur-Tandems beigetragen haben, einen Ab-
schnitt mit autobiographischen Angaben. Darin zeich-
net der Verfasser seinen wissenschaftlichen Werdegang
nach, der von Beobachtungen der Umwelt und ein-
schneidenden Naturerlebnissen im Kindesalter über das
rege Interesse des Heranwachsenden für geographi-
sche Fragestellungen bis zum jungen Wissenschaftler
bei seinen ersten Feldforschungen verfolgt wird. Wohl
hauptsächlich von der Absicht getragen, sich als Autor
kenntlich zu machen und sozusagen in seinem Werk
zu situieren, baut diese Art biographischer Einführung
nach meinem Dafürhalten eher einen Mythos um den
Verfasser auf. Gade teilt uns hier beispielsweise mit,
daß er schon als Jugendlicher “anders” als seine Alters-
genossen war und zeichnet vor dem Auge des Lesers -
sicherlich unbewußt und ungewollt - das Bild eines früh
berufenen, ja gewissermaßen “geborenen Wissenschaft-
lers” (8-15). Eine Verklärung seiner Person strebte Gade
damit jedoch bestimmt nicht an, und in anderer Hinsicht
kann der autobiographische Abschnitt durchaus zum
Verständnis des Buches beitragen, indem er die Leser
darüber unterrichtet, wie der Autor über viele Jahre
hinweg schließlich zu seiner auf das Zusammenspiel von
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252
Rezensionen
Kultur und Natur ausgerichteten holistischen Sichtweise
gekommen ist.
Nach dieser ersten allgemeinen Einführung folgt
ein zweites Kapitel, in dem grundlegende Elemente
der Andenkulturen erläutert werden. Gade befaßt sich
zunächst mit den unterschiedlichen Bedeutungen des
Begriffs “Anden” in verschiedenen Epochen. Ursprüng-
lich zur Bezeichnung der Bewohner des östlichen Teils
des Inkareichs geprägt, wandelt sich der Begriff zur Be-
nennung eines geographischen Gebiets, um schließlich
einen Kulturraum zu umreißen (31-36). In weiteren
sieben Kapiteln widmet sich Gade jeweils einzelnen
Problemen, die das Zusammenwirken von Natur und
Kultur in den Anden aus verschiedenen Blickwinkeln
beleuchten. Der Autor diskutiert darin zentrale Themen
der Kulturgeographie des Andengebietes in Form einzel-
ner Essays. In der Zusammenschau des abschließenden
zehnten Kapitels zieht er dann Verbindungslinien zwi-
schen den einzelnen Problemkreisen und unternimmt es,
die dispersen Einzelthemen in einen größeren interpre-
tativen Zusammenhang zu bringen.
Den Reigen der Essays zu ausgewählten Themen
der andinen Kulturgeographie eröffnet ein Beitrag zur
Abholzung und Wiederaufforstung des zentralen An-
denhochlandes (42-74). Gade zeigt, daß in dieser Fra-
ge allein die Beobachtung rezenter Verhältnisse nicht
zu befriedigenden Ergebnissen führen kann. Erst in
der historischen Betrachtung wird der enorme Ein-
fluß menschlicher Einwirkung auf die Vegetation der
Hochanden bereits in präkolumbischer Zeit deutlich.
Häufig gingen frühere Interpretationsansätze davon aus,
es habe ohnehin in historischer Zeit niemals größe-
re Baumbestände im Hochland der Anden gegeben,
oder begnügten sich mit der Untersuchung der durch
Menschen herbeigeführten Veränderungen in der Ko-
lonialzeit. Gade vertritt dagegen die Auffassung, das
Wirken der präkolumbischen und kolonialen Bewohner
sei für 90% der Zerstörung des andinen Waldbestandes
verantwortlich (73). In ähnlicher Weise bemüht sich
der Autor in den folgenden Kapiteln darum, anhand
detaillierter Einzeluntersuchungen frühere Forschungs-
ergebnisse zu ergänzen und nötigenfalls zu revidieren.
Im vierten Kapitel befaßt sich Gade mit den Zusam-
menhängen zwischen der Malaria und dem Rückgang
der Besiedlung im Gebiet des Rio Mizque, Bolivien.
Auch hier sind nach Gades Untersuchungen die Men-
schen ursprünglich die Auslöser für die Ausbreitung
der Krankheit in dieser Region gewesen (75-101).
Thema des fünften Kapitels ist die Frage, weshalb die
Milch der neuweltlichen Cameliden nicht genutzt wurde
(102-117). Die Verbindung von Epilepsie mit religiösen
Vorstellungen und mit dem Tapir bildet den Gegenstand
des sechsten Kapitels (118-136). Unter dem Titel “Val-
leys of Mystery on the Peruvian Jungle Margin and the
Inca Coca Connection” erfahren wir, daß in vorkolo-
nialer Zeit sowohl das Hochland als auch die Region
am Ostabhang der Anden viel dichter besiedelt waren,
als dies in der Kolonialzeit oder sogar heute der Fall ist,
und daß die Coca-Produktion hierfür verantwortlich war
(137-156). Kapitel 8 befaßt sich mit der Einführung der
Ratte nach Amerika, die als blinder Passagier auf den
Schiffen der Eroberer reiste. Besonders Küstenstädte
wie Guayaquil, das hier als Beispiel dient, hatten unter
den Folgen der Rattenplage zu leiden. Es stellt sich
jedoch heraus, daß in den verflossenen Jahrhunder-
ten keine effektiven Maßnahmen zur Beseitigung der
Ratten ergriffen wurden, die Tiere vielmehr als eine
Art unvermeidliche Begleiterscheinung des Stadtlebens
erduldet werden (157-183). Im letzten der thematischen
Essays widmet sich Gade mit Blick auf die Rolle der
Anden einem besonderen Anliegen Carl Sauers, der
Vielfalt neuweltlicher Feldfrüchte und ihrer Herkunft.
Das neunte Kapitel würdigt Sauers verdienstvolle Arbeit
und ergänzt die Erkenntnisse des großen Wissenschaft-
lers durch die Ergebnisse neuester Forschung (184—
213).
Daniel W. Gades Buch zeichnet sich aus durch eine
unprätentiöse, klare Darstellung zentraler Probleme der
andinen Kulturgeographie und verwandter Disziplinen,
die zugleich allgemeinverständlich ist und dem kom-
plexen Sachverhalt doch immer Rechnung trägt. Die
einzelnen Essays zu bestimmten Fragestellungen ver-
mitteln den Lesern in knapper Form den neuesten wis-
senschaftlichen Kenntnisstand und bieten schon durch
die Verschiedenheit der behandelten Themen eine ab-
wechslungsreiche Lektüre. Seinem eingangs formulier-
ten Anspruch, das Zusammenwirken von Natur und
Kultur im Andengebiet aufzuspüren, wird Gade voll
und ganz gerecht. “Nature and Culture in the Andes”
bringt in mustergültiger Weise interdisziplinäres Ar-
beiten zur Geltung. Das Buch hält daher sowohl für
Vertreter verschiedener Wissenschaftszweige, als auch
für interessierte Laien auf dem Gebiet der andinen
Kulturgeographie eine Fülle neuer Einsichten bereit.
Iris Gareis
García, Silvia P., y Diana S. Rolandi: Cuentos
de las tres abuelas. Narrativa de Antofagasta de la
Sierra. Buenos Aires: UNESCO, 2000. 238 pp. ISBN
987-98034-0-X.
Since 1995 the authors have been conducting ex-
tensive anthropological fieldwork in the Department
of Antofagasta de la Sierra (province of Catamarca,
northwestern Argentina). Therefore, this volume is a
summary of the outcomes of their research. The area
where these narratives have been gathered, Antofagasta
de la Sierra, exhibits some geographical peculiarities -
located at 3,500 a.s.l., it is one of the largest departments
(28,100 km2) and, at the same time, one of the less
populated ones in the province (923 inhabitants).
The book is basically a compilation of stories, leg-
ends, and beliefs obtained by the authors in the area.
Through the diffusion of these materials, both Rolandi
and Garcia have tried to reach two main objectives: on
the one hand, to achieve a revaluation of the locals’
oral narratives, especially the female art of narration.
On the other hand, they have attempted to create a text
that may be divulged and have a didactic application,
and which could be useful to the popular libraries and
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
253
schools in the area. The idea is that the work may be
used by teachers as a pedagogical tool in order to have
full access to the social and cultural realities of their
pupils and thus be able to better relate with them.
The authors have structured the narratives on the
basis of the presence and the voices of three women,
“the three grandmothers,” from whom most of the
community’s neighbours descend - Polonia Chávez,
Femandina Reales, and Desideria Miraval. Rolandi and
Garcia consider that these women have embodied the
regional tradition. Their narratives will thus reflect both
the fiction and the reality of their lives. In this combi-
nation of fiction and reality, the chronology of real facts
has not always been followed. However, all the stories
and narratives compiled in this volume are of easy read.
The authors also present the life stories of these three
women, whose particular narration skills are evidenced
throughout the text.
Thus, through everyday situations, all the stories are
slowly knitted in relation to traditions, customs, and
beliefs feeding the symbolic and mythical universe of
such a special region as the Argentine southern Puna.
The authors effectively develop the narrative corpus,
leading the reader along the local calendar, with the
succession of seasons and their corresponding activities
- Spring and “All Souls’ Day,” Winter and Pachama-
ma’s Day, Summer and cattle branding, carnival, and
the like. Hence it is evident how, on the basis of nar-
ratives, a cycle of annual tasks and festivities is vividly
constructed, where the environment, human beings, and
mythical characters coexist in delicate harmony.
The second part of the book is titled “Colección
de cuentos.” Here the stories have been grouped into
different categories (extraordinary stories, animal sto-
ries, historical and legendary traditions, ghost stories,
religious stories, and so forth). Special attention deserve
the stories on fox, called Juan, as well as those referring
to Pachamama, an earth deity that is strongly present in
the locals’ everyday life, as the region’s animals’ and
minerals’ mistress and guardian.
The authors have also embarked on the further task of
analysing how these stories are narrated by the children
of Antofagasta themselves, as a way of encouraging
and valuing both their contents and the very act of
narrating. To this end, the book is provided with a series
of colour plates illustrating several stories in the light
of the children’s perceptions. The volume includes a
glossary of regional words or phrases which facilitates
reading, as the Spanish pronunciation of the area and its
fegionalisms have been kept in the transcription.
The reader will appreciate the authors’ effort and
dedication in trying to make an anthropological inves-
tigation be an interesting and understandable piece of
Work. The result is a combination of an unusual richness
of contents and of pleasant reading, suitable for its
diffusion among the lay audience. Two objectives have
been attained. On the one hand, that of preserving and
divulging the oral tradition, basically transmitted by the
Women of the area; and on the other, the objective of
Providing reference material to be used among school
children so that they can acquire their traditional lore,
thus contributing to its revaluation.
The abundant information found in these pages, the
length and description of the stories, along with the
detailed information on the informants’ daily lives can
only be the fruit of hard work. It is both authors’ merit
then to have managed to penetrate each individual’s
family environment, thus affectionately and warmly
revealing the minute weave of the locals’ existence.
In this sense, the children’s drawings deserve special
attention as they have not only illustrated the narratives
compiled but also, based on those stories, they have
recreated their own vision of events, adding a more
praiseworthy element to the attempt of portraying the
spirit of Antofagasta de la Sierra’s community.
Lorena Isabel Cordoba
Gingrich, Andre: Erkundungen. Themen der eth-
nologischen Forschung. Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 1999.
310 pp. ISBN 3-205-98992-9. Preis: DM 58,00
In the introduction Gingrich spells out his agenda.
Anthropology or ethnology, the two are interchangeable
for the author, once thought to have exhausted its
intellectual capital, has experienced a robust revival,
while the mainstream social and cultural sciences, like
sociology, political science, education, history, have
found it difficult to keep up. This is evidenced by an
upsurge in enrolments in anthropology in the universities
and also reflected by the burgeoning interest of the
general public as evidenced by attendance at museum
exhibits related to all things “ethnic.” Migrations and
mixtures of people from different parts of the world have
also stimulated interest in ethnic restaurants, art, folk
culture, styles of dress, so much so that one can speak
of an “ethnic boom.” This often also leads to attempts
to understand the “other” in our midst. Anthropology
should offer a path to this end.
The mainstream social sciences, restricting their the-
oretical and methodical efforts to their own societies,
i.e., to their own nation-states, find themselves some-
what adrift as the impact and importance of the nation-
state has diminished, this the result of individualization,
regionalization, and globalization, which have gripped
and transformed the world. Anthropology, with its em-
phasis on the local, yet its concern with larger com-
parative and transcultural analysis, is uniquely suited to
address the issues which modernity and postmodernity,
not to mention the demise of colonialism and population
movements, have brought to the fore so dramatically.
Then, in five parts and fifteen chapters, the author
addresses the importance and impact ethnology can have
today, both theoretically and practically. In part one,
in one chapter he sets the stage for what follows by
reflecting on fieldwork played off against the concept of
a journey or the travel generally connected with the way
ethnologists do research. This can also be easily related
to the notion of “crossing over.”
Part II, consisting of four chapters, addresses four
major issues of fieldwork, all of them of intense cur-
Anthropos 96.2001
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Rezensionen
rent interest. These, briefly, are: 1) What theoretical
and methodological objectives are suitable for research
in local and small scale societies? 2) What narrative
and stylistic means are available to make this research
available and intelligible? 3) How to handle the local in
the wider context of the regional and transnational in an
age of globalization? 4) To what extent can the results
of local, intense field research be generalized and more
broadly utilized, thus contributing to the general stock
of social science theory?
Explicitly the four chapters, describing and analyzing
the author’s own field research in Yemen, address each
of these issues in turn. The first issue is treated in the
context (ch. 3) of how a guest is treated to a meal in
Yemen. The next concern is placed (ch. 4) in the context
of the various ways information is gathered and how
this can vary as one dialogues with different people of
different backgrounds, whether in writing or verbally,
how the background of the researcher also changes the
mode and style of interaction. In every case dialogue is
important. At the end there still remains the problem of
writing this all down so as to present as accurate and
comprehensive an account as possible for one’s peers
and the general public.
The transnational context of the local is brought
out in the next chapter (ch. 5) with the intriguing title
of “Culture in the Seraglio Today: the Transnational
Context of the Local.” For the author the seraglio is a
metaphor recalling the Islamic world, which transcends
the local. It also calls attention to the point that connec-
tions between Europe and the Near East have existed for
many years. This chapter was originally written for the
Salzburg (Mozart) Festival in 1997. The author points
out repeatedly that the local has long been linked to
the regional and the international. Moreover, today with
the mass media, television especially, but the internet
as well, the local level is in direct contact, not only
with other Muslim cultures but with the world. Finally
(ch. 6) the author uses the concept of time and ritual in
its various Yemen understandings as a possible way of
generalizing one’s local field research and thus advance
the cause of systematic ethnological development of
theory (115).
The third section, comprised of five chapters, ad-
vances the explication of how ethnology can contribute
to the understanding of today’s changing world by
looking at anthropology’s contributions in the past, by
presenting a history of anthropology, to see where the
discipline has been and where it is going, what in it is
perennial and what is passing fad. After an introduction
in which the author shows the importance of looking
at the history of anthropology and the background
from which the author himself comes, he begins with
the history of Austrian ethnology and its involvement
with Oriental Studies, namely the study of the Near
East, Islam and Arabia (ch. 7). In this chapter, I was
very glad to see him give credit to Joseph Hennin-
ger, whom this reviewer knew personally (124 ff.; 147;
221). In the next chapter (8) he expands his history
to include German social and cultural anthropology.
The chapter is brief for the time span it covers (1790-
1960).
In the next chapter (9), the author chronologically
continues what he began in the previous two chapters. I
found this chapter penetrating and insightful. Ethnology
in German-speaking countries is on the move but is
still burdened by two clear carry-overs from the past.
It is still too hegemonically dominated by white males
of German-speaking origin and has not paid enough
attention to the variety, or better, the lack of variety, of
epistemological, theoretical, and methodical approaches
consequent upon this. There has been some contact with
the international mainstream of related social disciplines
by Germany-speaking ethnologists, but more remains to
be done within ethnology itself. This chapter, in a sense,
also introduces the next two chapters on ethnology and
gender studies (ch. 10) and possible paths to transcultur-
al analysis (ch. 11), in which Gingrich discusses trends
and paradigm changes in Euro-american anthropology
in the 20th century. In the first of these two chapters
(10), he relates gender studies to ethnology, especially in
Germany, to indicate, among other things, how and why
women were not integrated into the discipline either as
practitioners or as appropriate objects of investigation.
Things changed as women themselves became research-
ers to develop quite different understandings of women
than earlier male researchers had come up with. This
forced other kinds of questions on the discipline. In this
chapter, the relationship between sociopolitical trends
and ideology as these can affect ethnology is brought
out loud and clear.
The last chapter (11) in part III first discusses the
concepts quite commonly shared by anthropologists
on which a common analytical approach might build,
namely, cultural relativism (coming from Boas), func-
tionalism (brought in from E. Dürkheim), and structur-
alism (through M. Mauss to C. Lévi-Strauss). Gingrich
concludes this chapter with a lengthy discussion of
postmodernism and anthropology.
The fourth and next to final part of the book returns
(ch. 12) to a brief reflection on certain common key
concepts for anyone working today in the Islamic world
of North Africa and Western Asia (“Vorderer Orient”
in German). This chapter, in a sense, is an introduction
to the next one (13), in which Gingrich returns again
to his own field research. It has the interesting title:
“The Prophet’s Smile and Other Riddles. The Analysis
of Arab Tribes (Stämme) and the Comparison of Close
Marriages.” Both topics offer the possibility of proceed-
ing from the local to the regional and transnational. The
notions of tribe and close marriages, in the case of many
Arabic groups that of parallel cousin marriages, specif-
ically Father’s Brother’s Daughter, offer an excellent
opportunity to develop and advance theory, a major con-
cern of the author in this book. Following his own guide-
lines he looks to the history of work done in these areas,
then to his own and others’ fieldwork contributions to
show how his area of expertise can add to theories of
tribe, tribal politics, kinship, and marriage, broadening
them in some cases, serving as a corrective in others.
Anthropos 96.2001
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255
Chapters 14 and 15 are closely related. They both
deal with present times, namely the postcolonial era.
In the author’s general approach, colonialism and post-
colonialism are two aspects of globalization, an on-
going process which ethnology can no longer ignore.
Thus the discipline of ethnology is brought up to the
present.
So far, in very brief form, the contents of the book,
most of which can be viewed as a history of anthropolo-
gy in terms of theory and practical research. Even in the
more concrete studies of the author, he cites the work
of others to indicate what their and his own analysis
can contribute. A feature of the book I found useful and
enlightening was the way the author related ethnology
throughout to the larger context in which it operates and
how this, in turn, affects its theories and other results.
Events like globalization, movements and ideologies
like National Socialism in the 30s and 40s, philosophies,
modernism and postmodernism, the impact of related
social sciences and other economic and sociopolitical
trends, are all taken up in several parts of the book.
Moreover, no longer can a static, smooth description be
considered the final end result of field research. One
must recognize that every culture and social system
is a “work in progress,” with its own contradictions
and internal struggles for power and control. Nor can a
system be viewed simply as an “object” of investigation;
its subjectivity must also be recognized. The author
makes a sustained effort to point out that although the
anthropologist normally begins with the local, this can
no longer be properly understood without placing it in
a regional, even in a transregional/transcultural context.
Also, as times change, some earlier analytic work, like
diffusionism in ethnology, might be usefully looked at
again in light this time of the transnational and global
“flow” of people and cultural items (271).
All of the chapters in this book have appeared else-
where in a different format, most of them quite recently.
They are introduced in groups; then each piece is again
modified to make it fit better in the context of what
the book intends, namely to explore ethnology in terms
of the theoretical and methodological contributions it
can make in today’s and the future’s world. All these
mtroductions make the book seem somewhat repetitious,
but necessary perhaps to rephrase the articles to a
different purpose than originally intended.
Finally, though the author is interested and intends
to further the theoretical and methodological base of
ethnology, he is also concerned with its practical ap-
plicability in this new changed world where self and
stranger find themselves more and more living next door
to each other or linked instantaneously by electronic me-
dia, thus affecting each other’s lives in very immediate
^ays. Truly, no man is an island, if ever they were.
Ernest Brandewie
Gottschalk, Burkhard: Bei den Wahrsagern im
Land der Lobi. Die Kunst, Verborgenes zu entdecken.
Düsseldorf: Verlag U. Gottschalk, 1999. 203 pp.
Der Autor ist ein Ästhet. Dieses fast quadratische
Buch in die Hand zu nehmen und darin zu blättern,
ist ein Genuss. Die Fotos von Menschen, Landschaften,
Häusern und Kultobjekten sind ausdrucksstark. Die Auf-
machung des Buches vermittelt, dass hier keine wissen-
schaftliche Publikation vorliegt, sondern ein Kunstband
mit ausführlicherer Erläuterung, als dies bei Bildbänden
sonst üblich ist. Werden die 134 Textseiten mir den Sinn
der Bilder vermitteln? Mit dieser Fragestellung begann
ich, das Buch zu lesen.
“Während der erste Teil dieser Publikation mein per-
sönliches Erlebnis einer Konsultation bei einem Wahr-
sager der Lobi schildert, die zu einem verblüffenden
Ergebnis führte, beschreibt der zweite Teil nicht nur
verschiedene Arten der Durchführung, sondern geht
auch auf afrikanische Sicht- und Denkweisen ein, die
für uns westlich geprägte Menschen schwer zu ver-
stehen und letztlich kaum völlig zu ergründen sind”
(7). Der Autor versucht also persönliches Erleben mit
grundsätzlichen Aussagen über afrikanisches Denken zu
verbinden. Diesen Ansatz finde ich gut.
Die Leserinnen, denen konfuse Vorstellungen von
“Naturreligion” im Kopf herumschwirren mögen, wer-
den aufgeklärt: “Im Wesen ihrer Religionen unterschei-
den sie sich jedoch nicht von den Schrift- oder Hochre-
ligionen, da sie sich auch einer Gottheit untergeordnet
fühlen. Ihnen fehlt lediglich eine Heilige Schrift, in
der durch Gebote und Verbote ein Moralkodex fest-
geschrieben ist” (51). Fehlt eine solche Heilige Schrift
wirklich? Können Verbote und Moralkodex nicht auch
mündlich überliefert werden? Was wie eine Aufwer-
tung afrikanischen Denkens erscheint, entpuppt sich als
eine eurozentrische Wertung. Die figürlichen Kultob-
jekte werden andererseits gegen mögliche Misskonzep-
tionen plausibel erklärt: “So bietet sich Mächten und
Kräften, an deren erdnahes Wirken man glaubt, ein
weites Betätigungsfeld. Auch sie sind nicht genau zu
definieren und daher auch nicht grundsätzlich gut oder
böse. Man stellt sie sich zum Teil als Geistwesen vor,
denen man eine äußere Form schafft, in der sie sich
zeitweise materialisieren oder hineinrufen lassen” (52).
Deutlich wird, dass nicht die Kultobjekte verehrt oder
beopfert werden, sondern zeitweilig dort gegenwärtige
Geistwesen.
Das persönliche Erleben des Autors befremdet mich
bisweilen. “So fotografieren wir in der Hoffnung, wenigs-
tens die Atmosphäre dieses Raumes heraufbeschören
zu können. Dem Alten scheint seine passive Rolle in
diesem Geschehen nicht zu behagen, denn er beob-
achtet unsere Aktivitäten mit wachsendem Missmut.
Schließlich gebietet er Einhalt. Von einigen Fotos sei
die Rede gewesen, aber nun seien es beaucoup trop,
also ‘zu viele’, sagt er unwirsch und zeigt mit seinem
Spazierstock auf die Filmdöschen zu unseren Füßen.
Nachträglich stellt sich heraus, dass er nicht etwa in Sor-
ge war, die anwesenden Geister könnten erzürnt werden,
sondern dass er mit seinem Einspruch ein Gespräch über
weitere finanzielle Forderungen einleiten wollte, der wir
schließlich nachkommen, denn wir hatten mehr erreicht,
als möglich schien” (39 f.). Der Wahrsager wird als ein
Anthropos 96.2001
256
Rezensionen
geldgieriges Schlitzohr dargestellt. Ich aber sehe vor
meinen Augen, wie die Fotografen mit ihren Kameras
durch den sonst heiligen Raum hechten. Ich kann das
wachsende Unbehagen des Wahrsagers nachempfinden.
Wie anders als durch eine Erhöhung des Tributs kann
die Würde des Raumes und der Person des Wahrsagers
wieder hergestellt werden? Am liebsten hätte ich das
gesamte erste Kapitel “Bei den Wahrsagern im Land
der Lobi” gar nicht gelesen. Es ist eine Auflistung von
Fototerminen bei verschiedenen Wahrsagern und eine
Beschreibung der Vorgefundenen Kultobjekte. Die dabei
entstandenen vorzüglichen Fotos verlieren für mich an
Geheimnisvollem. Woher nehmen wir Europäerinnen
das Recht, uns an der Ästhetik des Heiligen uns fremder
Kulte zu ergötzen?
“Die Arbeitsweise der Wahrsager in Afrika darf
heute als relativ gut erforscht bezeichnet werden” (53),
unterrichtet der Autor in dem Kapitel “Die Kunst,
Verborgenes zu entdecken”. Zwar bekomme ich einige
interessante Literaturhinweise, aber keine zusammen-
fassende Aussage über das Wesen dieser Kunst. Statt-
dessen werden die unterschiedlichsten Orakelformen in
verschiedenen Ländern aufgezählt und rudimentär be-
schrieben. Sogar ein Blick auf den chinesischen Glau-
ben an Geistwesen wird gewagt. Doch werden weder
Vergleiche gezogen, noch wird auf eine andere Weise
eine Systematik erkennbar. Somit bleibt mir letztlich
das Anliegen dieses neuen Buches über die Wahrsagerei
verschwommen. Offensichtlich ist der Autor selber hin
und her gerissen: “Aber trotz aller Akribie, der oft
verblüffenden Fähigkeit der Wahrsager ‘Verborgenes zu
entdecken’ auf die Schliche zu kommen, trotz mehr
oder weniger einleuchtender Erklärungen für den Er-
folg vieler Vorgänge und Maßnahmen der Akteure,
bleibt ein Rest, dem rational nicht beizukommen ist”
(54). Dem Autor wurde “Verblüffendes” orakelt. Doch
statt das Geheimnis als ein solches stehen zu lassen,
versucht er den Wahrsagern doch immer wieder “auf
die Schliche” zu kommen: “Die Kunst der Deutung
durch den Wahrsager nimmt oft lange Zeit in Anspruch.
Sie beruht auf langjähriger Erfahrung, aber auch auf
der Kenntnis der Lebensumstände des Klienten und
gelegentlich auch dessen, was die Alten im Dorf von
ihm erwarten, damit der soziale Friede wiederhergestellt
wird oder erhalten bleibt” (95 f.). Einsichten in afrikani-
sches Denken stehen neben eurozentrischen Ansichten.
So lese ich: “Die Konsultationen, für die es vielfältige
Anlässe gibt, dienen in erster Linie dem Zweck, den
übernatürlichen Anlass für ein natürliches Geschehen
zu erkennen, um ihn geistig bewältigen zu können ...
Jede Kleinigkeit hat einen Verursacher: die Gewalt der
Natur, Fetische, Hexer genannte Menschen oder solche
mit magischen Kräften, die thila oder die Ahnen. Alles
Geschehen ist gewollt und hat daher eine Bedeutung”
(108). Hinter diese Aussage fällt folgender Erklärungs-
versuch zurück: “Später erfahren wir, dass sich hier ein
Kandidat für das Amt des Bürgermeisters beraten ließ,
bevor er sich einer Wahl stellte - die er schließlich
gewann. Ein Zufall? Zumindest hat der günstige Ver-
lauf der Konsultation seine Überzeugung gestärkt, vom
Volk gewählt zu werden, und das ist schon der halbe
Erfolg” (33).
Was halte ich insgesamt von dem Buch? Der Autor
bemüht sich darum, afrikanisches Denken vom Ballast
eurozentrischer Wertung zu befreien. Das gelingt ihm
nur ansatzweise. Die Stärke des Buches liegt eindeutig
in den Bildern. Sollte ich es zu korrigieren haben,
würde ich es um etwa die Hälfte des Textes kürzen
und versuchen die beabsichtigten Aussagen zu verdeutli-
chen. Ein tieferes Eindringen in “die Kunst, Verborgenes
zu entdecken” ermöglicht der vorliegende Band nach
meinem Empfinden nicht. Godula Kosack
Hampton, O. W. “Bud”: Culture of Stone. Sacred
and Profane Uses of Stone among the Dani. College
Station: Texas A & M University Press, 1999. 331 pp.,
photos. ISBN 0-89096-870-5. (Texas A & M University
Anthropology Series, 2) Price: £ 69.95
This is a puzzling book. It is a based on a thesis
which gained Hampton a Ph. D. in 1997. He assembled
the data for his thesis during 19 months of field research,
carried out in the highlands of western New Guinea,
from 1982 to 1993. His devotion to field research is
admirable given that he was over 50 years of age when
he started a project which forced him to trek through
rugged terrain. While most of his book deals with the
Dani, especially the Grand Valley Dani, his discussion
extends to ethnic groups to the east of the Grand Valley
of the Baliem.
After an introductory chapter, Hampton first de-
scribes the uses of stone artefacts among western New
Guinea highlanders distinguishing between their use as
tools, as wealth items for exchange, and as sacred
objects venerated in ritual. Subsequently he describes
their quarrying and manufacture. The accounts of ritual
and of the manufacture of stone artefacts make good
ethnography. Especially impressive are the lengthy de-
scriptions of the religious paraphernalia in a men’s house
and of a ritual in which the sacred stones, representing
or embodying ancestors, are vested with new power.
Here the author expounds on the earlier descriptions
by Broekhuyse and Peters. His information on sacred
compounds is novel. He also provides important ad-
ditional information on the sun cult centered in three
ritual houses to the northeast of the Grand Valley (K-
Heider, Grand Valley Dani: Peacful Warriors. New York
1997: 174).
In the introductory and concluding chapters, Hamp'
ton formulates his theoretical orientation. He follows an
explicitly evolutionary approach, viewing New Guinea
highlanders as neolithic farmers, in the process of be-
coming organised in chiefdoms (8). His conception of
social evolution seems a unilinear one. Such a view
is unwarranted. What seems noteworthy about New
Guinea highlanders is rather that, at least at the time
of contact with Europeans, they were not organised
in chiefdoms, notwithstanding the very long time their
ancestors had practised agriculture. Moreover, in the
concluding chapter he writes about the use of human
Anthropos 96.2001
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257
jawbones in Grand Valley ritual that they “may be the
culturally earliest example of human bones as religious
relics,” since in his view they are used in “later-evolved”
religions (305). However, such an association of specific
elements of religion with specific forms of sociocultural
organisation seems, again, unwarranted.
With two exceptions Hampton uses the ethnographic
present in his book. The exceptions are the description of
events which he observed in the course of his fieldwork
and his rather brief discussion of trade. Hence, apart
from trade, he conveys the idea that his descriptions of
stone tool uses fit the cultural scene of the 1980s and
early 1990s. His photographs show highlanders wearing
exclusively precolonial attire and using stone tools.
Yet, at that time western New Guinea highlanders had
been exposed for decades to the behaviour, teachings,
directives, and punishments of foreign administrators
and missionaries. In the early 1960s, Western Dani
had en masse converted to Christianity, in the process
discarding their exchange and ritual stones. It is unclear
how many they withheld. Not surprisingly, the rituals
which the author describes took place among the Grand
Valley Dani who had been much less receptive to
missionisation.
Nevertheless, Heider states that from the 1970s Fran-
ciscan missionaries had had success with their prosely-
tisation, possibly since they allowed syncretic forms of
religion (Heider 1997: 175). Hampton does not acknowl-
edge this. Some of his Grand Valley Dani collaborators
were men who, in 1961, had worked with the Harvard
Peabody team of which Broekhuyse, Gardner, Heider,
and Matthiessen were members and which produced a
range of ethnographic work including the film “Dead
Birds.” Hampton mentions Pua who features as a boy
swineherd in “Dead Birds.” But he does not mention
that since then Pua had set up a tourist hostel - an
enterprise which had failed - and, as Heider reports
(1997: 162), had lived outside the Grand Valley, hence
had witnessed other ways of life. The experience had
most likely given him a more reflexive view of his
own culture which in turn may have influenced what
he told Hampton. Likewise, Wali, an early collaborator
With the members of the Harvard Peabody team, and the
main celebrant in the ritual which Hampton so admirably
describes, had, reports Heider (1997: 173), started a fish
breeding enterprise. Hampton does state that Gutelu,
an outstanding leader among the Grand Valley Dani,
had converted to the Catholic faith, but, by putting
“conversion” in inverted commas, he appears to question
its authenticity (116).
Overall, the author is most selective in his use of eth-
nographic sources. Of Heider’s extensive publications
on the Grand Valley Dani he refers only to the 1970
monograph “The Dugum Dani.” He does not address
a discrepancy between Heider’s and his own descrip-
tion of the leadership of Gutelu, paramount among
the Dugum Dani when Heider started his fieldwork.
According to Heider he lost his prominence in the course
°f the 1960s. Hampton got to know Gutelu as an old
tnan, but describes him as still paramount, due to his
supernatural power. Because Gutelu’s leadership was
acknowledged by outsiders, because he had travelled
away from the Grand Valley, and had met president
Sukarno (Heider 1997: 162), these factors may also have
bolstered his status. Furthermore, the author reports that,
shortly before Gutelu died, he instructed his sons to
put an especially sacred stone upright against the ritual
cabinet at the back of his men’s house “facing the people
of the ... [Grand Valley] so that its power [author’s
emphasis] may go forth unobstructed to make fertile
all of the fields of the Valley that they may produce
abundant crops of sweet potatoes, even those of my
enemies ... that there will no longer be wars and that
the people will be safe” (146). These instructions are in
sharp contrast to what Peters, Broekhuyse, and Heider
found in the 1960s. They reported that at that time war
was an obligation to the ancestors and that the Grand
Valley Dani were fighting each other interminably, with
considerable loss of life.
Such discrepancies suggest that Grand Valley Dani
have modified their way of life prompted by their
interaction with colonial and postcolonial outsiders.
Hampton does not discuss this issue. As a consequence
it remains unclear whether his additions to the ethnog-
raphy of Grand Valley Dani religion are elaborations
implemented since the early 1960s or whether they were
already part of their religion at that time, but were not
divulged to outsiders.
However, most puzzling is his ignoring the work
of Pierre and Anne-Marie Pétrequin. The Pétrequins
carried out fieldwork in the same area as did Hampton;
they worked on the same topic and in the same time
period. Some of the New Guineans with whom Hampton
collaborated were also collaborators of the Pétrequins.
They published a major book about their findings in
1993 (Ecologie d’un outil: le hache de pierre en Irian
Jaya [Indonésie], Paris), well before Hampton submitted
his Ph. D. thesis. Unfamiliarity with the French language
cannot be a reason, given that he refers to an earlier work
of the Pétrequins dealing with French prehistory. Had he
discussed their New Guinean research, and given more
attention to that of his other colleagues, his book would
have gained a great deal. Anton Ploeg
Heady, Patrick: The Hard People. Rivalry, Sym-
pathy, and Social Structure in an Alpine Valley. Am-
sterdam: Harwood Academie Publishers, 1999. 248 pp.
ISBN 90-5702-341-5. (Studies in Anthropology and
History, 26) Price: $ 48.00
L’ouvrage est une monographie, celle du Val De-
gano, au nord d’Udine en Carnie italienne, doublée
d’un véritable traité sur les sentiments collectifs d’un
groupe d’habitants du Frioul. En ce sens il est une
thèse aux conséquences impressionnantes et innova-
trices. Bien qu’il s’appuie sur une bonne coordination
des spécialistes italiens et anglais concernés, le plan
reste original, voire déroutant et provocateur, ce me sem-
ble, dans la profession, et pour le domaine des Alpes.
Anthropos 96.2001
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258
On sort de l’ethnographie courante, de type helvétique
ou autrichienne. On va vers une anthropologie générale
de l’Europe rurale.
Dans l’introduction l’auteur ouvre immédiatement
les questions théoriques de l’ethnographie alpine en
soulignant combien les champs ou problèmes d’études
se combinent difficilement avec leurs localisations. Et si
dans les sociétés non-européennes, on avait extrait des
modèles formels à partir des comportements collectifs,
reste que pour l’arc alpin ces comportements collectifs
sont difficilement conciliables avec la mentalité actuelle
des choix individuels, émanant des mêmes membres de
ces communautés étudiées. Difficilement conciliables,
certes, mais néanmoins cohabitant dans les sentiments
et revendiqués dans les attitudes. L’Europe contempo-
raine serait donc aussi communautariste, puisque capa-
ble d’articuler les relations entre l’action pratique, la
cognition et les modèles sociaux.
Patrick Heady en s’affrontant à ce qui n’est pas
clair dans la théorie, parvient à une singulière mise à
plat des moeurs, grâce à son expérience de terrain (4
séjours, soit environ 10 mois entre 1989 et 1994). Par
exemple, dans le chapitre sur la rivalité et la cohésion,
l’anthropologue anglais en posture de pur observateur
impartial n’obéit pas aux grandes divisions académiques
latines, qui positionnent d’avance les institutions en
lutte, non, il décrit tranquillement les habitudes, les
discours et les sentiments les plus crus en lien avec
Vosteria, puis il passe au bâtiment d’en face, l’église.
Il en fait des lieux de culte inversés. “The activity
in the church is opposite in every way to that in
the bar.” Le procédé, expérimentaliste et également
structuraliste, lui permet de comprendre en profondeur
les rôles du prêtre, en tant qu’acteur naturel de la vie
locale. Cependant Heady s’évite ainsi de questionner
le croyance, du moins dans les termes théologiques.
Non, il poursuit prosaïquement sa démonstration en
étudiant le 3e type de bâtiment public, la latteria ou
fruitière, dont l’étage est une salle des fêtes. Le 4e type
sera la plaça, à l’abandon, que fréquentent les vieux
seuls. Au quatuor des bâtiments, Heady confronte quatre
types de mouvements collectifs dans le pays (ce que
les folkloristes nommaient coutumes calendaires): les
rogations, la tournée des étrennes, le gîr del pais par
les conscrits et le bric et gei.
Même procédé en ce qui concerne les rites du
mariage, puisque l’anthropologue explique, au sein du
système de l’endogamie villageoise, qu’il y trouve l’é-
quivalent du prix de la fiancée dans la coutume de
Yentrastalas (soit environ 150 000 lires) à payer par le
fiancé-rapteur qui annulerait ainsi sa dette en partant
avec sa villageoise séduite. Il dédommage ainsi les
garçons d’une perte en travail et fécondité, locale, suite
à l’émigration d’une jeune femme. Ceci en lien avec la
cérémonie des cidulas, disques de bois brûlés, lancés de
nuit par les conscrits qui hurlent dans la campagne leurs
dédicaces, en faveur ou défaveur de couples souhaités ou
supposés bien aller ensemble; ainsi les amoureux sont-ils
contrôlés et les conscrits sont respectés; il s’en suit un
bal. On doit relever que l’ouvrage est très puissant dans
Rezensionen
sa façon de décrire et expliquer les coutumes pratiquées
par les habitants.
Il sera un livre de référence pour les Alpes italiennes,
dans ce sens d’explicitation du patrimoine folklorique.
Toutefois cela contraste dans les mêmes chapitres avec
des phrases neutres, évitables lieux communs obligés
du cursus universitaire, comme “mariage et code de
séduction reflètent et renforcent la structure sociale
coopérative de la communauté villageoise.”
Le chapitre 7 sur les relations sociales en lien avec
le symbolisme de la nature. Ici l’auteur montre qu’il
s’intégre dans le courant des ethnologues européanistes
méditerranéens des Boulay, Pina-Cabral, Verdier, en
jonglant, comme un virtuose, avec la centrale notion de
fertilité naturelle et humaine, entretenue par les moeurs,
les valeurs et les sentiments des Carniens. Processus
biologiques et principes d’ordre et stabilité vont de
pair; que ce soit à travers les pouvoirs attribués à la
lune (bonne pour le mais, mais engendrant aussi des
désordres) au soleil, à certains animaux et à quelques
plantes: “l’autorité et l’intégrité de toute unité sociale
tombe sous la dépendance de sa force morale et de sa
vigueur biologique”. Ainsi la lune encapsule une énergie
en même temps qu’elle est un signe de certaine relation
sociale précise.
Le thème central du livre est la violence décrite et
revendiquée par les habitants. Ils se définissent comme
dûr, à la tâche, dans les rapports humains, avec le
monde. L’explication de type cosmologique est om-
niprésente. Heady en plus va longuement tenter de
construire un modèle de “ceux-qui-mangent-la-polen-
ta-à-grains-grossiers”. Dûreté comme “the capacity to
deploy physical and psychological strength in one’s own
interest”. Mais aussi sierât comme volonté et effort col-
lectif de ravaler les émotions, taciturnité, goût du secret,
exclusivité, tous ces sentiments, Heady les énumère puis
les enfile sur des réflexes, mais aussi sur des fêtes, des
rumeurs, des procès. Heady devrait continuer dans cette
direction très prometteuse pour comprendre les Alpins
en profondeur et sur la longue durée. Une hypothèse
reste à vérifier: est-ce que les conflits équilibrent les
communautés?
Indirectement d’autres crises de conscience chez les
indigènes comme les sentiments du déclin villageois,
sous l’effet de la mondialisation et de la mise en friche
des zones rurales, avec sa perte de Yallegria (joie et
l’être-ensemble) sont aussi mis en perspective. Heady
souligne la tension irréconciliable entre le désir de
camaraderie et le désir d’être meilleur que les autres. En
contraste avec la rivalité des attitudes de renonciation
et de pureté font obstacle à l’envie et à la jalousie
toujours renaissante. L’ensemble engendre des conflits
de jalousie, des continuelles médisances; les sentiments
d’hostilité sont ouverts. S’agit-il seulement de créer un
ordre, de contenir une communauté et d’incarner un
O
idéal en établissant une police perpétuelle des moeurs-
D’autres analyses pertinentes: les “sacrifici” au sens de
corvées ou bien d’entraides alternées dans l’intérêt a
long terme de la communauté montre bien que, dans Ie
passé, on “savait mieux ne pas être égoïste”.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
259
L’auteur traite aussi d’autres aspects davantage so-
ciologiques, utiles pour saisir l’Europe contemporaine:
les solidarités sociales avec leurs transformations suc-
cessives, leurs sauts d’échelle entre villages, l’éveil et
la fragmentation de la nation, les régions internes, les
minorités et enfin les régions transfrontalières. Le tout
étant remué en permanence par des conflits internes et
externes, administratifs, judiciaires ou belliqueux.
Il bat en brèche les stéréotypes politiciens comme
les tendances au campanilismo. Il scrute la théorie de
l’invention de la tradition générant identité et valeurs
communes. La tradition aurait dû continuer, le retour à
la tradition serait un essai de sauvetage identitaire.
Cependant trois dilemmes subsistent à la lecture de
l'ouvrage. Comment le docteur en anthropologie peut-il
maîtriser tout cela sans mentionner en appui des rites les
contes et légendes du pays? D’ailleurs Heady en mettant
à la première place les sentiments annule toute référence
à l’imaginaire. Exit Jung et Freud. Même si l’auteur
est humain, détaché, scientifique, il ne s’appuie que sur
des sources anthropologiques. Pourquoi pas, mais est-ce-
tenable ou bien alors c’est génial? Second dilemme: son
approche est ruraliste; qu’en est-il de ce l’on nommait
la bourgeoisie citadine ou les élites mondialistes, quels
sont leur importance au Frioul? Dernier dilemme: quand
il se réfère à Pina-Cabral pour attester qu’au Val Degano,
comme au Portugal, les processions paradent dans une
circularité à droite et que cela a un sens cosmique oublié,
on ressent comme des garanties académiques et des clins
d’oeil symbolistes, qui affaiblissent la force du sujet
central, si bien traité par ailleurs: la dureté.
Enfin et pour contrôler le bien-fondé de la collection
“Harwood Studies in Anthropology and History” j’ai
soumis (sacrilège de lèse-académisme) la lecture à une
personne Suissesse, qui n’est pas ethnologue, une lectrice
moyenne, anglophone, ayant habité dans divers cantons
des Alpes suisses. Il en ressort que des similitudes
existent avec les gens des vallées du Tessin (Valle Mag-
gia, Bavona, Verzasca notamment) en ce qui touche les
rapports entre la communauté (commune, patriziato) et
la sphère privée. Ici aussi la fracture est permanent entre
les indigènes riches et pauvres “i siôrs” et “sot paron”,
Parce qu’il ne faut en aucune circonstance être rede-
vable avec toutes les autolimitations dans les relations
humaines que cela implique. Et aussi le bilinguisme, les
petits hameaux/fractions d’en haut et d’en bas sont ty-
piques de l’univers de la montagne. L’étude est originale
mais pas singulière quant aux comportements décris,
néanmoins louable pour un anglais car tous les aspects
sont pris en considération.
Pour les ethnologues européanistes les conclusions
du livre sont justes mais on attend l’effet d’un tel livre
sur place en Camie (l’auteur en a-t-il tenu compte?).
En attendant on peut affirmer que Heady est un reclas-
sificateur de l’ethnographie. Il est un brillant penseur
des sentiments humains et somme toute, en tant qu’an-
thropologue expérimenté, il relance la grande tradition
hes historiens et des savants Anglais dans les Alpes.
Puissent les Alpins à leur tour le lire et lui répondre sur
lours sentiments! Christophe Gros
Heald, Suzette: Manhood and Morality. Sex,
Violence, and Ritual in Gisu Society. London:
Routledge, 1999. 192 pp. ISBN 0-415-18578-5. Price:
£ 14.99
Suzette Heald did extensive fieldwork among the
Gisu people of Eastern Uganda in the late 1960s and
published a fine monograph in 1989, “Controlling An-
ger: The Anthropology of Gisu Violence.” The present
book is a collection of eight articles that extend and
deepen themes from the earlier one. Seven of these
pieces have already been published (between 1982 and
1995), three in the journal Africa and two in Man, so
ethnographers of East Africa will be familiar with some
of these chapters. Still it is always revealing to see an
assortment of articles as a corpus, and it is useful to
have this particular selection between two covers.
The book addresses what Heald calls “the paradoxes
of culture ... the way schemas for living create, through
the very imposition of given types of meaning, intracta-
ble moral dilemmas” (6). The schemas with which she
is concerned relate to manhood, violence, sex, ritual,
and ethnicity. In the best tradition of British Africanist
anthropology, Heald gives us rich ethnography of Gisu
social structure, ritual, and cosmology. Inspired by psy-
chological and psychoanalytic perspectives, she goes on
to explore the implications of social and cultural patterns
for the individual psyche. The particular patterns and di-
lemmas that fascinate her are Gisu ideas of masculinity,
their social and ritual forms, and their implications for
society and the individual.
The first three articles deal with the central cultural
focus of circumcision, a rite that is transformational
and not simply transitional. Gisu circumcision rituals
are held every other year, and boys between the ages
of 18 and 25 must decide for themselves when they
want to be circumcised. A boy chooses to make himself
a man by undergoing the fearsome ordeal. As Heald
showed in her earlier monograph, circumcision both
creates lirima, translated as anger, and ideally teaches
a man to control it. The rituals extol martial virtues
and impart a kind of battleproofing (42) through the
celebration of violence and conquering of fear. Thus
is defined a “nation of violent men” (46) and a social
and psychological dilemma. While aggressiveness can
have social value, it can tip over into socially destructive
and dangerous behaviour. In an egalitarian culture where
aggression is not controlled by political authorities, the
onus is on every man to exert self-control. Choosing
circumcision is “an act of individuation” and it is this
ability to take initiative, to steer oneself, and to bear
a culture seen as “harsh and onerous” that encourages
every man to be a hero. Heald points out that all men
do not undergo the trial of the knife heroically. She
estimates that two or three of every ten boys do not live
up to the standards of courage. Heald does not examine
the situation of these boys; they are interesting primarily
as a contrast to the ideal of bravery. She is concerned
to show the logic of cultural values and personality
structure, emphasising “the person” rather than people,
“the individual” rather than individuals.
Anthropos 96.2001
260
Rezensionen
Having laid out the “vernacular psychology” as ex-
pressed in circumcision, Heald explores it further in an
article on witches and thieves in Bugisu. While every
man must have lirima in the sense of force of character
to act as an autonomous agent, some men are seen as
dominated or driven by it. These are moral categories
cum social types; persons are defined as witches or
thieves on the basis of character assessments rather than
concrete acts. Heald gives a sociological explanation of
why young men, struggling to establish marriages and
households, are more often accused of being thieves,
while witchcraft is imputed to older men, who control
the resources needed by the young.
The explication of Gisu moral categories continues
in the article on joking and avoidance. Heald argues that
these classic topics in Africanist anthropology are to be
understood in Bugisu as two forms of a common prin-
ciple of restraint in social life. Joking relationships are
those in which the protagonists have forsworn hatred and
conflict, while love and sexuality are abjured between
mothers and sons-in-law. The Gisu notion of restraint,
lukoosi, is tied to the importance of self-control, that
Heald has already argued is central in this egalitarian
society.
Another variation on the theme of restraint appears
in the article on the power of sex, which addresses John
Caldwell’s thesis on African sexuality. Heald criticizes
Caldwell’s argument that most sub-Saharan African
societies take a matter-of-fact secular view of sexuality
rather than endowing it with moral and religious sig-
nificance. Respect is a central moral issue in most East
African cultures and it entails restraint and restrictions
in expressions of sexuality. Adducing examples from
Bugisu and elsewhere in Eastern Africa, she shows that
conjugal sexuality is often construed as a powerful moral
force and metaphor for social relationships. But as Heald
herself acknowledges, both Caldwell’s formulation and
her own concern a traditional rural African world that is
assumed to explain the present. She concludes by calling
for more historically situated accounts. Her own material
is analysed to reveal cultural ideals. The question is
whether this could be used as a basis for understanding
not only present practices concerning sexuality, but also
the local appropriation of new discourses in the wake of
the AIDS education campaign in Uganda.
In some egalitarian East African societies, diviners
or prophets exercise a good deal of authority. This is
not the case in Bugisu, and Heald devotes a chapter
to discussing why. Diviners are consulted concerning
family misfortunes, matters on which their clients are
knowledgeable. They offer measures that often fail to
alleviate troubles. Thus, argues Heald, scepticism about
the power and authority of diviners is widespread,
and almost inevitable. She goes further to suggest that
modem publics in the West may be more gullible, more
willing to accept expertise, than those societies where
knowledge is grounded in, and tested against, common
experience (102). Gisu diviners offer no public and
common vision or leadership as do prophets or Christian
religious leaders. They are too preoccupied with the
private existential problems of individuals and families,
and too vulnerable to scepticism.
The final chapter in the book, and the only one
that has not been previously published, is called “Tribal
Rites and Tribal Rights.” It ranges over several themes
including the meaning of tradition in Gisu society and
the image of masculinity associated with circumcision
in different East African societies. What I found most
interesting was the consideration of how individual
rights may be set in opposition to “tribal rites.” Heald
uses a newspaper article from 1995 about how a man
who rejected Gisu circumcision tried to redefine his
tribal identity. She draws parallels with the famous S.M.
Otieno case from Kenya, where the right of a widow to
bury her husband was contested by his clansmen in the
name of Luo tradition. In discussing this theme Heald
was drawn beyond her general concern with the logic
of cultural patterns. She linked the situation and actions
of an individual to historically specific possibilities.
Each of the chapters of this book explicates manhood
and morality as cultural logic based on assumptions
about personhood and the individual that make sense
in terms of the social organization of rural Bugisu. The
project is one of abstraction in order to show patterns.
In the process, individuality and subjective immediacy
are transcended, and general configurations overshadow
inconsistencies and variation. There is little sense of real
individuals grappling with the dilemmas Heald posits
and it would be easy to criticize this book for neglecting
agency and individual voices. But it is equally important
to appreciate it for its commitment to the endeavour
of cultural analysis, which is still a mainstay of our
discipline. It is not by chance that the book is dedicated
to Mary Douglas.
Suzette Heald left Bugisu more than 30 years ago
and all of her primary material is from the late 1960s.
There is a timelessness about the analysis that stems
from her interest in the relation between personality
structures and cultural patterns. Manhood and morality
are not presented in historical context - except in a
general sense that these were ideals for a warrior way
of life, now gone. (In some of her other work, such
as that on Gisu vigilante groups in the late 1960s,
historical specifity is more pronounced.) The historical
transformations of the last three decades have intensified
diversities in Gisu society that already existed at the
time of Heald’s fieldwork. In the years of political
instability and rebuilding of civil society, male elites
have emerged based on wealth, education, business
acumen, and connections. Violence has continued to
mark Bugisu, and “banditry” there is regularly reported
in the national newspapers. More widespread schooling’
efforts to promote gender equality, and the cultural
impact of the AIDS campaigns have complicated the
picture Heald paints.
As a worker in the same fields (starting fieldwork
in the neighbouring district just as she was completing
hers), I find much to esteem in this book. The ethnO'
graphic labour and craftsmanship are of a high standard;
the careful working out of patterns of kinship and the
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
261
sensitive analysis of details of ritual are admirable.
There is much that I find convincing and enlightening in
relation to what I know of eastern Uganda. The writing
is fluent, vigourous and intelligent. Heald discusses the
Africanist literature in useful and interesting ways. It is
my hope that a new generation of field researchers will
find inspiration here to examine variation and changes
in the relation between cultural patterns and individual
subjects as it bears on gender, violence, and morality.
Susan Reynolds Whyte
Heersink, Christiaan: Dependence on Green Gold.
A Socio-Economic History of the Indonesian Coconut
Island Selayar. Leiden: KITLV Press, 1999. 371 pp.
ISBN 90-6718-129-3. (Verhandelingen van het Konink-
lijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 184)
Price: hfl 60.00
Manche Regionen dieser Welt sind in mehrfacher
Hinsicht peripher: Sie standen und stehen jenseits der
großen politischen Bühne wie der tiefgreifenden ökono-
mischen Transformationsprozesse, und sie wurden und
werden von der Forschung nahezu vollständig vernach-
lässigt. All dies trifft auch auf Selayar zu, eine Insel
mit heute rund 90.000 Einwohnern, die zur indone-
sischen Provinz Südsulawesi gehört. Die vorliegende
Studie widmet sich dem Unterfangen, zumindest das
Forschungsdefizit zu beheben und dadurch gleichzeitig
die übrigen Dimensionen der peripheren Existenz der
Insel aus historischer Perspektive kritisch zu beleuch-
ten. Behandelt werden etwa 350 Jahre der lokalen
Geschichte bis zur Unabhängigkeit Indonesiens, wobei
drei miteinander verbundene thematische Schwerpunkte
gesetzt sind: erstens die Prozesse wirtschaftlicher An-
passung, zweitens der Wettbewerb um politische Macht
und drittens die sozioökonomische Differenzierung der
Bevölkerung. Das Werk basiert in erster Linie auf Ar-
chivquellen in Holland und Indonesien, die im Vergleich
zu anderen - weniger peripheren - Regionen relativ
Wenige Informationen boten, weil Ostindonesien für die
Kolonisatoren generell wirtschaftlich recht uninteres-
sant war. Zusätzlich hielt sich der Autor für ein Jahr
(1990/91) in Ujung Pandang (Makassar) auf, von wo
aus er für Interviews mehrere Kurzreisen nach Selayar
unternahm.
Die Stärke des Buches liegt im ethnographischen
Detail. Entsprechend besteht im Hinblick auf die drei
analytischen Ebenen (16) ein eindeutiges Gefälle von
der Mikroebene hin zur Makroebene. Globale Zusam-
menhänge etwa im Sinne des Weltmarktes in der späte-
ren Kolonialzeit (Makroebene) werden zwar aufgegrif-
fen, jedoch ebensowenig vertieft wie die diesbezüglich
relevanten theoretischen Modelle (z. B. Dependenztheo-
rie). Jedoch ist es gerade Heersinks Anliegen aufzu-
zeigen, daß solche Modelle den direktiven Einfluß des
kolonial-westlichen Kapitalismus auf lokalhistorische
Entwicklungen überschätzen, das heißt im vorliegenden
pall, daß sie aus ihrer euro-zentrischen Perspektive
die insel-peripheren Prozesse nicht adäquat erfassen
können. Lokale Gemeinschaften waren nicht nur passi-
ve Opfer westlich-kapitalistischer Hegemonie, sondern
haben vielfältige aktive Beiträge zu ihrer Geschichte
geleistet. Darüber hinaus gilt gerade für den südost-
asiatischen Archipel, daß hier sozioökonomische Pro-
zesse immer hochgradig polyzentrischer Natur waren.
Diesen Sachverhalt legt der Autor (auf der Mesoebene)
überzeugend dar und weist dabei gleichzeitig nach, wie
unterschiedlich die genannten Prozesse in Ostindonesien
gegenüber Regionen wie Java und Sumatra verliefen, die
von jeher im Zentrum westlich gelenkten ökonomischen
Wachstums wie auch westlicher Geschichtsforschung
gestanden haben. Wie in Selayar dieser historische
Verlauf genau gestaltet war, wird schließlich auf der
Mikroebene im Detail elaboriert.
Die Gliederung ist im wesentlichen chronologisch
aufgebaut. Der Einleitung schließt sich zunächst ei-
ne Darstellung des lokalökonomischen und soziopoliti-
schen Hintergrundes von Selayar an. Aus ethnologischer
Perspektive ist letzterer - wohl weil fast ausschließlich
aus Sekundärquellen hergeleitet - insofern nicht durch-
weg befriedigend vermittelt, als das kulturelle Verhältnis
der Selayaresen zu den übrigen Gesellschaften Südsula-
wesis nicht vollständig plausibel gemacht wird. Auch
wirken Feststellungen wie “inhabitants ... puzzling me
with their Statements that almost everyone seemed to
be ... (second- or third-degree cousins) of each other”
(320) auf eine ethnologische Leserschaft zumindest et-
was unprofessionell. Immerhin wird deutlich, daß sich
durch Einwanderung und andere exogene Einflüsse von
benachbarten Inseln eine spezifische Selayar-Identität
herausgebildet hat, die dennoch in großen Teilen (nicht
zuletzt in linguistischer Hinsicht) auf der makassari-
schen Kultur basiert. In jedem Falle bestehen nicht nur
“minor linguistic differences” gegenüber dem Buginesi-
schen (30), denn beide Sprachen sind nicht gegenseitig
verständlich.
Heersink untergliedert die Geschichte Selayars zwi-
schen 1600 und 1950 in fünf Phasen. In der ersten
Phase, die der Autor zwischen 1600 und 1850 ansetzt,
dominierte eine traditionelle Elite Wirtschaft und Politik,
wenngleich beide Bereiche schon damals bedeutenden
sozioökonomischen Veränderungen unterlegen waren.
Aufgrund der kritischen ökologischen Rahmenbedin-
gungen, die eine nur unzureichende Nahrungsproduk-
tion erlaubten, waren Textilproduktion und -handel von
zentraler wirtschaftlicher Bedeutung. Dies hatte für die
politische Struktur zur Folge, daß alle lokalen Führer
ihre Macht auf eigene ökonomische Quellen stützen
konnten.
Nach dem Beginn der Kolonisierung in der Mitte
des 17.Jhs. fungierte Selayar lange Zeit als Kontroll-
posten innerhalb der von Holland dominierten Han-
delswege im Archipel. Parallel dazu weiteten die Be-
wohner jedoch auch eigene ökonomische Strategien aus
und reagierten damit auf die steigende Nachfrage an
Produkten wie Trepang und Kokosnüssen. Vor allem
letztere gelangten zu überragender Bedeutung nicht nur
im ökonomischen, sondern auch im gesamtkulturellen
Sinne. Die Kultivierung der Kokospalme ist auch unter
kritischen klimatischen Bedingungen relativ einfach. Da
Anthropos 96.2001
262
Rezensionen
sich die Westküste Selayars als besonders geeignet für
den Anbau erwies, ergab sich zwischen diesem Teil
und dem Rest der Insel bald eine Differenzierung, die
auch die politische Struktur einschloß. Während die
Kolonialherren ihre Zentralmacht allgemein zu Lasten
der traditionellen Führer (opu) festigten, wurden die
Führer in der Kokosregion der Westküste zunehmend
wohlhabender und einflußreicher.
Mit der Expansion des Außenhandels verstärkte sich
die interne Differenzierung der Gesellschaft in einer
zweiten Phase (1850-1900), wobei nun nach und nach
chinesische Zwischenhändler eine Schlüsselrolle einzu-
nehmen begannen. Selayars Bedeutung als Exporteur
von Kokosprodukten wuchs sprunghaft. Mit beginnen-
der Einbindung in den Weltmarkt und mit steigenden
Marktpreisen für Kopra wurde die Wirtschaft jedoch
zunehmend einseitig orientiert. Auf einer Insel, auf
der sonst praktisch nichts wächst, war bald eine voll-
ständige Abhängigkeit von einem einzigen Produkt ent-
standen.
In der dritten historischen Phase (1900-1929) er-
reichten diese Verhältnisse einen Höhepunkt. Kokospal-
men und ihre Produkte waren nun die Hauptquelle für
Reichtum und primärer Statusindikator auch im rituellen
Bereich (Heiratsgaben), sie waren eben - wie es der Titel
sagt - “grünes Gold”. Während die Chinesen trotz ihrer
ökonomisch dominanten Rolle politisch unbedeutend
blieben, erlangten jetzt auch indigene Zwischenhändler
gesellschaftlichen Aufstieg als nouveau riche. Da sie
eine umfangreiche Klientel an sich banden, stellten sie
bald eine potentielle Gefährdung für das politische Sy-
stem dar. Umgekehrt verloren die traditionellen Führer
an Einfluß, weil ihre Machtbasis immer mehr vom
Kolonialregime abhängig wurde und sich zudem ihre
wirtschaftliche Situation laufend verschlechterte.
In einer Situation wirtschaftlicher Abhängigkeit und
des Niederganges der traditionellen Elite zugunsten ei-
ner neuen Mittelklasse brachte schließlich die Weltwirt-
schaftskrise der 30er Jahre (vierte Phase) den Kollaps
der ökonomischen Basis und die Auflösung der so-
ziopolitischen Struktur Selayars. Durch die einseitige
Orientierung der Kokoswirtschaft waren die Selayaresen
zum Spielball westlicher Abnehmer und ihrer Preis-
manipulationen geworden. Der Niedergang der gesam-
ten Wirtschaft führte zu verstärkter Abwanderung, zu
Armut, Kriminalität und auch zu vielen Formen sozialer
wie religiöser Proteste. Oppositionelle Gruppen, meist
islamisch-reformistischer Orientierung, fanden hier rei-
chen Nährboden.
Die japanische Besatzung anfangs der 40er Jahre
(fünfte Phase) markierte den Beginn der vollständigen
Kontrolle Selayars durch externe Kräfte. Japanische Ver-
suche, die Landwirtschaft zu restrukturieren, scheiterten.
Nach dem Krieg und der kurzzeitigen Rückkehr der
Niederländer im Jahre 1945 wurden Stoffe und Kokosöl
wieder zu Hauptexportartikeln. Jedoch hatte das von
den Niederländern nach dem Krieg eingeführte zen-
trale Einkaufssystem zur Folge, daß der wiederbelebte
Handel durch intensiven Schmuggel bald zum Erliegen
kam. Auch das soziopolitische System war unter ja-
panischer Besatzung weiter geschwächt worden, indem
z. B. erstmals Nichtadlige Zugang zu Regierungspositio-
nen bekommen hatten. Nach erlangter Unabhängigkeit
Indonesiens 1949 mußten die opu ihre Ämter schließ-
lich endgültig aufgeben. Selayar war wirtschaftlich und
politisch in das moderne Indonesien integriert. An der
wirtschaftlich peripheren Situation der ressourcenarmen
Insel hat sich indes bis heute nichts geändert. Es bleibt
vielleicht, wie der Autor äußert (320), die Hoffnung
auf zukünftige Touristen und deren Interesse an der
ästhetischen Qualität der Kokospalmen.
Christiaan Heersink zeigt in diesem Buch, wie sich
auch in einer peripheren Lokalität eine florierende Wirt-
schaft entwickeln konnte, und zwar unter der Vorausset-
zung, daß sie offen gegenüber Importen, Exporten und
auch gegenüber permanenter Migration war. Besonderes
Interesse vermag die Darstellung dadurch zu gewinnen,
daß hier einmal eine Wirtschaftsform im Mittelpunkt
steht, die sich deutlich unterscheidet von den Plan-
tagensystemen im Westen des kolonialen Indonesiens.
Ein wesentlicher Unterschied bestand darin, daß im
vorliegenden Falle die totale Abhängigkeit von einem
Rohprodukt in die wirtschaftliche Katastrophe führte,
weil dieses Produkt zwar seitens der Abnehmer bald
durch andere ersetzt werden konnte, nicht aber seitens
der Produzenten - da es inzwischen eine wichtige Rolle
innerhalb ihrer Kultur (insbesondere für das Statussy-
stem) eingenommen hatte. Insofern vereint die Studie
langfristige wirtschaftliche und politische Prozesse auf
der Makroebene mit der Essenz des Gesellschaftlichen
auf der Mikroebene. Und dies bedeutet gleichzeitig,
daß sie weit über die Pauschalisierungen großer theo-
retischer Modelle hinausgeht (325).
Unübersehbar sind leider einige Sorglosigkeiten, die
sich durch das gesamte Werk ziehen. Weder konsistent
noch linguistisch korrekt ist u. a. die Transkription vieler
einheimischer Termini (Extrembeispiel: lipa tjoera an-
statt heute lipa’-cura’, xi, 49). Bisweilen hätte der Autor
sicherlich auch seine Quellen kritischer überprüfen und
kommentieren sollen. So bleibt beispielsweise unklar,
wieso sembahyang lohor ein traditioneller “Ahnenkult”
sein soll (xii, 57, 295 f.), bezeichnet dieser Begriff
doch das islamische Mittagsgebet (malaiisch/indone-
sisch). Falls aber sembahyang leluhur (javanisch/indone-
sisch “Ahnengebet”) gemeint sein sollte, oder falls vor
Ort beides in synkretistischer Form und doppeldeutigem
Sprachgebrauch ineinanderfließen sollte, so muß dies
deutlich gemacht werden, gerade weil dieser Punkt es-
sentiell für religiöse Konflikte war. Auch ist “Lebaran
nicht das “Islamische Neujahrsfest” (290), sondern das
festliche Ende des Fastenmonats. Schließlich ist auch zu
bedauern, daß neben den sehr brauchbaren Indizes für
Personen, Ortsnamen und Organisationen ein allgemei-
ner Index fehlt - gerade angesichts der Detailfülle.
Von letzterer ausgehend, erweist sich das Buch un-
bedingt als fruchtbare Lektüre für Regionalspezialisten,
da Selayar bisher eben weitgehend terra incognita war.
Aber auch für die Wirtschaftsgeschichte Südostasiens
und darüber hinaus bietet diese gründliche Darstellung
wichtige Erkenntnisse und einen reichen Fundus an
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
263
Informationen. Insbesondere Nichthistorikern kann be-
reits das Schlußkapitel einen sehr guten Überblick über
wesentliche Inhalte verschaffen. Martin Rössler
Helmreich, Stefan: Silicon Second Nature. Cultur-
ing Artificial Life in a Digital World. Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1998. 314 pp. ISBN 0-520-
20799-8. Price: $ 29.95
Mit seinem Buch begibt sich Stefan Helmreich in
eine Welt, die den Ethnologen (und nicht nur ihnen) bis-
lang weitgehend verschlossen war, in einen naturwissen-
schaftlichen Forschungsbetrieb, der mit dem Anspruch
auftritt, in der vordersten Front der Forschung zu stehen:
die Welt der “künstlichen Organismen”, des “Artificial
Life”. Sich in dieser Sphäre zurechtzufinden, ist für
Gäste aus den Humanwissenschaften nicht leicht, sie
werden aber durch informative Handreichungen zur wei-
teren Erkundung eingeladen. Vor allem die einleitenden
Partien lassen sich als ein imaginäres Lexikon, als eine
Genealogie der leitenden Begriffe lesen: “Künstliche Or-
ganismen”, wie sie von theoretischen Wissenschaftlern
erfunden werden und als Nachkommen eines Unterneh-
mens mit dem Namen Künstliche Intelligenz bekannt
geworden sind, repräsentieren den aktuellsten Stand der
Dinge in der theoretischen Biologie. Unter dem Dach
der Komplexitätsforschung (einem generellen Trend)
haben sie ein Zuhause gefunden. Komplexe natürliche
und soziale Phänomene werden, als Modell kompri-
miert, im Verlauf ihrer digitalen Erprobung zu adaptiven
oder sog. nichtlinearen Systemen, die mit der Lösung
der anfallenden Probleme an Komplexität gewinnen, zu
niemals vorhersehbaren Ergebnissen vorstoßen. So kann
man die fiktiven Evolutionspfade von vorhandenen wie
hypothetischen Organismen rekonstruieren oder nach-
zeichnen; der Unterschied von faktischer und simu-
lierter Evolution von einfachen Molekül Strukturen zu
komplexen Lebewesen verwischt sich. Experimentelles
Medium dieser Forschungen ist allerdings nicht etwa
das Labor, sondern der Computer: ein einschneidender
Wandel in der Naturerfahrung.
Stefan Helmreich hat seine Feldstudie am Santa Fe
Institut (SFI) in New Mexico (USA), dem Mekka der
Komplexitätsforschung, in den 90er Jahren durchführen
können. Mitte der 80er Jahre ist dieses Institut von
renommierten Wissenschaftlern gegründet worden, de-
ren Interesse an Interdisziplinarität mit ihrem Glauben
an Naturgesetzlichkeiten gleichzog. Das Institut ist ei-
ne private Stiftung mit universitären, privatwirtschaft-
lichen und politischen Kontakten; es beherbergt Gast-
wissenschaftler aus vorwiegend naturwissenschaftlichen
Fachgebieten - in erster Linie Biologen, Computerwis-
senschaftler, Physiker; es veranstaltet Workshops und
Konferenzen und ist, wie sollte es auch anders sein,
mit gleichartigen Instituten über das Internet weltweit
verbunden. Und materielles Zubehör der Simulation
theoretischer Modelle sind natürlich die Computer, die
das gewohnte Bild eines naturwissenschaftlichen Labors
durch den Anblick eines Zwitters aus Atelier und Büro
ersetzen.
Anhand einer Übersicht ließe sich verdeutlichen,
daß das Buch eine lockere Struktur (wogegen sich wenig
einwenden läßt) sowohl wie einen repetitiven Charakter
in der Darstellung (wogegen sich einiges sagen läßt)
besitzt.
Nachdem der Autor das Umfeld des Santa Fe In-
stituts umkreist hat, um einiger möglicher wechselsei-
tiger Resonanzen willen, die zwischen einer kleinen
Stadt, etwa ihren Repräsentanten von Marginalität wie
Indianern und New Age-Anhängern, und dem Institut
auftreten könnten (aufgespießt in einer Vignette, einem
Gruppenphoto von Albert Einstein, seiner Frau und
einigen Pueblo-Indianern [31 f.]), wendet er sich in
den zentralen Kapiteln einer ideologiekritischen Dis-
kursanalyse zu. In den angeführten Diskursen kehren
gewisse ideologische Motive, die wie die althergebrach-
ten Mythen der westlichen Welt daherkommen, immer
wieder, werden hier angedeutet, dort näher ausgeführt.
Den Kern der wissenschaftlichen Arbeit in der Artificial
Life-Forschung bilden Computersimulationen, in denen
die Dynamik von Modellen künstlicher Organismen
in ihrer ganzen Unvorhersehbarkeit erprobt wird. Cha-
rakteristisch ist, daß diese fiktiven Lebewesen in der
Imagination der Forscher eigene Erzählungen hervor-
bringen, Welten schaffen und zerstören, die Peripetien
von Kämpfen und Abenteuern durchlaufen. Die Dis-
kurse entwickeln sich um mythische Dramen (es sind
Handlungsstränge mit Anfang und Ende), in denen die
bekannten Konfliktstoffe von Männern und Frauen -
Stereotype von männlichem Heroismus und weiblicher
Passivität sind keine Überraschung - sich scharf ab-
zeichnen, oder in denen die motivierende Kraft von
kryptoreligiösen Themen wie dem von Fall und Erlö-
sung (als säkulare Heilserwartung verkappt) plötzlich
zutage treten. Gestreift werden darauf einige unerwarte-
te Berührungspunkte zwischen New Age-Denkern und
den am SFI tätigen Wissenschaftlern im Hinblick auf
ihre “Lebensanschauungen”. Und relativiert wird über-
dies das Bild eines vorherrschend nordamerikanischen
Wissenschaftsprojekts namens Artificial Life, indem
es mit den konkurrierenden Projekten (samt ihren jewei-
ligen Akzenten) der Japaner und Europäer kontrastiert
wird.
Wo liegt nun der kulturanthropologische Leitfaden
für die Untersuchung einer wissenschaftlichen Insti-
tution? Der kulturelle Aspekt wissenschaftlichen For-
schern meldet sich am ehesten dann zu Wort, wenn
um eine Praxis herum Geschichten entstehen. Die kultu-
rellen Regeln selbst, die eine institutionell abgesicherte
Praxis des Experimentierens und Theoretisierens bedin-
gen und begleiten, der historisch-kulturelle Rahmen, in
den ein Theorieprogramm eingebettet ist, treten dafür
vorläufig in den Hintergrund. Woraus entstehen Ge-
schichten von Wissenschaftlern, vor allem von denen,
die an einer “research frontier” arbeiten? Es sind eben
vor allem Situationen von Zweifel und Selbstbehaup-
tung, unter denen durch den Drang zur Rechtfertigung
ein narrativer Faden gesponnen wird. Man engagiert
sich für die Existenz eines Ansatzes oder Fachgebietes,
bemüht sich, seine Bedeutung nach außen zu erläutern.
Anthropos 96.2001
264
Rezensionen
Im gleichen Zug klärt ein Wissenschaftler aber auch für
sich selbst den Sinn der eigenen Tätigkeit.
Wie hat Helmreich all die verschlungenen Wege, auf
denen Artificial Life in seiner Struktur und Auswirkung
erkundet werden kann, herausgefunden? Durch Feld-
forschung, sagt er. In einer Anmerkung (257 f.) stellt
er fest, daß er sich auf seinen Aufenthalt am Santa
Fe Institute in einer Weise habe vorbereiten können,
z. B. durch die Kenntnis von Programmiersprachen wie
Basic und Pascal, daß er der Diskussion verschiedener
biologischer Simulationsmodelle mit Verständnis habe
folgen können; Sinn von Interviews sei es ja, nicht
nur abzufragen, sondern mit dem jeweiligen Wissen-
schaftler einen Dialog zu eröffnen. Selbstverständlich
erfährt man durch Lektüre und intensive Gespräche,
durch den Besuch von Fachkongressen einiges von den
in einer wissenschaftlichen Disziplin gängigen Ansich-
ten, Gegensätzen und Bestrebungen. Daß nun allerdings
die ideologiekritische Landschaft, die von der Artificial
Life-Forschung am SFI gezeichnet wird, außerordentlich
flach ausfällt, ist wohl eine verständliche Konsequenz
des einmal gewählten Zugangs. Man liest mit Spannung,
was den befragten Leuten - mehr Männer als Frauen -
durch den Kopf geht, wenn sie nach ihrem Fach, dem
Sinn ihres Forschungsprojekts befragt werden: ihre Ge-
wißheiten und ihre Zweifel an Artificial Life, ihre utopi-
schen Hoffnungen und ihre dystopischen Befürchtungen
kommen immer wieder ausführlich zu Wort. Was nur
sehr schemenhaft deutlich wird, ist eine wissenschaftli-
che Kultur, die um das SFI gravitiert, aber auch über ein
weltweites Netzwerk kommuniziert. Institution, Diskurs
und Praxis der wissenschaftlichen Akteure müßten als
interagierender Zusammenhang plastischer hervortreten
und so verständlicher werden.
Was ist aber das Faszinierende an einer Forschung,
die eine nicht unbeträchtliche Anzahl von jüngeren
Wissenschaftlern und Studenten anzieht? Es ist die Ra-
dikalität, mit der Artificial Life die biologische Zukunft
der Arten, nicht zum wenigsten des Menschen, zu an-
tizipieren versucht und dies wiederum einen Schub von
Geschichten und Erläuterungen, Rechtfertigungen, nach
sich zieht. Einer der Hauptproponenten von Artificial
Life, Chris Langton, hat den springenden Punkt be-
merkt: Man wolle sich nicht damit begnügen, mit Hilfe
der Computersimulation immer detailliertere Kenntnisse
über die möglichen Wege der Evolution - die Entste-
hung von Gattungen und Arten - zu gewinnen. Vielmehr
biete das Medium des Computers eine Chance, Organis-
men zu erfinden, die sich in der virtuellen Realität von
Computern und digitalen Netzwerken als “lebensfähig”
erweisen. Auf eine Formel gebracht, müsse die For-
schung von “Life-as-we-know-it” zu “Life-as-it-could-
be” übergehen. Leben sei bislang auf der Grundlage von
Kohlenstoff (Karbon) möglich gewesen, es könne sich
von heute an auf der Basis von Silikon entwickeln. Und
dann ein Sprung - was als Möglichkeit angelegt sei,
werde von der Evolution selbst gewährt (242 ff.).
Wie kann dieser Zirkustrick, diese Transsubstan-
tiation, wirken, zahlreiche, als vernünftig anzusehende
Menschen überzeugen? Ganz einfach, indem sich in
der Biologie der letzten Jahrzehnte die paradigmatische
Auffassung durchgesetzt hat, daß Lebensprozesse (orga-
nisches Wachstum, Vermehrung, Metabolismus etc.) als
Informationsprozesse zu erfassen seien (122 ff.; 209 ff.).
Einer der zitierten Informanten bringt diesen Bruch im
Verhältnis zu vorangehenden biologischen Auffassungen
auf die Formel, daß es nicht die Materie sei, in der sich
bislang bekanntes Leben entwickelt, die zähle, sondern
daß es von den Formen abhänge, und daß Formen eben
deshalb zustande kämen, weil sie von Informations-
prozessen gesteuert seien. So wird der Computer zu
der idealen Maschine, in der sich Modelle biologischer
Evolution als digitalisierte Informationsprozesse durch-
spielen lassen.
Der Autor versucht, einen Artificial Life-Diskurs
zu konstruieren, indem er dessen rhetorisches Un-
terfutter, seine kulturellen Leitmotive und Ressour-
cen, herauspräpariert. Er unterstreicht, daß die Ak-
teure zur Selbstverständigung einen Bodensatz gängi-
ger Aussageweisen unterschiedlicher Provenienz benut-
zen: Versatzstücke patriarchaler Ideologie und dessen,
was Helmreich die jüdisch-christliche Kosmologie, mit
ihrem heilsgeschichtlichen Erwartungshorizont, nennt.
Was uns nahegebracht wird, ist eine Evaluation der
ideologischen Seiteneffekte, die von einer naturwissen-
schaftlichen Forschungsrichtung ausgeht.
Was klarer sichtbar wird, ist, daß wissenschaftliche
Diskurse in den alltäglichen Sprachgebrauch übertre-
ten und umgekehrt; und zwar weil wissenschaftliche
Akteure nicht nur Wissenschaftler sind, sondern weil
Wissenschaft selbst kein abgeschlossenes System ist.
Ein verändertes Verständnis dessen, was Leben heißt,
hat nicht nur in einzelnen wissenschaftlichen Disziplinen
Platz gegriffen, es breitet sich an all den Punkten des
Alltagslebens aus, an denen wissenschaftlich-technische
Interventionen die Sphäre von Individuen und Gruppen
betreffen. Und dies ist vor allem der expansive Bereich
der zeitgenössischen Medizin, in dem die Sorge um den
Körper, um Krankheit und Gesundheit, aber auch die
Aussicht auf die Substitution erkrankter oder hinfälliger
Organe, die Hauptrolle spielen. Hans Voges
Hoffmann, GiselherW.: Schattenjäger. Swakop-
mund: Hoffmann Twins, 1998. 412 pp. ISBN 99916-
704-1-6.
Giselher W. Hoffmann ist der einzige Autor aus
Namibia, der mit seinen Romanen deutscher Sprache
ein internationales Publikum erreicht und nicht nur von
einem deutschstämmig-namibischen Leserkreis wahrge-
nommen wird. Der 42-jährige Schriftsteller und Be-
rufsjäger wurde hier zu Lande mit dem Buch “Die
Erstgeborenen” bekannt, einem Roman über die Gwi,
eine Gruppe der San, und über deren erste Kontakte
zu den frühen weißen Siedlern am Rande der Kalahari-
Dieses Buch hatte Hoffmann 1991 in Namibia unter dem
Titel “Land der wasserlosen Flüsse” publiziert, und im
Jahr darauf erschien es mit neuem Titel in einem deut-
schen Verlag, in dem auf afrikanische Literatur spezia-
lisierten Peter Hammer Verlag in Wuppertal. Dort kam
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
265
1994 auch Hoffmanns nächster Roman, “Die schwei-
genden Feuer”, heraus, der den Aufstand der Herero
gegen die Soldaten des deutschen Kaiserreichs zum
Gegenstand hat.
Hoffmann, ein Enkel deutscher Einwanderer, ver-
steht sich ausdrücklich als Namibier, als jemand, der mit
einer afrikanischen Sichtweise und nicht etwa wegen
seiner Bezüge zur deutschsprachigen Kultur als Chro-
nist Namibias auftritt. Mit seinen Romanen illustriert
Hoffmann, der seine ersten Bücher gemeinsam mit
seinem Zwillingsbruder Attila schrieb, die ethnische
Vielfalt seiner Heimat: “Im Bunde der Dritte” (1983)
und “Irgendwo in Afrika” (1986) spielen im Land der
Damara, und “Schattenjäger”, Hoffmanns jüngste Veröf-
fentlichung, widmet sich dem Schicksal der Himba, die
beidseits des Kunene leben, des Grenzflusses zwischen
Namibia und Angola. “Schattenjäger” ist, wie die übri-
gen Romane Hoffmanns, geprägt von einer akribischen
Recherche über die Kultur, Tradition und Entwicklung
einer Volksgruppe aus Namibia. Zugute kommt Hoff-
manns Arbeit dabei, dass er selbst seit seiner Kindheit
und besonders auf Grund seines Berufs als Wildhüter
das Buschland Namibias kennt und während seiner
bisweilen monatelangen Aufenthalte in den Steppen
und Savannen die vielgesichtige Bevölkerung Namibias
kennenlemen konnte.
Auch in dem Roman “Schattenjäger” veranschau-
licht Hoffmann Mythen, Riten und Auffassungen einer
fremden Zivilisation - eben der Himba. Eher ober-
flächlich beschreibt Hoffmann aber nur das Aussehen
etwa der Himba-Frauen: Ocker im geflochtenen Haar,
eingefettete Haut, schwerer Eisenschmuck am Körper
und spärliche Kleidung aus Ziegenleder. Im Gegensatz
zu seinen anderen Werken wie über die Herero und über
die Gwi hält sich Hoffmann in “Schattenjäger” eher
zurück, was die Mythologie der Himba betrifft. Das
könnte darin begründet sein, dass die Himba ohnehin
der Ethnie der Herero entstammen, dürfte aber eher
darin seine Erklärung finden, dass “Schattenjäger” kein
historischer Roman wie “Die Erstgeborenen” oder “Die
schweigenden Feuer” ist.
Hoffmann geht es in “Schattenjäger” um die Gegen-
wart, um die zeitgenössische Lebensweise der Himba im
Zwiespalt zwischen der fortschreitenden westlichen Zi-
vilisation und ihrer Tradition als nomadisierende Hirten.
Hie heute zirka 10000 Menschen zählende Ethnie der
Himba lebt in Runddörfern überwiegend von ihrem rund
10000 Stück Vieh zählenden Tierbestand aus Rindern
und Ziegen und hat über Generationen hinweg ein
System aus Weiderouten und jahreszeitlich wechselnder
Bodennutzung entwickelt. An den Ufern des Kunene,
her für sie keine Grenze markiert, sondern den Mittel-
Punkt ihres Weidegebiets darstellt, pflanzen sie überdies
^lais, Kürbisse und Melonen. Durch zahlreiche Furten
Slnd die Himba-Familien an beiden Ufern des Kunene
miteinander verbunden. Wurden die Himba während
des Unabhängigkeitskriegs im damaligen Südwestafrika
zwischen dem südafrikanischen Militär und den von
Angola aus agierenden Einheiten der Swapo als Puffer
missbraucht, sind sie nun von einem Projekt betroffen,
das schon seit dem Ende der siebziger Jahre diskutiert
wird: dem Kunene-Staudamm bei den Epupa-Wasserfäl-
len, die im Kerngebiet der Himba liegen. Der Rückstau
würde die Furten überschwemmen, die Weidegebiete
unter Wasser setzen und vor allen Dingen die Ahnen-
gräber der Himba fluten. Andererseits könnte mit dem
Epupa-Damm die Stromeinfuhr Namibias gesenkt und
die wirtschaftliche Abhängigkeit von der Republik Süd-
afrika gelockert werden. Zugleich könnte der Dammbau
dazu beitragen, dass Kaokoland, wie die betroffene Re-
gion heißt, zumindest infrastrukturell besser erschlossen
wird - worin Kritiker wiederum eine Gefahr sehen, da
mit den Arbeitern und Straßen auch Aids, Alkohol und
Prostitution Vordringen könnten.
Vor diesem aktuellen Hintergrund siedelt Hoffmann
seinen Roman an, der zwar noch zur Zeit der südafri-
kanischen Besatzung in Namibia spielt - also vor der
Unabhängigkeit 1990 -, dem aber wegen der intensi-
vierten Debatte in namibischen Regierungskreisen über
den Epupa-Damm 1996 und 1997, in den beiden Jahren
vor Erscheinen dieses Romans in Namibia, eindeutig
eine politische Dimension beizumessen ist.
Diese politische Dimension wird zudem aus der Kon-
stellation der - bisweilen etwas überfrachteten - Hand-
lung ersichtlich, die um zwei Familien kreist. Die eine,
deutschstämmig, ist im Baugewerbe aktiv, die andere,
südafrikanisch, lebt in Windhoek, weil der Familienvater
als Soldat der südafrikanischen Armee in Namibia sta-
tioniert wurde. Unterschwellige Ressentiments zwischen
“den Deutschen” und “den Afrikaandern” werden nicht
immer von wirtschaftlichen Abhängigkeiten verdeckt:
der eine schanzt dem anderen Aufträge für militärische
Bauprojekte zu, der andere zahlt dafür Schmiergeld. Je
weiter das Geschehen des Romans fortschreitet, desto
durchsichtiger wird das allgemeine Geflecht der Kor-
ruption, in dem die südafrikanischen Militärs verstrickt
sind: Diamanten- und Elfenbeinschmuggel aus Angola,
verbotene Jagd und verstohlener Handel mit den Hör-
nern von Nashörnern.
Wie schon in dem Roman “Im Bunde der Dritte” geht
Hoffmann auf den Themenkomplex des Wilddiebstahls
und der Wilderei ein, wobei der Autor nun klarer vor
Augen führt, wie die ortsansässige Bevölkerung - also
die Himba - während wirtschaftlicher Not durch Dürre
oder den Krieg in die Abhängigkeit von illegaler Jagd
getrieben wird. Die Rolle, die Hoffmann den Himba
zuweist, ist also ähnlich der Rolle der Herero oder
der Gwi in den Romanen “Die Erstgeborenen” oder
“Die schweigenden Feuer” eine eher passive, bloß rea-
gierende. Natürlich schreibt Hoffmann wieder aus der
Sicht der Weißen, doch stellt er hier die Himba mittels
-parallel erzählter Erzähl stränge auf dieselbe Ebene wie
seine weißen Protagonisten. Die Konflikte zwischen den
beiden weißen Familien spiegeln sich in den Problemen
zwischen zwei Himba-Familien; sowohl hier als auch
dort geht es ganz privat um Heiratsfragen und ihre un-
terschiedliche Beantwortung. Dabei betreibt Hoffmann
weder eine Verklärung der Himba, obgleich er deren
Irritationen in einer sich wandelnden Zeit anführt, noch
verurteilt er pauschal seine weißen Helden. Die Cha-
^nthropos 96.2001
266
Rezensionen
raktere seiner Figuren sind - für Hoffmanns Romane -
selten vielschichtig und ambivalent.
Noch aus einem weiteren inhaltlichen Aspekt ist
der Roman “Schattenjäger” bemerkenswert: Hoffmann
schildet am Beispiel eines Haushälterpärchens aus der
Volksgruppe der Ovambo, das in weißen Haushalten
Windhoeks tätig ist, indirekt die Konflikte eben jener
Ovambo, die mit ihrer als Kollaboration interpretierten
Erwerbstätigkeit nicht nur ihre Familien im Kriegsge-
biet unterstützten, sondern auch ihre im Krieg selbst
aktiven Verwandten, die sich in den Reihen der sich
überwiegend auf Ovambo stützenden Swapo organisier-
ten.
Wegen dieses Facettenreichtums und einer ausge-
wogen komponierten Handlung, die zudem das recher-
chierte Wissen nicht so plakativ zur Schau stellt wie
in “Die schweigenden Feuer”, und die den tragenden
emotionalen Konflikt nicht so melodramatisch verfolgt
wie in “Die Erstgeborenen”, überzeugt “Schattenjäger”
als ein polisch engagierter Roman aus Namibia.
Manfred Foimeier
Jansen, Maarten, Peter Kröfges, and Michel
R. Oudijk: The Shadow of Monte Alban. Politics and
Historiography in Postclassic Oaxaca, Mexico. Feiden:
Research School CNWS, 1998. 144 pp. ISBN 90-5789-
006-2. (CNWS Publications, 64) Price: hfl 40.00
In verschiedenen Beiträgen in spanischer und engli-
scher Sprache stellen die Autoren mittels ikonologischer
Analysen ihre neuesten Ergebnisse der Erforschung
bilderschriftlicher Quellen vor. Sie versuchen, sie in
einen größeren Rahmen der Interpretation von ereignis-
geschichtlichen Prozessen in denjenigen autochthonen
Gesellschaften zu stellen, die sich in dem heutigen
südmexikanischen Staat Oaxaca in den letzten Jahrhun-
derten vor der spanischen Eroberung abgespielt haben.
Es geht um die Zusammenfügung von Informationen
aus mixtekischen und zapotekischen Dokumenten der
vorspanischen und der frühen Kolonialzeit, die den
entscheidenden Wandel mit einbeziehen, der sich mit
der gewaltsamen Umgestaltung der indigenen Gesell-
schaften durch die Kolonialmacht vollzog. Die Auto-
ren vertreten die Meinung, daß es dringend nötig ist,
die existierenden älteren Konzepte, Schlußfolgerungen
und Lehrmeinungen kritisch zu hinterfragen. Sie weisen
darauf hin, daß die meisten Materialanalysen bisher
wegen eingeschränkter Kenntnisse der einschlägigen in-
dianischen Sprachen seitens der Wissenschaftler zu Un-
genauigkeiten und Fehlinterpretationen geführt haben.
Deshalb verbinden die Autoren ihre neuen Darlegungen
mit einer detaillierten Kritik, die sie auch an ganz
konkreten Beispielen nachvollziehbar machen. Sie ver-
deutlichen, daß fehlende Sprachkompetenz zu erstaun-
lichen Spekulationen und Fehleinschätzungen geführt
hat, die weitere Erkenntnisfortschritte blockieren. So
beginnt Jansen in seiner “Introduction” (1-12) mit einer
Standortbestimmung der in diesem Sammelband vor-
gelegten Forschungsergebnisse. Dies geschieht in kri-
tischer Auseinandersetzung um methodologische Fehler
der bisher existierenden Versuche, die vorspanische Er-
eignisgeschichte zu erhellen.
Im ersten Beitrag diskutiert Oudijk die Genealogie
von Zaachila: es geht um Heiratspolitik und dynastische
Kämpfe (The Genealogy of Zaachila: Four Weddings
and a Dynastie Struggle, 13-36). Er verdeutlicht entge-
gen älteren Auffassungen, daß die herrschenden Eliten
sowohl der Zapoteken als auch der Mixteken bei der-
artigen Heiratsbeziehungen Prestige gewannen und ihre
Rechte zu artikulieren und notfalls mit Waffengewalt
durchzusetzen vermochten.
In einem weiteren Beitrag geht Oudijk auf die
Ethnohistorie der zapotekischen Elite ein (Zapotec Elite
Ethnohistory indeed, 37-44). Dabei stellt er heraus,
daß einst die dörfliche Identität stärker war als die
ethnische und daß auch bei der Heiratspolitik der mix-
tekischen und zapotekischen Herrscherfamilien die je-
weiligen Herkunftsorte der Heiratspartner entscheidend
waren, keineswegs so sehr die ethnischen - und damit
sprachlichen - Unterschiede.
Kröfges analysiert ein kolonialzeitliches Dokument
aus der Pazifikküstenregion Oaxacas (El lienzo de
Tecciztlan y Tequatepec. Un documento histörico-car-
togräfico de la Chontalpa de Oaxaca, 45-66). Ihm
gelingt es, vorspanische Geschichte in diesem späte-
ren Dokument erkennbar zu machen. Seine akribische
Analyse ist für die Untersuchung derartiger Dokumente
beispielhaft.
Der umfänglichste Beitrag stammt von Jansen und
widmet sich den zapotekischen Orten Monte Alban
und Zaachila in mixtekischen Codices (Monte Alban
y Zaachila en los Codices mixtecos, 67-122). Jansen
gelingt es in kritischer Auseinandersetzung mit älteren
Interpretationen, den “Schatten” von Monte Alban in der
Ereignisgeschichte im Raum mixtekischer und zapote-
kischer politischer Einheiten sichtbar zu machen, die in
den mixtekischen Bilderhandschriften reflektiert ist. Er
vermag zu zeigen, daß in den letzten Jahrhunderten vor
der spanischen Eroberung die Stadt zwar stark reduziert
war, aber als heiliger Ort sowohl für die Zapoteken
als auch für die Mixteken eine bemerkenswerte rituelle
Bedeutung bewahrt hatte. Mit großer Akribie weist
Jansen erstmals nach, daß der “Schatten” von Mon-
te Alban, der alten heiligen Stätte, weiterwirkte und
welches überhaupt die entsprechenden Ortsglyphen in
den bilderschriftlichen Dokumenten der Mixteken dafür
waren, sowohl den vorspanischen als auch den koloni-
alzeitlichen. Jansen versteht es, die Beziehungen zu den
neueren bedeutenden mixtekischen Zentren herzustel-
len, wie beispielsweise Tilantongo. Er versucht sogar,
in den epischen Erzählungen der Bilderhandschriften
Verbindungen der mixtekischen Helden zu dem histo-
risch-mythologischen Helden der Tolteken, Quetzalcoatl
Topiltzin, nachzuweisen. Jansen setzt sich dabei kritisch
mit allen bisher existierenden Interpretationen auseinan-
der, so daß man den Erkenntnisprozeß sehr gut nach-
vollziehen kann. Auch wenn die Darstellungen in den
mixtekischen Codices verkürzt erscheinen, vermitteln
sie doch den Eindruck, daß darin die Erinnerung an eine
Vorzeit bewahrt worden ist, die in der Herrschaft des
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
267
Monte Alban (der klassischen Zeit des 1. Jahrtausends)
wichtige Wurzeln für eigene Machtansprüche der mix-
tekischen Eliten sah und daß daher an diesem heiligen
Ort die Orakel befragt wurden. Mit der vorgelegten
Analyse und den daraus abgeleiteten Schlußfolgerungen
läßt sich nun auch eine Kulturgeschichte der vorspani-
schen Gesellschaft der Zapoteken mit einer an histo-
rische bzw. historisch-mythologische Persönlichkeiten
ihrer Elite geknüpften Ereignisgeschichte verbinden.
Oudijk fügt noch die Interpretation einer kolonial-
zeitlichen zapotekischen Genealogie an (The Genealogy
of San Lucas Quiavini, 123-133). Eine gemeinsame
Bibliographie rundet den Band ab.
Zusammenfassend sei festgestellt, daß mit diesem
Sammelband eingehende Kritik an vorherigen Inter-
pretationen mit einer intensiven Quellenaufbereitung
mittels neuer Fragestellungen verbunden worden ist, die
einen völlig neuen Blick auf die vorspanische Ereignis-
geschichte der Völker Oaxacas eröffnet. Den Autoren
hilft nicht zuletzt ihre Sprachkompetenz, zu neuen Er-
kenntnissen vozustoßen. Ursula Thiemer-Sachse
Jiménez de Báez, Yvette (ed.): Voces y cantos de la
tradición. Textos inéditos de la Fonoteca y Archivo de
Tradiciones Populares. México: El Colegio de México,
1998. 149 pp. ISBN 968-12-0921-4.
El estudio de Yvette Jiménez de Báez constituye una
continuación del rescate de la música, la danza, la lírica
y los juegos y fiestas tradicionales mexicanos, - una
ambiciosa y fecunda labor que desde su fundación, 1940,
se propuso realizar El Colegio de México. El material in-
cluido en esta publicación corresponde a lo recogido en
la zona de Veracruz y ciertos núcleos de la Sierra Gorda.
Jiménez abre su estudio con una gama de valiosas
entrevistas con los trovadores, - autores y propagadores
de las décimas y glosas tradicionales, comprendidos en
su ensayo. La visión desde los informantes sobre los
géneros y fiestas, sus revelaciones sobre el proceso de
la creación de textos compuestos por ellos mismos u
otros autores, modos de celebrar las fiestas, variantes
de sones y ritmos propios a distintas regiones del país,
etc., añaden un importante material, imprescindible para
una adecuada apreciación del fenómeno presentado en
el libro. Respetuosa, pero directa en sus preguntas y
observaciones, la autora logra que los entrevistados
compartan con facilidad y elocuencia su conocimiento
del tema investigado, por un lado, y sus experiencias y
Personalidad, por el otro.
El material trascrito estrena con coplas líricas de
la Sierra Gorda y sigue con las de Veracruz. La pre-
sentación explora primeramente algunos textos tradicio-
Uales, progresando desde allí a un mosaico de líricas
Prestadas de los cuadernos de trovadores. El estudio
Podría enriquecerse más aún si incluyese una aclaración
sobre el contenido y arreglo de esos cuadernos.
La mayor parte del libro ocupan textos de décimas
y glosas. Su precisa y elaborada transcripción, tanto
de líricas como de música, eleva este estudio a altos
niveles de exigencias académicas. En algunos instantes
las aclaraciones y comentarios que siguen una décima o
glosa proveen informaciones adicionales a través de las
fotos injertadas en el texto. El uso de formas apocopadas
ayuda a sentir la realidad más de cerca. El estudio
concluye con textos de una secuencia de Navidad,
corridos y adivinanzas.
Un estudio importante y meritorio que debe ser
parte de las colecciones de cada institución de estudios
lingüísticos, literarios y etno-musicológicos.
Piotr Nawrot
Kasfir, Sidney Littlefield: Contemporary African
Art. London: Thames & Hudson, 1999. 224 pp., photos.
ISBN 0-500-20328-8. Price: £ 8.95
For a long time, the contemporary arts of Africa have
had a controversial reputation in the international art
world. While some considered them a poor imitation of
Western Modern Art, others deemed it not much more
than a childish expression of foreign and misinterpreted
influences that have been overwhelming the “real,” the
ancient African cultures, ever since the beginning of
colonisation. New art in Africa has been a marginal
field that merely a few art connoisseurs and even fewer
scholars were acquainted with. With the major exhibi-
tions “Magiciens de la terre” in the year 1989, and above
all “Africa Explores” in 1991 in New York, this image
gradually changed.
When London celebrated Africa in 1995, it became
apparent that the contemporary art of the continent could
no longer be ignored. The official and representative
exhibition “Africa - the Art of a Continent” of the
Royal Academy of Arts did not deign to take a look at
contemporary art, but at the same time the Whitechappel
Art Gallery presented a kind of alternative with “Seven
Stories about Modern Art in Africa.” Not only did the
exhibition and the catalogue claim to show the history
of modern art in Africa as a whole for the first time;
in addition to that, the exhibition and the catalogue
were a critique of the concept of “cultural purity,”
and it was their particular intention to present modern
African art in its contradictory approach to modernity.
But despite their universal claim, the histories remained
somewhat disparate and sometimes sounded anecdotal.
The connection between individual stories was not al-
ways intelligible. The variety of the continent did not
seem to be adequately captured this way. That can be
accounted for by both a theoretical and a methodical
deficit: new art in Africa was heterogeneously presented
as a universal, yet Western-style modernity. But the
actual meaning of the processes of globalisation for the
arts of the continent, and in particular how they influence
the artists’ practical work, was still an open question.
Now, five years later, Sidney Kasfir’s “Contemporary
African Art” has been published. How has she tried
to solve the problem? Her approach is different. It is
not her intention to give an overview of the varieties
of forms, styles, or artists; she describes the great
transformations that have been taking place in African
art since the middle of the last century: those decades
^nthropos 96.2001
268
Rezensionen
since the mid-20th century, which Okwui Enwezor calls
“The Short Century,” are her concern.
At the very beginning of the book, she emphasises
her methodical focus. The centre of her interest is always
the practical life of people that must be understood in the
context of their history. Contemporary African art has
not evolved out of the blue. The people who created
it brought in their own experiences. Not only were
they confronted with colonial and postcolonial times,
they were and still are aware of various older forms
of art, including those which are habitually labelled
“traditional.” The author rightfully resists any historical
reduction of contemporary African art to “postcolonial.”
Having this in mind, Kashr in the introduction first
discusses the concepts of “contemporary,” “modern,”
and “postmodern,” in order to develop the main themes
of her book. They are a result of the specific forms of
interaction that have had an impact on the lives and
works of African artists and are dealt with in separate
chapters.
The book starts with the beginning of these changes,
the experience of urban life, that in many parts of
the continent developed during the colonial era. There,
Western ideas and goods have been more present than
anywhere else. With independence, increasing numbers
of goods from other parts of the world were added.
Moreover, an important and often underestimated el-
ement of both past and present is the influence of the
African diaspora in the larger cities of the former mother
countries, and of the United States of America. Through
“cultural borrowing and reinterpretation” (18 f.), new
artistic genres which have now become familiar were
created. Not only do they comprise photography, cloth-
ing, and fashion; they also include new musical genres
and different types of consumption. Kasfir illustrates this
chapter with popular sign paintings from more or less
well-known workshops, and also from acknowledged
artists such as Cheri Samba or Middle Art. It includes
photographs of Seydou Keita and others as well.
The second chapter investigates the work of the
artists themselves and is headed “Transforming the
Workshop.” Kasfir describes various kinds of learn-
ing, ranging from predominately informal situations
in so-called traditional social contexts to schools of
colonial times that were mainly headed by Europeans,
and finally, the workshop centres which have been
established in many cities of the continent during the
decolonisation process after World War Two. Examples
are the Mbari Mbayo Club in Oshogbo, Nigeria, headed
by Ulli Beier, the Polly Street Center in Johannisburg,
or the Lutheran Rorke’s Drift in rural KwaZulu Natal.
The works of PiliPili, Wenger, Mbatha, Muafangejo, and
others illustrate the kind of art that has been created
there.
Based on that, Kasfir turns to the role of connois-
seurs, patrons, mediators, and their patronage. First, the
early foreign patrons are portrayed. These include Ulli
and Georgina Beier in Nigeria, Frank McEwen and Tom
Blomefield in what was formerly Rhodesia, as well
as Pierre Romain-Defosses and Pierre Lods in Belgian
Kongo, later Zaire and now the Democratic Republic
of Congo, and Pancho Guedes in Mozambique. Kasfir
also analyses the patronage of missionary churches and
of teachers working in the colonial schools and univer-
sities. A prominent example are stone-made sculptures
from former Rhodesia, that have been created for the
most part under the influence of McEwen. They found
their way into the international art world and are referred
to as “Shona Sculptures.” The further development of
the workshop centers led by the artists themselves - for
instance the one of the sculptor Tapfuma Gutsa in inde-
pendent Zimbabwe as well as Ruth Schaffner’s Gallery
Watatu in Nairobi - give an account of patronage and art
trade at the end of the last century. An additional section
is dedicated to South Africa. It exceeds other African
countries not only in having its own renowned art
market, but it also possesses an independent art critique.
Kasfir’s description of the South African art world
leads to the topic “Art and Commodity.” Initially,
she investigates the transformation which the so-called
traditional technique of carving has undergone since
the postindependence decades. Various customers and
clients are depicted, and so are the local intermediate
trade, the international art market, and the tourist market.
The Senufo and the Makonde are examples among
others. Another topic is popular painting, such as the
works of Mami Wata or the paintings of Moke, where
the urban life of Kinshasa is portrayed. Kasfir provides
a detailed description of the Weya Community Training
Centre in rural Zimbabwe, where lise Noy has been
teaching various textile techniques to local women. With
the help of new techniques, applications were created in
which the women found an expression for their view of
the world. The works were regarded as folk art by the
Western audience.
The next chapter is dedicated to the changing identity
of African artists. The writer analyses the interrelation
with the international art world from the perspective of
the people involved. Creativity, authenticity, and other
modem, predominately Western concepts are confronted
with the constraints and necessities of an artist’s life in
postcolonial Africa. An account is also given of different
artistic ways of dealing with the present social situation
in African countries, with special regard to South Africa
after Apartheid. Other than that, artists from all parts
of the continent are represented. For instance, Thomas
Mukarobgwa, who died recently, and to whom the book
is dedicated.
Accordingly, the author later turns to the concept of a
national culture. She describes the endeavours of many
African states to advocate this concept in the field of
art. A detailed description of Senegal and the école de
Dakar is given as well as of Nigeria that has shaped
a culturally heterogeneous Nigerian art form, yet has at
the same time created a kind of modern art. This section
is illustrated with works of well-known artists, such as
El Hadji Sy, Iba N’Diaye, and Obiora Udechukwu.
The final chapter is headed “Migration and Displace-
ment,” and Sidney Kasfir follows the traces of African
art abroad. Her main concern is those artists who either
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
269
had to leave their home countries involuntarily, or had
no opportunity to work there. She portrays the migration
and exile of Ethiopian artists such as Wosene Kosrof
and Girmay Hiwet during the socialist rule, and their
encounter with the culture of their host countries.
The book ends with a brilliant essay, dealing with
the possible meanings of African art in times of global-
isation. To consider oneself and one’s art “African,” is
merely one option among many others in this world. But
as long as this is an obstacle to acknowledgement as an
independent artist, it doesn’t seem to be an option at all.
However, many artists gain access to the international
art world exactly through this kind of identification.
Because of this and other contradictions, a kind of art
emerges that is both local and global.
Sidney Kasfir has covered vast grounds in her book.
Not only does she succeed in capturing the variety of
contemporary African art; she also gives an account of
the sense of motivation that lies behind this kind of art
and their creators.
Kasfir regards her book as a supplement to Frank
Willet’s “African Art,” which was first published in
1971 as part of the same series. However, Kasfir’s book
is more than a mere supplement. “Contemporary African
Art” illustrates the long way African art studies has
covered since the publication of Frank Willet’s book.
Kasfir asks those kinds of questions African art studies
have to solve in the future.
Little is missing in the book. Perhaps dealing with
the new types of media remains a little on the surface.
Video, for instance, is only mentioned briefly, but it is
likely that only the reviewer misses something here.
A further and fundamental issue is surely the ques-
tion regarding the changing ways of seeing, which Kasfir
does not explicitly examine. If the same people are
familiar with older, local forms of art on the one hand,
and on the other hand imagine their own modernity in
the new arts, the question of a new, aesthetic practice has
to be formulated in a new way. Within the globalising
World, there can be found no answer within a single
milieu, nor a small, self-centred society, nor within the
frame of the international art world.
An issue related to this question is about the changes
taking place in the international art world itself, stim-
ulated by contemporary African art as well as other
forms of new art, coming from various parts of the
World. Of course that is a field beyond the scope of
this book. Kasfir’s focus lies in Africa, and thus her
book successfully points in the right direction.
Till Forster
Kavanagh, Thomas W.: The Comanches. A Histo-
rV, 1706-1875. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
*999. 586 pp. ISBN 0-8032-7792-X. Price: £ 13.50
Geschichte wird immer häufiger von den Siegern
geschrieben - ein geflügeltes Wort, das heutzutage
^mer häufiger von Indianern Nordamerikas sinnge-
mäß gebraucht wird, um die Werke von “weißen” ame-
rikanischen Historikern zu charakterisieren. Historiker
arbeiten in der Regel mit schriftlichen Dokumenten, und
da Indianer in Nordamerika so gut wie keine Dokumente
dieser Art hinterlassen haben, muß zwangsläufig auf
Quellenmaterial zurückgegriffen werden, das lediglich
die Perspektive der weißen Eroberer wiedergibt.
Glücklicherweise ist das Vorwort bezüglich der Ver-
bindungen, die der Autor zu den Comanche knüpfen
konnte, sehr aussagekräftig. Dort erfahren wir, daß Ka-
vanagh bereits 1970 erstmals mit Comanche-Führern
Kontakte aufnahm, die während der Studien für seine
Magisterarbeit immer intensiver wurden. Diese Studien
beschäftigten sich zunächst mit dem modernen Powwow
in Oklahoma, und dies sollte auch das Thema für
seine Dissertation werden. Doch auf Vorschlag einiger
befreundeter Comanche-Ältester änderte er es ab und
untersuchte statt dessen den politischen Fraktionalismus
der Comanche. Nach Meinung dieser Freunde hätte ein
solches Thema für sie einen größeren Wert.
Da es keinen Grund gibt, an den Worten Kavanaghs
zu zweifeln, hätten wir hier einen der seltenen Fälle, wo
Vertreter der untersuchten ethnischen Gruppe das Thema
einer Doktorarbeit vorschlagen. Das hat natürlich den
Vorteil, daß man sich der Unterstützung dieser Gruppe
(oder zumindest eines Teils davon) sicher sein kann.
Wie Kavanagh weiter ausführt, betrachtet er die Do-
kumentation der politischen Geschichte der Comanche
des 18. und 19. Jhs. bis zum Beginn der Reservationszeit
als einen ersten Schritt zur Gesamtdokumentation der
Geschichte der Comanche, so daß er die Betrachtung
der heutigen politischen Auseinandersetzungen lediglich
aufgeschoben hat, wie er schreibt: “One must know the
past before analyzing the present” (xiii).
Daneben arbeitet er mit Comanche an Fragen zur
Rückführung von Skelettmaterial und Museumsobjek-
ten, über den Symbolismus der Native American Church
und das moderne Powwow. Von Schwierigkeiten oder
Einschränkungen, wie sie bei religiösen Themen häufig
Vorkommen, erwähnt Kavanagh nichts.
Bei so viel Engagement für diese indianische Gruppe
läßt sich der pauschale Vorwurf, “weiße” Ethnologen
und Historiker schreiben über Indianer lediglich aus ei-
ner “weißen” Perspektive, nicht aufrechterhalten. Selbst-
verständlich greift Kavanagh auf die ältesten schriftli-
chen Dokumente zurück, die er finden konnte, z. B. im
spanischen Archiv in New Mexico oder in Sevilla. Und
selbstverständlich ist der Autor als Wissenschaftler den
akademischen Traditionen verpflichtet, wie sie in Europa
entwickelt wurden. Trotzdem ist er in der Lage, eine sen-
sible und beiden Seiten gerecht werdende Ethnohistorie
der Comanche zu verfassen.
Kavanagh folgt streng den historischen Ereignissen,
angefangen von den ersten Begegnungen der Comanche
mit Europäern im Jahre 1706, bis zu ihrer zwangswei-
sen Ansiedlung auf einer Reservation im Jahre 1876.
Besonders kritisch setzt er sich mit den publizierten
und unpublizierten Quellen auseinander und weist auf
Autoren hin, die zweifelhafte Quellen ungeprüft über-
nommen haben. Sein allgemeiner theoretischer Ansatz
soll Antworten auf folgende Fragestellungen geben:
Wo liegen die Ursprünge politischer Organisationen?
Vnthropos 96.2001
270
Rezensionen
Warum finden Menschen sind als Gruppe zusammen?
Warum trennen sie sich wieder voneinander? Kavanagh
verfolgt diese Prozesse der Organisation und Reorga-
nisation und untersucht sowohl ihren kurzfristigen als
auch längerfristigen Erfolg. Darin schließt er Fragen
der politischen Ökonomie, der Gesellschaftsstruktur und
der politischen Organisation ebenso ein wie die von
Diplomatie, Handel und Kriegsführung. Seine Methode
bezeichnet er ausdrücklich als ethnohistorisch, d. h. bei
der Analyse seines dokumentarischen Materials kom-
biniert er die Methoden der Geschichtsschreibung mit
denen der Anthropologie bzw. Ethnologie.
Das Ergebnis ist eine überwältigende Detailfülle, die
schon fast enzyklopädischen Charakter hat. Beispiels-
weise kann man anhand von Tabellen erfahren, wieviel
Fleisch, Mehl, Mais, Reis, Kaffee, Zucker, Seife, Salz
und Tabak zwischen Juni 1870 und Juni 1871 auf der
Comanche-Agentur an die Indianer ausgegeben wurde.
Im letzten Kapitel faßt der Autor die politische Ge-
schichte der einzelnen Comanche-Untergruppen, denen
er den Rang von selbständigen politischen Einheiten
zumißt und sie deshalb als “Tribes” bezeichnet, zusam-
men. Abschließend dehnt er das Thema Untergruppen
als unabhängige “Tribes” vergleichend auf das gesamte
Gebiete der nordamerikanische Plains aus.
Kavanagh hat am Beispiel der historischen Prozesse
bei den Comanche der Vorreservationszeit überzeugend
dargelegt, wie variabel und dynamisch politische Or-
ganisationen sein können. Gemäß den Veränderungen
in ihrer natürlichen und sozialen Umgebung lösten sie
sich auf und formierten sich immer wieder neu. In
dem Maße, wie sich die Ressourcen der Comanche
veränderten, veränderten sich auch ihre Formen der
politischen Organisation. Peter Bolz
Knauft, Bruce M.: From Primitive to Postcolonial
in Melanesia and Anthropology. Ann Arbor: The Uni-
versity of Michigan Press, 1999. 320 pp. ISBN 0-472-
06687-0. Price: $ 19.95
Bis zum Beginn des 20. Jhs. existierte in Melanesien
infolge der großen Entfernungen dieser Region von
den Weltmetropolen und wichtigen Seehandelsrouten
noch eine Vielzahl intakter endogener Kulturen, Re-
ligionen und Kulten; im Jahre 1900 waren z. B. in
Papua-Neuguinea noch 96 % der Bevölkerung Anhänger
von Stammesreligionen und kaum 4 % Christen. Bis
1980 vollzog sich eine Umkehr dieses Verhältnisses.
Vielfach bedeutete für die dortigen Menschen die Über-
nahme “westlicher” Ideologien und Zivilisationsgüter
einen Übergang binnen einer oder zweier Generationen
von der Stein- zur Neuzeit. Es vollzog sich jedoch
mitnichten ein totaler Bruch mit der Vergangenheit, mit
traditionellen Denk- und Verhaltensmustern. Oft kann
bei den Eingeborenen eine Koexistenz verschiedener
früherer Kulturelemente mit der technischen Zivilisation
und mit dem zum Teil schon westlichen Lebensstil
festgestellt werden.
B.M. Knauft unterzog sich in seinem Buch der
schwierigen, zugleich sehr interessanten Aufgabe, die
Wandlungsprozesse in dieser weltweit “am meisten
kulturell und sprachlich differenzierten Region” vor
allem aus völkerkundlicher und sozialer Sicht zu unter-
suchen (1). Obwohl dort nur ca. 8 Millionen Menschen
leben, wurden daselbst gegen 750 papuanesische und
400 austronesische Sprachen - das ist ungefähr ein
Viertel aller existierenden Sprachen - festgestellt.
Für viele Forscher, besonders Ethnologen und An-
thropologen, gilt Melanesien als Heimat vieler Stam-
mesgesellschaften, die noch relativ isoliert von der
Außenwelt leben. Treffend bemerkt jedoch der Verfas-
ser, daß auch in der Vergangenheit hier ein Kulturaus-
tausch stattfand und daß Melanesien keine einheitliche
Kulturregion ist.
Sehr instruktiv sind B.M. Knaufts Ausführungen
über das Verhältnis zwischen den Insulanern und Wei-
ßen, besonders zur Zeit der intensiven Kolonisation und
Christianisierung des Landes. Der Autor entwirft ein
differenziertes Bild von den einsetzenden kulturellen,
sozialen und wirtschaftlichen Veränderungen, die hier
jedoch weit geringer als in anderen Kolonien waren, da
viele Landesteile den Weißen als wirtschaftlich wenig
attraktiv, entlegen und nicht erschlossen galten. Es ist
verständlich, daß gerade diese Regionen von beson-
derem Interesse für die ethnologische und anthropo-
logische Forschung sind (9). Besonders berücksichtigt
werden dabei die wirtschaftlichen Grundlagen, Wohn-
sitze, die Führungsschichten, der Zeremonialaustausch,
Konflikte und Fehden, das Geschlechterverhältnis, der
Glaube und Kult. In den letzten Jahren werden jedoch
in wachsendem Ausmaß auch mehr aktuelle Themen
behandelt, die z. B. das dortige Christentum, die Ver-
städterung, das Nationalitätenprinzip und Wirtschafts-
wachstum betreffen (10 f.). Leider werden immer wieder
noch vergangene Forschungsbefunde perennisiert oder
auch Ergebnisse heutiger Fallstudien als allgemeine
kontemporäre Gegebenheiten verallgemeinert, wodurch
mitunter in den Medien ein unwirkliches Klischeebild
von Land und Menschen in Melanesien geschaffen oder
aufrechterhalten wird. Es kommt aber auch vor, daß die
gegenwärtigen kulturellen, sozialen und ökonomischen
Realitäten als Bruch mit der Tradition dargestellt werden
und nicht als ihre Anpassung an die heutigen Bedürfnis-
se und Anforderungen.
Der Verfasser unternahm es darum, auf einige dieser
traditionellen Themen aus heutiger Sicht einzugehen.
Zu den Hauptproblemen gehört die Einstellung der
Eingeborenen zur Leiblichkeit, wobei er unter anderem
Empfängnis, Geschlechtlichkeit, Initiation, Ehe, Tod und
Begräbnis, Bekleidung und Körperschmuck aufgrund
von aktuellen Forschungsergebnissen bei verschiedenen
Ethnien behandelt. Ein weiteres, oft erörtertes Thema
betrifft die dortigen Kriege und Fehden. Der Verfasser
weist dabei auf ihre tieferen Ursachen, Auslösemecha-
nismen, ihren Verlauf und ihre Folgen hin, wobei er sie
weder verharmlost, jedoch auch nicht ihre Bedeutung
fürs Staatsgefüge überbewertet. In den letzten Jahrzehn-
ten waren sie zum großen Teil sozial, ökonomisch, poh'
tisch und ökologisch bedingt, mitunter ist ihre Ursache
außerhalb Melanesiens im Macht- und Gewinnstreben
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
271
anderer Staaten zu suchen. Aber bei Stammesfehden und
Todesfällen spielen auch heute noch in manchen Gegen-
den, z. B. im Bergland Papua-Neuguineas, traditionelle
Ursachen, u. a. Todeszauber und Hexereipraktiken, oder
Kopfjagden an der Südküste eine gewisse Rolle (137—
140).
Von besonderem Interesse ist das Geschlechterver-
hältnis in Melanesien, das der Verfasser mit entspre-
chenden Verhaltensweisen in Amazonien vergleicht. In
Melanesien wurde es in der Vergangenheit unterschied-
lich beurteilt, auch dessen Begründung war divers. Vor
allem wurden religiöse, weltanschauliche, kulturelle und
ökonomische Gründe geltend gemacht. Aufgrund neue-
rer Forschungsergebnisse kann angenommen werden,
daß in den Ethnien die sexuell bedingten kulturellen
Unterschiede sehr verschieden ausgeprägt sind. In der
Neuzeit, infolge der politischen, sozialen und ökonomi-
schen Wandlungen haben manche traditionell relevante
Männlichkeitswerte ihren bisherigen Rang eingebüßt,
andere dagegen, z. B. höherer Wohlstand, Erfolg in der
Politik und im Beruf, an Stellenwert gewonnen. Auch
die Mentalität der Frau aufgrund der neuen Strömungen
unterliegt einem wesentlichen Wandel: größer werden
ihre Rechte, es ändert sich ihr bisheriger Pflichtenkreis,
verschiedene bisherige Tabus verlieren zunehmend ihre
bisher bindende Kraft (174 f.).
Sehr aufschlußreich ist die Bestandsaufnahme des
Verfassers am Ende seiner Ausführungen über den der-
zeitigen ethnologischen Forschungsstand im postkolo-
nialen Melanesien. Weiterhin gilt diese Region fürs
Studium verschiedener völkerkundlicher Probleme als
besonders geeignet, doch wird immer noch, besonders
in Nicht-Fachkreisen, auf frühere Vorstellungen von
Land und Menschen zurückgegriffen, die den jetzigen
Realitäten nicht mehr entsprechen, da Melanesien ei-
ne intensive multiforme Entwicklungsphase erlebt. Es
gibt noch verschiedene alte unerledigte Probleme, aber
auch schon viele neue, die zum großen Teil auch in
anderen Entwicklungsländern bekannt sind, die zwar
ihre politische Unabhängigkeit erlangt haben, jedoch
die wirtschaftlichen, politischen und sozialen Grund-
lagen und Strukturen eines modernen Staatswesens erst
schaffen müssen. Es kann aber auch ein wachsendes
kulturelles und politisches Selbstbewußtsein in dieser
Region festgestellt werden. Man kann dem Verfasser nur
beipflichten, wenn er postuliert, daß diese soziokulturel-
len Veränderungen und Entwicklungen in der Forschung
entsprechend wahrgenommen werden sollten. Abschlie-
ßend weist er auf Probleme von besonderer Wichtigkeit
ünd Aktualität in der heutigen Melanesienforschung hin,
die in der wissenschaftlichen Erfassung des Kulturwan-
dels besondere Aufmerksamkeit verdienen.
B. M. Knaufts Untersuchungen, obwohl sie nur eini-
ge Teilgebiete der ethnologischen Forschung in Melane-
Slen betreffen, enthalten sehr wertvolles wissenschaftli-
ches Material über die Region. Zum großen Teil befaßte
Slch der Verfasser gerade mit Problemen, die in der bis-
herigen Forschung meist aus traditioneller Sicht erörtert
Wurden und oft das Image dieser Region bilden, die sich
Kdoch in den letzten Jahrzehnten wesentlich änderten
und somit eine gründliche Neubearbeitung erheischen.
Es ist das beachtliche Verdienst des Verfassers, daß er
versucht, kritisch, objektiv und klärend auf diese Fragen
einzugehen, wobei er sich jedoch unnötiger Polemiken
und Schuldzuweisungen bei Besprechungen kontrover-
ser Themen enthält. Von besonderem Wert ist auch seine
synthetische Übersicht über die derzeitige ethnologische
Forschung in dieser Region, die wichtigsten Entwicklun-
gen und ihre Gründe, die sich abzeichnenden Tendenzen
in der Kulturtransformation.
Die bibliographische Dokumentierung ist sehr reich-
haltig (245-307), meist neuesten Datums. Von großem
Vorteil ist auch das Autoren- und Sachverzeichnis, um
so mehr, da das Inhaltsverzeichnis leider nur die Haupt-
themen enthält.
B. M. Knaufts Buch ist sehr informativ; es enthält
eine große Fülle von interessanten Forschungsergeb-
nissen und Angaben über Melanesien, selbst aus den
letzten Jahren. Zwar sind es ausgewählte Probleme, die
der Verfasser ausführlicher behandelt, doch sind sie von
besonderer Relevanz und großem Interesse für den Le-
ser. Seine Arbeit gehört zu den besten ethnographischen
Publikationen über Melanesien, die in den letzten Jahren
erschienen sind. FranciszekM. Rosinski
Krasberg, Ulrike: Religion und weibliche Identität.
Interdisziplinäre Perspektiven auf Wirklichkeiten. Mar-
burg: Curupira, 1999. 324 pp. ISBN 3-8185-0261-7.
(Curupira Workshop, 4) Preis: DM 32,00
Der von Ulrike Krasberg herausgegebene Band über
“Religion und weibliche Identität” beinhaltet die aus-
gearbeiteten Beiträge eines Symposions, das im Jahre
1997 an der Philipps-Universität in Marburg abgehalten
wurde. Das Buch bietet, wie der Untertitel ankündigt,
“interdisziplinäre Perspektiven auf Wirklichkeiten”.
Nach dem Vorwort der Herausgeberin und einer von
ihr verfassten informativen Einführung in das Thema
gliedern sich die 18 Artikel in fünf Teile. Die Vielfalt
der Beiträge weisen auf das breite Spektrum hin, das
sich beim Nachdenken über Religiosität eröffnet. In
zahlreichen Beiträgen werden christliche Kontexte the-
matisiert. Die christlich-judäische Weltauffassung, die
sich prägend auf die gesamte westliche Kultur auswirkt,
wird im Allgemeinen als weitgehend patriarchalischen
Gesetzmäßigkeiten folgend perzipiert. In kirchlichen
Zusammenhängen ist Weiblichkeit ein randständiges
Phänomen und steht als solches außerhalb des hier
geführten “dominanten Diskurses”. Exemplarisch lässt
sich das katholische Dogma der Jungfräulichkeit der
Gottesmutter anführen, das in kirchlichen Kreisen zu
Lasten der Frauen über lange Zeit als Aufforderung
zur Passivität, zum Gehorsam und zur Unterwerfung
unter den Mann gedeutet wurde; stand dieser doch
Gott vermeintlich wesentlich näher. Die Beiträge des
Werkes, die nichtchristliche, d. h. in erster Linie is-
lamische Gesellschaften behandeln, geben interessante
Anregungen darüber, ob die Ausgrenzung von Frauen
bzw. Weiblichkeit aus rituellen Kontexten als univer-
sales oder spezifisch christliches Merkmal zu erkennen
Anthropos 96.2001
272
Rezensionen
ist. Die Textsammlung bietet hierfür eine anregende und
vielschichtige Diskussionsgrundlage.
Den verschiedenen Aspekten, die der Titel des Ban-
des verheißt, wird in den Beiträgen mit recht uneinheit-
licher Gewichtung Rechnung getragen. In einer Reihe
von Artikeln wird der Begriff der Religion, aber auch
der der Identität sehr weit gefasst, und gerade, was
die so genannte “weibliche Identität” angeht, lassen
einige Autorinnen eine theoretische Einordnung des
eigenen Standpunkts vermissen. Dadurch ist zuweilen
ein Zurückfallen hinter die seit den 80er Jahren vehe-
ment geführte Debatte über Konstruktion von gender in
geschlechtsessentialistische Mutmaßungen zu beklagen.
Dies gilt jedoch nur für einzelne Beiträge, gegen die sich
andere durch ihre theoretisch innovative und kritische
Haltung durchaus positiv abzeichnen.
Im ersten Abschnitt, “Weibliche Berufung”, wird der
Leser mit Ansichten von Nonnen bekannt gemacht. Die
selbstbewusst gelebte und im ethnologischen Interview
geschilderte Frömmigkeit von in frei gewählter Ab-
geschiedenheit lebenden Frauen zeigt Religiosität als
spezifisch weiblichen Lebensweg. Die Völkskundlerin
Vera Deißner, die die Ordensfrauen kontemplativer Ge-
meinschaften befragte und für ihre Darstellung auch ver-
öffentlichte Selbstzeugnisse heranzog, zeigt Frauen, die
für die Welt arbeiten, wenngleich sie nicht in der Welt
leben. Sie zeichnet auch die historischen Entwicklungen
verschiedener Kongregationen seit dem Zweiten Vatika-
nischen Konzil auf, wodurch das Thema der Gleich-
berechtigung und Emanzipation unter den Ordensleu-
ten aufgeworfen wird. Kritische Standpunkte dieser
dezidiert spirituell handelnden Frauen werden darge-
stellt und die zuweilen verblüffende Klarheit vermittelt,
in der die Ordensfrauen ihre spezifische “weibliche
Identität” leben.
Gertrud Hüwelmeier beleuchtet ganz andere Aspekte
des Lebens von “frommen Frauen” im 19. und 20. Jh.,
die ihr Leben in den Dienst der Frömmigkeit stellen.
Sie lenkt ihren Blick weniger auf spirituelle Identität
und Kontemplation, sondern zeichnet die sozioökono-
mischen Ursachen auf, die zur Gründung einer Frau-
enkongregation führten. Sie erläutert deren Auswirkung
auf die Bevölkerung und ganz besonders den erzieheri-
schen Einfluss auf die jungen Frauen. Beispielhaft steht
in ihren Ausführungen ein hessisches Dorf. Die durch
die industrielle Revolution hervorgerufene Notsituation
zwang den Großteil der Männer zur Arbeitsmigration
in die Städte. Dadurch wurden herkömmliche hierar-
chische Sozial- und Familienstrukturen obsolet, und
die Dorffrauen sahen sich relativ unvermittelt weit-
gehend auf sich selbst gestellt. Auf ihnen lastete die
gesamte Landarbeit, die Aufrechterhaltung des sozialen
Zusammenhalts und die Versorgung der Kinder. Der
neu gegründete Orden der “Armen Dienstmägde Jesu
Christi” bot allein stehenden Mädchen eine zur Familie
alternative Gemeinschaft. Darüber hinaus entlasteten die
Schwestern die Landfrauen bei ihren Erziehungsaufga-
ben; mit einem Bildungsangebot bezüglich Hausarbeit
und kulturellen Aktivitäten wie Gesang und Theaterspiel
banden sie die jungen Mädchen zu Gruppen zusammen,
innerhalb derer die Bildung einer kollektiven weibli-
chen Identität gelang. In so genannten Marienzirkeln
eroberten sie sich bald auch in der Öffentlichkeit ihren
festen Platz, der für die neuen Handlungsräume der
Landfrauen steht. Dass sie diese selbstbestimmt nutzen
konnten, zeigt sich in der weiteren historischen Entwick-
lung, als sich die Frauen mit der gesellschaftlichen und
wirtschaftlichen Konsolidierung auch aus dem kirchli-
chen Griff zu lösen begannen und der Zulauf zu den
Frauenvereinen wieder abnahm.
Abenteuerlich mutet der religiöse Einsatz der Basler
Missionsbräute des 19. Jhs. an, die in arrangierte Ehen
einwilligten und einem ihnen meist unbekannten Mis-
sionar in einem fernen Land als Frau und “Gehilfin des
Glaubens” zur Seite zu stehen hatten. Dagmar Konrad
kippt das Klischee der Missionsbraut als Opfer eines
vermeintlichen Frauenhandels und zeigt auf, welche
eigenen Absichten und Ziele die “Bräute” mit diesen
kühnen Unternehmungen jenseits von Aufopferungswil-
ligkeit auch verfolgten.
Laut Inhaltsverzeichnis gehört der Beitrag der Theo-
login Christiane Paulus noch Teil I an. Thematisch fügt
er sich jedoch in den Teil II, “Die fremde und die
eigene Religion”. Als Teil dieses Unterkapitels wird er
in der Einleitung der Herausgeberin auch vorgestellt.
Christiane Paulus fragt nach den geschlechtsspezifischen
Bedingungen für interfamiliäres religiöses Handeln und
resümiert - wohl etwas pauschalisierend und aus einer
offensichtlich privaten Sicht dass sich Frauen in
bi-religiösen Familien in spirituellen Angelegenheiten,
wie beispielsweise der konfessionellen Kindererziehung,
leichter auf ihren Ehepartner einstellen, als dies Männer
in Bezug auf die religiöse Herkunft ihrer Frauen leisten.
Die Religionswissenschaftlerin Gritt-Maria Klink-
hammer stellt in “... und ich war irgendwie auch
nicht zufrieden mit meinem Leben” Reflexionen einer
jungen in Deutschland aufgewachsenen Türkin vor. Sie
zeigt so exemplarisch die Problematik auf, die sich
muslimischen Frauen bei der Identitätsfindung in nicht-
islamischen Gesellschaften stellt. Die Autorin zeichnet
die Hinwendung der jungen Türkin zum “echten” Islarn
nach, der ihr die Möglichkeit zu selbstbestimmtem und
gleichberechtigtem Frausein eröffnet. Ihre persönliche
Identität gewinnt die Protagonistin ihrer eigenen Aus-
sage nach in der engagierten und auch unbequemen
Auseinandersetzung mit ihren eigenen ethnischen und
religiösen Wurzeln.
Der recht umfangreiche dritte Teil, “Religiöse Praxis
als Ausdruck weiblichen Handelns”, bietet Einblicke in
ganz unterschiedliche religiöse Praxen verschiedenster
Kulturen.
Marina Reizakis hatte ihre griechische Heimat bereits
vor Aufnahme ihres Ethnologiestudiums in Deutschland
hinter sich gelassen und fühlte sich an ihre eigene
ursprüngliche Tradition längst nicht mehr gebunden, als
sie sich zur Feldforschung in der Ägäis entschloss. Die
Autorin analysiert die religiöse Identität von griechisch-
orthodoxen Frauen und entwirft so genannte synekdo-
chische Beziehungsreihen, in denen Personen, äußere
und innere Räume, Bilder und Vorstellungen miteinan-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
273
der verknüpft sind, wobei ein Aspekt immer durch einen
anderen repräsentiert werden kann bzw. parallel zu ver-
stehen ist. In dieser Weise konfrontiert sie “Frau > Haus
> Intimes Eigenes” mit der Beziehungsreihe “Heilige(r)
> Kirche > Ikone” und stellt fest, dass sich die von
ihr untersuchten Frauen aufgrund der metaphorischen
Austauschbarkeit dieser Bedeutungsreihen dem “Heili-
gen” gegenüber mit selbstverständlicher Unbefangenheit
nähern können. Die eigene Weiblichkeit verbindet sich
hier bruchlos mit einer authentischen religiösen Iden-
tität. Reizakis lässt bei ihrer Darstellung ihre persönli-
chen, sie selbst überraschenden spirituellen Empfindun-
gen zu und verarbeitet sie, der Methode der reflexiven
Anthropologie folgend, zu einem spannenden Zeugnis
einer inneren Rückkehr aus der eigenen Migration.
Susanne Schmidt stellt im nächsten Beitrag anhand
des Pilgerwesens in der polnischen Stadt Piekary eine
überwiegend von Frauen praktizierte Form der Ma-
rienverehrung vor. Die Marienwallfahrt von Piekary
spielt im Vergleich zu dem bekannten Wallfahrtsort
Czestochowa mit seiner berühmten schwarzen Madonna
innerhalb Polens eine untergeordnete Rolle. Doch hat
sich gerade für schlesische Frauen und Mädchen die
Aktualität dieser Pilgerschaft, deren Geschichte sich bis
ins 17. Jh. zurück verfolgen lässt, bis heute erhalten.
Der nächste Artikel führt nach Usbekistan, wo - dem
polnischen Schicksal ähnlich - religiöse Praxis unter
der kommunistischen Regierungszeit in die Illegalität
bzw. in die Privatsphäre der Familie und näheren Nach-
barschaft gedrängt wurde. Claudia Schöning-Kalender
erzählt von einer Reise, die sie im Jahr 1995 mit einer
Gruppe junger usbekischer Architektinnen, Archäolo-
ginnen und Historikerinnen unternahm. Dabei wurde
sie mit einem in sich widersprüchlichen Konglomerat
aus “säkularisiertem Alltag, russischer Trinkkultur und
islamisch-religiösen Riten” konfrontiert. Die Autorin
nimmt ihre Beobachtungen auf dieser Unternehmung
zum Anlass, die Bedeutung, welche die Entschleierung
der Frauen im Jahre 1927 für die Bevölkerung hatte,
zu analysieren. Sie zeigt auf, wie die Unterdrückung
der islamischen Tradition das religiöse Leben in eine
volkstümliche Praxisform zwang, die - weitgehend von
Frauen getragen - ausschließlich im familiären und
Nachbarschaftlichen Kreis ausgeübt wurde. Seit sich
Nach dem Zusammenbruch der UdSSR die Lebenskon-
ditionen im privaten wie im öffentlichen Leben wieder
grundsätzlich geändert haben, wandelt sich auch die
Position von Frauen im Bereich der religiösen Praxis.
Maren Bellwinkel-Schempp schildert die aufregen-
de Lebensgeschichte der außergewöhnlichen indischen
Frau Lakshmi Swaminadhan. Der Geschlechterstatus der
Niatrilinear organisierten Nair, der von Seiten der Mutter
aNf Lakshmi tradiert wurde, und die brahmanische No-
blesse des Vaters bildeten den familiären Hintergrund,
v°r dem die Protagonistin zunächst Ärztin wird, dann
eine militärische Karriere einschlägt und schließlich auf
dem Feld der Politik zu Ruhm gelangt. Die Auto-
riu schildert aus der Perspektive einer angenommenen
Fochter den Lebensweg dieser Frau, die als helden-
hafte Befreiungskämpferin verehrt wird, und analysiert
^Nthropos 96.2001
ihre Biographie entlang des devi-Prinzips: devi bedeutet
“Göttin”, und diese Figur trägt einen Heldinnenaspekt in
sich, der sich in Lakshmi Swaminadhan manifestierte.
Cornelia Giebeler beschreibt Praxis und Alltagsbe-
dingungen zapotekischer Heilerinnen, die über ökono-
mische Unabhängigkeit und umfangreiche, tragfähige
Netzwerke verfügen. Letztere stellen eine besonders von
Frauen gelebte Sozialform dar. Es sind die Frauen, die
im kulturellen Leben, das wesentlich von der Volksre-
ligion geprägt ist, die aktive Rolle übernehmen. Dies
drückt sich darin aus, dass der Beruf des Heilers haupt-
sächlich von Frauen ausgeübt wird. Die Frauen gewin-
nen ihre spezifisch weiblich-religiöse Identität über das
Zusammenspiel von Spiritualität und gesellschaftlicher
Macht und setzen Aushandlung als tragende Strategie im
Umgang mit den Heiligen wie auch in gesellschaftlichen
Auseinandersetzungen ein.
Die Perspektive weiblicher Identität innerhalb ei-
ner religiösen Praxis Lateinamerikas stellt auch Bettina
E. Schmidt vor und führt dabei ins ecuadorianische
Hochland. Ihr Augenmerk legt sie auf die Veränderun-
gen im Ablauf religiöser Zeremonien als Folge verstärk-
ter Arbeitsmigration der Männer und deren Saisonarbeit
in der Ferne.
Irina Buche zeichnet im Sinne der “Theorie der
interkulturellen Kommunikation” die historischen Gege-
benheiten zu Beginn der Conquista nach, d. h. zur Zeit
der Ankunft von Cortes und seinen Männern im alten
Mexiko. Dabei weist sie den westlichen Eroberern den
Status von “Autoren” zu, die die Welt der Göttinnen
eroberten und überwältigten. Die “Autorenschaft” steht
für eine männliche Wissenschaftsgemeinschaft, die mehr
als 2000 Jahre lang die Schrift für sich beanspruchte
und über diese Monopolisierung eine patriarchalische
Realität als allgemeingültige Gesetzmäßigkeit postulier-
te, wodurch die Erinnerungen an die Herrschaft von
Naturgöttinnen gelöscht wurde. Als Vertreterin eines im
alten Mexiko angeblich noch präsenten “Göttinnenpara-
dieses” stellt uns die Kulturwissenschaftlerin Malinche,
die berühmte indianische Übersetzerin, Sklavin und Ge-
liebte Cortes’, vor, die sie in die Nähe der mächtigen
Muttergöttin rückt.
Godula Kosack fragt, “Warum wurden die Hexen
verfolgt?”, und stellt ähnlich wie im vorhergehenden
Beitrag die These auf, dass es die männliche Domi-
nanz in der Wissenschaft und Religion ist, die eine
alternative Sichtweise auf historische Gegebenheiten
verhinderte. Interessant ist ihre Aufforderung, das Motiv
des “Hexenwahns” gegen den Strich zu denken und zu-
mindest hypothetisch eine tatsächliche spirituelle Macht
der im Mittelalter als “Hexen” gebrandmarkten Personen
anzunehmen. Ihren Argumenten verleiht die Autorin
Nachdruck durch den Verweis auf die erheblichen inter-
kulturellen Übereinstimmungen bezüglich der Kriterien
für “Hexen” und “Hexerei”.
Auch der folgende Beitrag von Ingo W. Schröder be-
handelt Hexen, wobei der Autor weibliche Spiritualität
als Elemente innerhalb modischer neopaganer Strömun-
gen kritisch unter die Lupe nimmt. Innerhalb der die
feministische Emanzipationsbestrebung ablösenden Be-
274
Rezensionen
wegung werden der “neuen Hexe” intrinsische weibliche
Symbolik und eine genuine Verbindung zum Naturmy-
thos zugesprochen. Bei näherer Betrachtung wird jedoch
offenbar, dass sich innerhalb dieser Bewegungen keine
neue kollektive weibliche Identität entwickelt hat und
die sogenannten spirituellen Werte wenig hinterfragt und
in hohem Maße individualistisch gelebt werden.
Susanne Schröter zeigt anhand des Wirkens und der
Wirkung einer lesbischen Subkultur, die sich in den 80er
Jahren auf der Schwäbischen Alb niederließ, dass die
vielbeachteten Thesen von Judith Butler und Michel
Foucault für die Konstruierung politischer Perspekti-
ven - nämlich der Destabilisierung und Performance -
gänzlich unerheblich zu sein scheinen. Die vorgestellte
radikalfeministische Gemeinschaft entwickelte sich aus
der Frauenbewegung der 70er Jahre als Gegenentwurf
zur patriarchalischen Mehrheitsgesellschaft und über-
führt den sozialpolitischen in einen subkulturell-reli-
giösen Prozess. Wie von Godula Kosack für die Re-
zeption mittelalterlicher Quellen in affirmativer Weise
angedeutet und von Ingo Schröder kritisch ausgeführt
wurde, kommt auch Susanne Schröter in ihrer Ana-
lyse dieser “Aussteigergruppe” zur Einsicht, dass hier
rationale Logik und Historizität als Zwangsinstrumenta-
rien der patriarchalischen Hegemonialmacht verstanden
werden. Nun aber sei es an der Zeit, sich von diesen
Hemmnissen zu befreien. Unter dergleichen Maßgabe
lassen sich essentialistische Utopien einer männerlosen
Zukunft wie auch die vermeintliche Erinnerung an eine
matriarchalisch geprägte kulturelle und spirituelle Ver-
gangenheit mühelos als gegeben anerkennen.
Eine Sonderrolle nimmt der sich anschließende Bei-
trag ein, in dem Ute Ritschel die Kunstform der “Per-
formance” als religiösen Akt präsentiert. Die Autorin
ist selbst Künstlerin und in dem von ihr vertretenen
Sinne spirituelle Praktikerin. In enger Anlehnung an den
Ritualbegriff Victor Turners interpretiert sie Kunstak-
tionen bekannter Künstlerinnen unter Berücksichtigung
sozialer und politischer Aspekte im Sinne religiöser
Ereignisse, ohne dabei in esoterische Scheinheiligkeit
oder Oberflächlichkeit abzurutschen.
Nina Köllhofer forscht nach Quelle und Keim der
Geschlechterdifferenz in den Schöpfungsmythen von
Christentum und Islam und eröffnet mit ihrem pragma-
tischen Beitrag den letzten Abschnitt, in dem es um die
“Suche nach dem Ursprung” geht.
Die Ausführungen von Gisela Matthiaes fallen, ähn-
lich wie der Beitrag von Ute Ritschel, aus dem Konzept,
da sich hier wiederum eine Praktikerin zu Wort meldet.
Die Pfarrerin schöpft aus ihrer konkreten seelsorgeri-
schen Tätigkeit und bearbeitet mit der Analysetechnik
der “kollektiven Erinnerungsarbeit” Träume oder Vor-
stellungen, in denen im weitesten Sinne “Göttlichkeit”
thematisiert wird. Die Theologin legt einen weit gefass-
ten Religiositätsbegriff zugrunde, wenn sie Traumbe-
richte und Gottesvorstellungen von Frauen methodisch
und theoretisch fundiert und mit psychologischem Fein-
gefühl interpretiert.
Das Buch schließt mit einem Autorinnenverzeichnis,
wobei das Binnen-I für nahezu alle Verfasser steht.
Dass sich mit Ingo W. Schröder ein einziger Mann zum
Thema geäußert hat, weist darauf hin, dass kulturwissen-
schaftliche Untersuchungen aus weiblicher Perspektive
bzw. unter spezieller Berücksichtigung von Weiblichkeit
- wie überhaupt Betrachtungen von Existenz- oder Sinn-
entwürfen aus gender-Sicht - nach wie vor weitgehend
Angelegenheit von Autorinnen sind. Es bleibt zu hoffen,
dass hier ein Wandel eintritt. Mit dieser Publikation
ist jedenfalls eine Diskussion eröffnet worden über die
“Marginalität von Frauen” im gesellschaftlichen Bereich
und über ihre religiöse Bedeutung, die über eine Einen-
gung auf weibliche Mystik hinausgeht. Diese Debatte
verdient auf einer breiten Basis weitergeführt zu werden.
Das Buch ist als Einstieg in die Thematik tauglich und
hilfreich. Gabriele Herzog-Schröder
Kusimba, Chapurukha M.: The Rise and Fall of
Swahili States. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 1999.
237 pp. ISBN 0-7619-9052-6. Price: £ 16.99
Among the African peoples, the Swahili of the East
African Coast are unique in at least one respect, for, it is
about them more than any other people, that questions
have been perennially asked about their identity, their
origins, and the source(s) of their culture and civiliza-
tion. Perhaps the latest and certainly the most publicized
attempt of this “search” for the Swahili is that of the
Harvard University professor, Henry Louis Gates Jr., in
Episode 2 of his controversial 1999 television series,
“Wonders of the African World.” The ideas that the au-
thor of “The Rise and Fall of Swahili States” provides to
this staple of scholarship about East Africa, however, are
subtle, complex, well-informed and may prove decisive
in settling some of these recurrent interrogations. For
the perspectives he brings to bear upon these vexing
questions are original, wide-ranging, and indeed quite
persuasive.
“The Rise and Fall of Swahili States” is a scientif-
ic account of the emergence and development of the
Swahili society and its people from antiquity, when it
was first mentioned in the “Periplus of the Erythraean
Sea” (attributed to a Greek pilot, Hippalus), to more
modern times. Using a multidisciplinary approach that
combines information from his own surveys and ex-
cavations with existing findings of archeology, anthro-
pology, linguistics, and history, the author provides a
meticulous description that touches on various facets
of this civilization over the centuries - including its
human composition, its natural resources, its economic
foundations, its settlement patterns, and its political
articulations. In the process, the reader gains a graphic
and comprehensive picture, in a language that is very
accessible, of the rise and fall of the politico-economic
fortunes of the people called the Swahili.
There is a combination of at least four aspects
of the study which makes it a particularly distinctive
contribution to the study of the Swahili, in particular,
and East African history, at large.
1. The discourse on Swahili people, culture, and
civilization has long been polarized between what the
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
275
author terms the “External Origins Theory,” on the one
hand, and a quasi-nationalist “Internal Origins Theory,”
on the other. In this study, however, Kusimba suggests
that in this, as in most other cases, the “truth” lies some-
where inbetween the two extreme positions. Through
both a critical reinterpretation of existing evidence and
analysis of new data he traces the growth of the civiliza-
tion from its African foundations to its gradual and or-
ganic absorption, by virtue of its geographical location,
of a multiplicity of extra-African traditions. There are,
of course, scholars who have always viewed the Swahili
and their culture as products of a “dual” (Afro-Asiatic)
synthesis: In many instances, however, such scholars
have also proceeded to argue that precisely because
of that historical fusion, the Swahili are somewhat sui
generis, being neither African nor Asian. In the case
of Kusimba, however, he has managed to appreciate
the multicultural origins of the Swahili without denying
them their Africanity.
2. In reaching the above conclusion, the author has
shown a great deal of sensitivity to the importance of
cultural information in interpreting archeological evi-
dence. While this is particularly noticeable in chapter 5
of the book, it clearly informs other phases of the study
as it explores the complex historical terrain. And the
depth of cultural knowledge evident in the book leads
one to believe that the author spent many a precious
moment with Swahili elders, sages, and other keepers
of the oral tradition, learning from them the nature and
substance, complexity and nuances, and dynamics and
counter-dynamics of the Swahili cultural organism.
3. Many of the existing studies on the Swahili
have tended to treat the people as a monolithic and
homogenous group about which simple generalizations
could be made without the hazard of uncovering too
many exceptions to “the rule.” The Swahili society
that is presented in “The Rise and Fall of Swahili
States,” however, deviates from this romantic picture
of uniformity: Rather it is more realistically presented
as internally diverse, with its own in-group tensions and
contradictions.
Of particular significance, in this regard, is the
recognition of the class content of the Swahili and
how “in writing their history, the Swahili upper classes
thought to embellish their pedigrees by claiming kinship
with powerful people of the Near East” (40). With this
class expediency, therefore, the confusion about the
°rigins of the Swahili and their civilization became,
ln part, self-perpetrated. What Kusimba fails to realize,
however, is that in time this same class ideology became
hegemonic, espoused by the Swahili body politic across
class boundaries. Muslims among the Swahili in general,
therefore, preferred to identify themselves in Arab terms,
^advertently supporting, in the process, racist views of
°utsiders who wanted to deny Africa any credit for its
0vvn history. In other words, quasi-religious reasons for
Self-Arabization among the Swahili themselves and rac-
*st reasons for Arabizing the Swahili coast among some
Western observers combined to promote the confusion
A'hose implications continue to unfold to this day.
Anth
ropos 96.2001
4. Equally significant is the conviction and orienta-
tion of the author that the interpretation of archeological
data is not a politically neutral act. In his own words,
“Archeology, as a means of describing the past, is, inher-
ently a political act... all are aware that the transforma-
tion of field data into information setting forth one’s own
interpretation of the past is a more subjective matter”
(43). Africa has been particularly vulnerable to this
problem of subjectivity because of its heavy reliance, in
many cases, on the oral tradition. As a result, for exam-
ple, Great Zimbabwe suffered an entirely fictitious his-
tory for centuries, with its achievements being attributed
to people of white ancestry. And as Kusimba suggests,
the interpretations of Arab travellers, Swahili scholars,
and European colonizers about the Swahili civilization
were similarly undergirded by specific political agendas.
But it is not only the perspective of the archeologist
that may be laden with political considerations of var-
ious shades. The consumption of this information as it
gets presented to the public in the name of science can
also have political implications of its own in the real
life of the average citizenry. This is amply demonstrated
in Kusimba’s “Afterword.” The section describes how
Swahili dispossession, justified by popular perceptions
that the Swahili are somewhat foreign, may have led
to the bloody tragedy in Likoni, Kenya, in August
1997. For now “ethnic cleansing” became the response
to a prevailing state of “internal colonialism” whose
legitimating ideology is partly inspired by the “External
Origins Theory.”
But is Kusimba himself free of this political subjec-
tivity? Perhaps not. As an archeologist and of African
origin, he has combined his extensive knowledge of
the Swahili language and culture with a meticulous
research methodology to arrive at an original study from
a perspective that is primarily Africa-centered. In this
regard, “The Rise and Fall of Swahili States” is indeed
a pioneering work of inestimable value to Africa in the
continuing quest to reclaim its history.
Alamin Mazrui
Lefebvre, Alain: Kinship, Honour, and Money in
Rural Pakistan. Subsistence Economy and the Effects of
International Migration. Richmond: Curzon Press, 1999.
303 pp. ISBN 0-7007-0984-3. Price: £ 40.00
Das Thema dieses nützlichen und guten Buches von
Alain Lefebvre ist zum einen die detaillierte Untersu-
chung der sozioökonomischen Bedingungen für Arbeits-
migration in zwei Dörfern im pakistanischen Punjab.
Zum anderen erforscht er die vielschichtigen Probleme
und Resultate von internationaler Arbeitsmigration vor
allem in die Golf-Staaten für die dörfliche Ökonomie,
das soziale Leben im Dorf und für die Familien von
Migranten. Die Studie basiert neben Literatur- und Ar-
chivstudien in Pakistan auf einer neunmonatigen Feld-
forschung in zwei Dörfern - das eine mit Trocken-
feldbau im Sialkot-Distrikt und das andere mit einem
hohen Anteil von Bewässerungsfeldbau südwestlich von
Rawalpindi. Die empirische Forschung führte der Autor
276
Rezensionen
in Zusammenarbeit mit der pakistanischen Anthropo-
login Shahida Haque durch. Ihr verdankt er auf alle
Fälle seine detaillierten Ausführungen über das Leben
der Frauen in den Dörfern und die Auswirkungen von
Arbeitsmigration auf ihr Leben. Der “gender-Aspekt”,
aber auch die Fragen der Haushaltsführung sind gründ-
lich und kenntnisreich bearbeitet; ohne die Hilfe seiner
Kollegin wäre dies für einen europäischen Feldforscher
wahrscheinlich nicht möglich gewesen.
Regionale und vor allem internationale Arbeitsmigra-
tion sind in Südasien keine rezente Erscheinung, sondern
gewinnen schon seit dem 18./19. Jh. zunehmend an Be-
deutung. In der Tat hat Pakistan eine riesige “Reservear-
mee” von billigen und unterqualifizierten Arbeitern, die
als gute Muslime in den arabischen Staaten willkommen
sind, solange man sie gebrauchen kann. Seit den 70er
Jahren des 20. Jhs. sind massenhaft Kontraktarbeit in
den Golf-Staaten und der damit verbundene Geldzu-
fluß eine wesentliche Stütze der pakistanischen Ökono-
mie. Sie sind auch wichtiger Teil des dörflichen Lebens
geworden, denn die meisten Arbeitsmigranten stammen
aus ländlichen Gebieten bzw. aus Dörfern. Überdies
besteht in den herrschenden Kreisen in Pakistan die
Hoffnung, daß die Krise der pakistanischen Dörfer, oder
besser der am Rande des Existenzminimums lebenden
Kleinbauern, Handwerker, Pächter und Landarbeiter,
durch internationale Arbeitsmigration zu lösen ist. Ein
wichtiges Resultat von Lefebvres Arbeit ist, daß er an
seinen Beispielen zeigen kann, daß diese Hoffnung mehr
als trügerisch ist. Internationale Arbeitsmigration und
die im Vergleich zu Pakistan hohen Löhne in Arabien
verbessern die materielle Situation von Familien, in de-
nen ein oder selten zwei Mitglieder in den Golf-Staaten
arbeiten. Aber, wie der Autor eindrücklich nachweist,
führt dies keineswegs zu einer dauerhaften Verbesserung
der ökonomischen Basis in den untersuchten Dörfern
oder zum systematischen Ausbau eines kleinindustri-
ellen Sektors im Falle derjenigen Handwerker, die es
tatsächlich geschafft haben, für fünf Jahre oder mit er-
neutem Kontrakt länger in den Golf-Staaten zu arbeiten.
Diese Kernthese, die das ganze Buch durchläuft, ist aber,
wie zu zeigen sein wird, erheblich differenzierter.
Das Phänomen der internationalen Arbeitsmigration,
ihre makro- und mikroökonomische und soziale Be-
deutung sind in einer Vielzahl von Studien behandelt
worden, und es hat sich eine Reihe unterschiedlicher
Theorien zu diesem Thema herausgebildet. Lefebvre
setzt folgerichtig mit einem kurzen Überblick über
die verschiedenen Theorien und Forschungsansätze zur
internationalen Arbeitsmigration in Pakistan ein. Sein
übergreifender theoretischer Rahmen leitet sich aus den
in den 70er Jahren gängigen Imperialismustheorien und
aus den Arbeiten französischer Ethnologen wie C. Meil-
lassoux u. a. her. Auch wenn in diesem theoretischen
Überblick richtige und wichtige Feststellungen getroffen
werden, muß man diese Richtung und ihren Diskurs
nicht teilen. Außer der Darstellung der pakistanischen
Diskussion ist das meiste allgemein bekannt, und die
Resultate und Schlußfolgerungen der Arbeit sind in
dieser Hinsicht weder neu noch besonders originell.
Aber dies ändert wenig an der Qualität der Arbeit von
Lefebvre.
Nach meiner Meinung liegt die Stärke und Bedeu-
tung des Buches vor allem in der ethnographischen
Qualität. Der erste Teil des Buches (Kap. 2-5) enthält
die detaillierte und sorgfältige Analyse der sozioökono-
mischen Strukturen beider Dörfer. Die dörfliche Öko-
nomie wird gleichsam in den Traditionen des “Punjab
Board of Economic Enquiry” aus den 20er und 30er
Jahren des 20. Jhs. analysiert und durch detaillierte so-
ziologische oder ethnologische und entwicklungstheo-
retische Fragestellungen und Analysen ergänzt. Dieser
Teil, der etwa die Hälfte des Buches umfaßt und auch die
Agrarverhältnisse und ländlichen Arbeitsbeziehungen in
historischer Perspektive aufnimmt, gibt eine Fülle von
aussagekräftigen und schlüssig präsentierten Daten, wie
man sie sonst in der Literatur zu Pakistan eher selten
findet. Der Vergleich von Dörfern mit Bewässerungs-
und Trockenfeldbau gehört seit S. Epsteins klassischer
Studie in Südindien zum allgemeinen Repertoire von
agrarsoziologischen Studien. Lefebvre erwähnt Epstein
nicht, aber in der Methodologie wie auch in den ver-
gleichenden Aussagen finden sich frappierende Über-
einstimmungen, die aus den Verhältnissen der bäuer-
lichen Subsistenzwirtschaft im südasiatischen Kontext
und den unterschiedlichen Bedingungen von Trocken-
und Bewässerungsfeldbau resultieren. Ein Verdienst der
Arbeit ist es auch, daß die Agrarverhältnisse in ih-
rem Verhältnis zum sozialen Wertsystem und dieses
nicht statisch, sondern in Relation zur gesellschaftlichen
Praxis und den sich verändernden Bedingungen im paki-
stanischen Punjab dargestellt werden. Die Daten für die
zwei Dörfer werden sinnvoll verglichen und zu einem
Gesamtbild zusammengefügt. Das Buch enthält daher
wichtiges Datenmaterial und nützliche Ansätze für wei-
tere vergleichende Studien zu agrarischen Verhältnissen
und zur Arbeitsmigration.
Dieser erste Teil des Buches gibt einen guten Ein-
blick in die gegenwärtige ländliche Ökonomie des paki-
stanischen Punjab, ihre Transformation und gegenwärti-
gen Probleme. Das detaillierte Bild der sozioökonomi-
sehen Struktur der beiden Dörfer bildet die Grundlage
für die Untersuchung der Bedingungen und Auswirkun-
gen der Arbeitsmigration. Sich als Arbeitsmigrant in die
Golf-Staaten verdingen zu können, ist ein Traum für
viele in den untersuchten Dörfern; Arbeit in Arabien giÜ
als das große Los, das allerdings nur für relativ wenige
erreichbar ist. Nur hierin sehen sie die Möglichkeit, ihre
Wünsche nach einem neuen Haus, nach statusadäquater
Verheiratung der Kinder, kleinen Annehmlichkeiten des
Lebens und Landkauf zu erfüllen. Dafür werden hohe
Risiken, Verschuldung, Verkauf von Land und lange
Abwesenheit von der Familie in Kauf genommen.
Im zweiten Teil des Buches wird der Themenbereich
der internationalen Migration aufgenommen. Dieser Teil
befaßt sich mit den unterschiedlichen Motivationen, Be-
dingungen und vor allem den Problemen und Resultaten
von Arbeitsmigration in beiden Dörfern. Hierbei wird
die schon im ersten Teil aufgenommene analytische
Unterteilung in Landbesitzer, landarme bzw. landlose
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
277
Handwerker und Landarbeiter fortgesetzt. Im Resultat
sind es vor allem die Landbesitzer, für die Arbeits-
migration als realistische Möglichkeit erscheint, da sie
eher über die vorzuschießenden Mittel und Kontakte
verfügen. Aber auch etliche Handwerker sind das Risiko
eingegangen, sich in die Hände eines Arbeits- und
Visumsvermittlers zu begeben und sich für dörfliche
Verhältnisse hoch zu verschulden. Hervorzuheben ist,
daß sie es sind, die aufgrund ihrer Handwerkertradition
im Prinzip bessere Chancen auf höher bezahlte Arbeiten
in den Golf-Staaten haben, während die Landbesitzer
und Landarbeiter meist nur als ungelernte Arbeiter, sub-
alterne Aufseher oder Wachleute Unterkommen können.
Leider berichtet Lefebvre fast nichts über die Erfahrun-
gen von Arbeitsmigranten in ihren “Gastländern”.
Der Anteil der Haushalte mit einem Arbeitsmi-
granten beträgt im Dorf mit Trockenfeldbau 32.6%; in
dem mit Bewässerungsfeldbau 9.7 %. Somit ist im Dorf
mit Trockenfeldbau die soziale und räumliche Mobilität,
aber auch der ökonomische Zwang zur Arbeitsmigration
wesentlich größer. Aber, wie Lefebvre nachweist, läßt
sich daraus keineswegs schließen, daß die materielle
Situation dieses Dorfes eine dauerhafte Verbesserung
erfahren hat.
Die arabischen Staaten sind keine Einwanderungs-
länder, und nach Ablauf von Arbeitskontrakten werden
die Arbeiter rigide abgeschoben. Auch wenn Kontrakte
erneuert werden, sind die individuellen Chancen auf
kontinuierliche Einkünfte aus Arbeit in den Golf-Staaten
nicht sehr hoch, und vor allem sind sie immer zeitlich
begrenzt. Die Arbeitsmigranten kehren entweder in ihr
Dorf zurück oder reihen sich in die Massen derer ein,
die ihr Glück in den pakistanischen Städten bei weitaus
geringerem Lohn und schlechteren Arbeitsbedingungen
suchen; eine weitere Möglichkeit sind Kleinhandel und
Kleingewerbe. Immerhin haben sie dabei den Vorteil
einer im Vergleich zu anderen größeren Kapitaldecke.
Außer im kurzfristigen konsumtiven Bereich hat sich
durch internationale Arbeitsmigration grundsätzlich we-
tdg an der allgemeinen Lage im Dorf mit Trockenfeld-
bau verändert. Aber durch die Arbeitsmigration sind sol-
che Familien, die ein Mitglied hinausschicken konnten,
imstande, mit Wohlhabenderen, wie sie z. B. in dem
Dorf mit Bewässerungsfeldbau eher typisch sind, im
Sozialstatussystem, vor allem in der Ausstattung von
heiraten und in der Mitgift, zu konkurrieren.
Auf die Bedeutung und Notwendigkeit innerpaki-
stanischer Arbeitsmigration geht Lefebvre ebenfalls ein
uud situiert sie für beide Dörfer, für die Landbesit-
ZeL Handwerker, Kleinpächter und Landarbeiter. Land-
knappheit, Armut und Überbevölkerung zwingen zur
Migration. Eine Ausweitung der Anbauflächen ist in
den Dörfern inzwischen unmöglich. Auch die Inten-
sivierung und Kapitalisierung der Landwirtschaft ist
nur bei größerem Landbesitz und vor allem bei genü-
gend Eigenkapital ein realistisches Ziel. Wie Lefebvre
feststellt, wird die nächste Welle der Erbteilungen die
^aterielle Situation auch der größeren Landbesitzer er-
beblich verschlechtern. Migration wird in Zukunft in den
Untersuchten Dörfern zwangsläufig zunehmen. Polizei
Anthropos 96.2001
und Armee bieten bisher für die Bauern und andere
eine wesentliche Quelle für zusätzlichen Gelderwerb,
und es sind vor allem die Pensionsabfindungen, die im
dörflichen sozioökonomischen System von Bedeutung
sind. Handwerker wandern zunehmend in die Städte ab,
was durchaus beträchtliche Folgen für beide dörfliche
Ökonomien hat. Zusätzliches Einkommen durch Arbeit
außerhalb der dörflichen Ökonomie ist bereits zum Zeit-
punkt der Untersuchung (1982) wesentlicher Bestandteil
und unabdingbare Notwendigkeit der ländlichen Öko-
nomie, und dies gilt auch für das materiell eher bessere
Dorf mit Bewässerungsfeldbau.
In diesem Teil werden vor allem auch die Strategien
der Arbeits- und Visabeschaffung und ihre Finanzierung
erörtert, ebenso wie die dafür notwendigen Beziehungs-
netzwerke und verwandtschaftlichen Solidaritätsbezie-
hungen. Detailliert werden auch die Konsequenzen von
Arbeitsmigration für die Arbeitsbeziehungen in den Dör-
fern, die dörfliche Ökonomie und das soziale Leben im
allgemeinen analysiert. Dies gilt für die Auswirkungen
auf die Familienstruktur, die Entstehung neuer familiä-
rer und verwandtschaftlicher Konflikte, die tendenziell
konfliktreiche Frage der Verfügung über Geldüberwei-
sungen, das Problemfeld der Veränderung und Kontinui-
tät von familialen und dörflichen Autoritätsstrukturen
u. a. m. Diese Themen, wie auch die Rolle und Posi-
tion der Frauen und das Konzept von pardah, Status
und Ehre unter den Bedingungen von Arbeitsmigration,
werden in Kap. 7 weiter behandelt. Andere wichtige
Untersuchungspunkte sind die Veränderungen in der
Verfügbarkeit und Substitution von Arbeitskräften in
Haushalten mit Arbeitsmigranten und die durch den
neuen Geldzufluß entstehende ländliche Preisinflation.
Dies gilt vor allem für die Heiratsgaben und anderen
Leistungen im sich ausweitenden traditionellen Gaben-
system, aber auch für den Preisanstieg bei Ackerland
u. a. m. Lefebvre verfällt aber keineswegs dem Re-
duktionismus, alle Veränderungen und Konflikte auf
interne oder internationale Arbeitsmigration zurückzu-
führen.
Die Studie zeigt überzeugend, daß die neue Ka-
pitalgenerierung durch internationale Arbeitsmigration
zwar in der Tat die materielle Situation der betreffenden
Familien verbessert, das Geldeinkommen jedoch nicht
oder nur in geringem Umfang für erweiterte oder neue
Produktionssphären verwendet wird. Hauptsächlich flie-
ßen die Gelder in die Konsumsphäre, die allerdings
unmittelbar mit der Bildung von symbolischem Kapital
verbunden ist. Sofern Geldüberweisungen nicht in den
unmittelbaren Konsumbereich gehen, werden sie für
bessere Kleidung, Trinkwasserpumpen, neue Häuser etc.
und vor allem für Heiraten und das System des Gaben-
gebens verwendet, also zur Aufrechterhaltung oder zur
Erhöhung von Status und Ehre der Familie und Patrili-
nie. Dies hat, wie der Verfasser darlegt, wenig mit ver-
meintlicher ökonomischer Irrationalität zu tun, wie dies
vielfach in der staatlichen Entwicklungsplanung zumin-
dest unterschwellig unterstellt wird, sondern berührt das
Zentrum des sozialen Seins in den untersuchten Dörfern.
Das Dorf, die Verwandtschaftsgruppe und das Land,
278
Rezensionen
das sie ernährt, sowie traditionelle Arbeits- und Nach-
barschaftsbeziehungen sind primäre Referenzpunkte des
Seins. Sie sind auch die wesentlichen sozialen Felder
und die Arena für Sozialstatus und Statusaspirationen
und ein entscheidender, oft der einzige Faktor für soziale
und ökonomische Sicherheit in Krisensituationen.
In jedem Fall sind beispielsweise statusadäquate Hei-
raten und Gabenbeziehungen Teil einer längerfristigen
Strategie. Durch sie können Sozialchancen bei Kredit,
Hilfeleistung und gegenseitiger Unterstützung in den
Verwandtschaftsverbänden gesichert werden. Überdies
beinhalten die Verheiratung von Kindern und die adä-
quate Ausstattung der Hochzeiten wie das Gabensystem
und materielle Hilfeleistung eine zentrale soziale und
religiöse Pflicht, die zu vernachlässigen eine Sünde und
eine große Schande im Angesicht der Gesellschaft ist.
Die Nichtbefolgung dieser Regeln hat soziale Isolation
zur Folge, die katastrophale Auswirkungen haben kann.
Insofern sind solche Investitionen in “symbolisches Ka-
pital” eine immanente Notwendigkeit, und die soziale
Pflicht eines Arbeitsmigranten ist es, reiche Gaben zu
geben, ob er will oder nicht. Das Gaben-, Heirats- und
Mitgiftsystem untersucht der Verfasser nicht eingehend.
Ihre Relevanz wird aber hinlänglich betont, und es
gelingt ihm, das Wechselverhältnis, die Vielschichtig-
keit und Bedeutung von symbolischem Kapital auch
im Zusammenhang mit und im Spannungsverhältnis
von internationaler Arbeitsmigration aufzuzeigen, eben-
so wie die Spannungen, die zwischen Besitzenden und
Nichtbesitzenden entstehen.
Geldeinkommen aus internationaler Arbeitsmigration
und die damit zu kaufenden Statusattribute, wozu auch
erweiterter Landbesitz gehört, führen zu Veränderungen
in der Statushierarchie, die eine wesentliche Quelle für
Animositäten und Streit sind. Weiter kann Lefebvre
zeigen, daß durch Geld heutzutage die Emanzipation
von niederem Status in der dörflichen Gesellschaft
möglich ist und gleichzeitig die Mechanismen tradi-
tioneller Statuszuweisung außer Kraft gesetzt werden
können; allerdings keineswegs vollständig. Durch die
neuen, für den dörflichen Rahmen reichen Geldquel-
len der internationalen Arbeitsmigration entstehen neue
bzw. erweiterte Statushierarchien unter Landbesitzern
wie Nichtlandbesitzern. Landbesitzer mit zusätzlichem
Geld durch Arbeitsmigration investieren auch in Land,
Bewässerung, verbessertes Saatgut, Kunstdünger und
landwirtschaftliche Maschinen und bauen somit ihre
alte Machtbasis weiter aus bzw. verfestigen sie. Aber
auch Handwerker und Landlose investieren in Land.
Sie wollen hierdurch nicht nur ihre Subsistenz und
Lebensbedingungen verbessern, sondern, wenn möglich,
durch Landbesitz Statusattribute der traditionellen sozia-
len Hierarchie erwerben.
Zusammenfassend ist festzustellen, daß es Lefebvre
gelingt, ein komplexes Bild dörferlicher Verhältnisse
und der Auswirkungen von internationaler Arbeitsmi-
gration am Beispiel von zwei Dörfern im nördlichen
Punjab darzulegen. Sein Buch ist in jedem Fall ein
nützlicher und guter Beitrag zu “Peasant Studies” in
Südasien. Klaus Hesse
Lisimba, Mukumbuta: Kongo Pro verbs and the
Origins of Bantu Wisdom. Libreville: CICIBA, 1999.
251 pp.
The book contains two parts. The 1st part is an
ethnolinguistic description of Kongo and Bantu proverbs
in 7 chapters, successively dealing with a general defi-
nition of the proverbial genre, a thematic classification
of Kongo proverbs, their formal structure and functions,
their semantic structure, the symbolism of the images
used, the worldview implied, and, finally, the definition
of Bantu cultural identity derived from these proverbs.
The 2nd part presents the author’s corpus, consisting
of 122 original Kongo proverbs and 126 proverbs from
other Bantu languages, with their translations and inter-
pretation.
A glance at the corpus on pp. 203-232 immediately
reveals at least two problems. The first is that Kongo,
being a tone language - like the other languages the
author uses for his study -, one wonders why this
fundamental aspect is totally ignored, as is the vowel
quantity. Tone and vowel quantity would certainly have
allowed the author to discover interesting features at the
phonological level, such as suprasegmental parallelisms
or contrasts which are used to good effect in many Bantu
proverbs and poetry. The fact that the study is ethnolin-
guistic is not an excuse for not transcribing the texts accu-
rately. Secondly, when we examine the translations, we
are confronted with a few lexicological difficulties. For
instance, one wonders what criteria the author uses for
the choice of his equivalents, as in the case of the Kongo
word mayela in proverb n° 13. K. Laman (Dictionnaire
kikongo-français. Brussels 1936: 512), whose linguistic
map the author reproduces on p. 6, translates this word
as : ruse, intelligence, genius, character, temperament,
quality, faculty (in Northern dialects) and maturity or
adult age (in Eastern dialects). Obviously, there is no
idea of “knowledge.” So the reader needs at least a
word of explanation in order to know why the author
uses “knowledge” and “intelligence” as sole equivalents
for mayela. It is essential to be clear about issues like
this, as the notions of cunning, intelligence, prudence,
and so on, are rendered by one word in many Bantu
languages. Here are just a few examples. 1) Kirundi
ubwênge 14: Intelligence; esprit; savoir-faire, talent;
ruse, malice (F. Rodegem, Dictionnaire rundi-français.
Tervuren 1970: 81). 2) Lingala mayéle 6: Intelligence;
raison; capacité; secret. Mayéle mabé: mauvaise inten-
tion, mayéle malâmu: bonne intention (A. Dzokanga,
Dictionnaire lingala-français. Leipzig 1979). 3) Cilubà
màyeelè 6: Ruse, finasserie - budîmù 14: ruse; prudence
(A. De Clerque, Dictionnaire tshiluba-français. Léopold-
ville 1960). For this reason, a more literal translation
would have been helpful.
Another example is the Cilubà proverb numbered
203, which contains a strange word, “Stimunuka.” The
proverb referred to is probably the following: “Mukùlù
shinshimukà, nànku bukùlù bùmanyikè.” H.-I. Weier
translates the proverb more correctly by: “Ältester, sei
klug, dann werden wir deinen hohen Rang erkennen’
(Luba-Sprichwörter. Köln 1992: 527). Let us notice that
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
279
the tone marking allows us to present this proverb on
3 lines as follows (H = high tone; L = low tone; LL =
bimoraic low tone; the fullstop separates syllables):
mukulu shlnshimuka H.L.L LL.H.H.L
nanku LL.H
bukitlu bumanyike H.L.L L.H.H.L
In this way, the tonal parallelism as well as the iso-
syllabism between lines 1 and 3 are very clear. In this
proverb, the word mukulu simply means “older than,
elder,” and not “old man” as suggested by the author.
“Old man” is rather “mukulakaje.” In both cases, the
inadequate translation misleads the reader. The meaning
of the proverb is distorted when “elder” is replaced by
“old man.”
The comparative lists on pp. 183-185 contain small
inaccuracies such as the supposedly Ciluba word ngu-
bu, instead of nguvu or Kiswahili ngombe, instead
of ng’ombe (the first nasal should indeed be velar, a
phoneme always noted ng’) ; in Kimbundu, it is striking
that “millet/sorghum” and “beans” are expressed by the
same word, masa. Perhaps such problems would have
been avoided if the author had consulted linguistic works
instead of relying only on Obenga 1985.
On page 90, class 14 strangely appears to have a ma-
/- prefix, instead of bu-. Besides, the example provided
is a plural and not an abstract noun as one would expect
for class 14. We suppose the word “Nairo”, at the 12th
line in the references (235) is actually “Nairobi”.
Finally, the relevance of drawings in a book with
such a strong scientific bia^ is questionable. Except
for those illustrating proverbs on the woman, these
drawings do not provide much useful information. As
a matter of fact, Kongo proverbs seem to be rather
misogynous, like proverbs from other parts of the world.
The author is, of course, not to be blamed for this, as
he is just analysing available data. Moreover, proverbs
being essentially symbolical - as the interesting list
on pp. 158-160 shows -, it is clear that they should
not be interpreted literally. However, we think that if
the book is to be used by younger readers (which is
suggested by the numerous pictures!), the presentation
of the woman as the source of man’s sufferings only
contributes to perpetuate negative traditional prejudices.
A proverb such as “To eat with a woman, you are eating
With the devil” (n° 33, 137), commenting a picture in
which a large devil appears behind a woman, does not
contribute much to the moral development of girls and
boys of our time. Besides, the Christian influence is too
obvious here, as there are no devils in African traditional
religions. Other pictures tending to associate the woman
With evil and lack of self-control are the ones on pp. 129
a°d 155, showing respectively a woman with an extra
long tongue to illustrate the proverb “A loose tongue
ls a disease” and two women quarrelling to illustrate
the proverb “All that the dog sees remains in its heart”.
Also a diagramme like the one on p. 136 to represent
the bidimensional character of the woman symbol is not
necessary for adult readers.
Apart from these formal and semantic remarks, Li-
Slutba’s book does possess numerous qualities and mer-
Anthropos 96.2001
its. In the first place, it throws a new light on the proverb
genre. So the proverb appears to be a metaphorical
and symbolic system that highlights the fundamental
values of a society. Secondly, it illustrates how little one
knows about African societies, contenting oneself with
prejudices about such concepts as the individual and the
group, the experience of time, etc. For instance, it is
very important to observe that the relationships between
the individual and the group are totally different from
what is generally claimed, namely that only the group’s
interests are prevalent, while the individual is almost
anonymous. Lisimbi’s analysis of values summarized in
the table of p. 55 is particularly revealing in this respect.
The values that range at the top are Prudence, Patience,
Union, and Self-reliance, that is, precisely those values
that allow the individual to survive. Of course, as the
analysis also shows, the individual cannot survive if
he does not care for the group. Particularly interesting
is the important role played by self-reliance. This also
contradicts the generally admitted idea that the African
individual heavily relies on the group for his survival.
It is known that societies such as the Igbo (Nigeria)
or the Shona (Zambia) strongly encourage personal
initiative and individual success. (Besides, successful
individuals in these societies are allowed to recite their
own praises, being indeed entitled to rejoice in merits.)
Lisimbi’s work magnificently illustrates this aspect of
African societies. The conclusion to be drawn from the
proverbs as analysed in this book is that it is more
correct to consider that there is a dialectical relationship
between the individual and the group, rather than putting
one above the other. In other words, it appears that
the individual counts as much as the group. As the
writer rightly puts it : “In the Kongo perception union
is a force that binds group identity. Stemming from
man’s gregarious character, it is as a prerequisite for
the ultimate survival of the individual” (64) and this is
true in many African societies. Another commonplace
is that Africans do not care about the future. Now, these
proverbs put the emphasis on “preparedness,” a notion
suggesting that one is responsible for the future and
meaning that if one wishes to reap tomorrow, they have
to sow today. As the Bakongo put it: If you want to
breakfast in the morning, prepare (the meal) on the eve
(Proverb n° 8). Hence the necessity of hard work, of
learning, and of educating the children properly.
The interest of Lisimba’s study is enhanced by its
comparative character. Indeed, the values derived from
the proverbs in different African languages define what
is termed “ubuntu” (or an equivalent word) in African
philosophy. We can render this concept by “bantuhood,”
that is, humanness, humanity, or humanism. This, we are
made to understand, is exactly what the Bantu speaking
people consider to be wisdom. One can even deduce
from these proverbs that an intelligent man or woman
according to the Bantu, is not the one who has succeeded
in accumulating a large amount of knowledge, but the
one who combines understanding and experience, the
one who possesses ubuntu. This is the meaning of the
proverbs 13 and 36: Mayela mayoka nsongo (translated
280
Rezensionen
as “Too much knowledge/intelligence is a disease”) and
Buzoza bwa yoka, nsongo (“Too much ignorance is a
disease”).
Proverbs are meant to be interpreted and the author
provides a powerful clue. His thematic classification is
not just a list of possible themes, but an attempt at
understanding what philosophy hides behind the words.
However, the title would suggest that Bantu wisdom
originates from proverbs. Rather, it would be more ap-
propriate to say that proverbs are “carriers” or “holders”
of philosophical ideas (other such “holders” being, e. g.,
sculpture, architecture, tales, praise poetry, and so on).
We hope Lisimba’s methodology on the whole will
inspire scholars and students of African literature to look
for the real meanings behind the texts, which will better
serve the oral traditions than just collecting texts.
N. S. Kabuta
McAnany, Patricia Ann: Living with the Ancestors.
Kinship and Kingship in Ancient Maya Society. Pbk. ed.
Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000. 213 pp. ISBN
0-292-75236-9. Price: £11.50
Patricia McAnany’s book, newly issued in paper-
back, offers a sophisticated and extremely important
interpretation of the organization and operation of an-
cient lowland Maya culture by focusing on the lineage
and ancestor veneration as hitherto unappreciated but
fundamental and ubiquitous elements of Mayan politi-
cal-ideology and political-economy from the Formative
through the Postclassic. In the four substantive chapters
that compose this volume (in addition to introductory
and concluding chapters) the author presents a wide
range of ethnographical, ethnohistorical, archaeological,
iconographical, and epigraphical evidence that strong-
ly suggests that lineages and the practice of ancestor
veneration existed as early as the late Formative.
McAnany discusses how lineages can be closely
linked to systems of land tenure and inheritance and to
the definition of place; the former by associating land
use with rights to land inherited through ancestral lines
and the latter by using ancestral burial places to create a
“genealogy of place” that links descendants to the land
and identifies the lineage as the basic resource-holding
group. Recognition of lineage-based land tenure further
leads the author to define a variety of types of land
use ranging from managed rain forest (“high bush”)
resources to fixed-plot farming using varying rates of
intermittent fallow (“milpa”) to permanently cultivated
fields, gardens, and orchards located near residence and
especially valuable as inherited resources with strong
association to ancestors. Discussion of the creation of a
“genealogy of place” leads McAnany to consider burial
sites in conjunction with domestic residences not just
as means for disposal of the dead but as evidence that
ancestors are being recognized and venerated. This is the
case especially when residential structures continue to be
periodically rebuilt over time such that they essentially
come to be ancestor shrines that legitimize the rights,
privileges, and responsibilities of the living occupants.
The author also argues that the relationship of resi-
dential structure to a line of ancestors emphasizes the
ideological importance of first occupancy, that is, of
granting priority to the initial occupant (or cultivator)
of land, a principle that also contains the potential
for establishing and legitimizing preferential access to
resources. The lineage is thus seen as a “crucible of
inequality” in that a lineage enjoying demographic and
economic success can effectively monopolize resources
at the expense of other groups, at least for awhile, and
lineages can be ranked according to the antiquity of their
pedigrees and the size of their available resources.
It is a short step from hierarchical ranking of lineages
to recognition of a political elite and consideration of
the roles of the ancient concept of lineage and ancestor
veneration in support of political centralization under
the authority of royal houses. The author, therefore, dis-
cusses such issues as how centralized authority coopted
the legitimizing ideology of ancestor veneration, how
kinship-based lineages reacted to the imposition of king-
ship, how royal authority tried to limit lineage authority,
and how lineage heads could become brokers between
elites and the local populace.
Turning from the content of Maya culture to theo-
retical issues connected with Maya studies, McAnany’s
book makes a most valuable contribution to scholar-
ship by making connections between issues heretofore
considered unrelated by many Mayanists. Her emphasis
on the lineage as not just associated with royal dy-
nasties but as a fundamental unit of social organiza-
tion throughout Maya prehistory allows an integrative
approach to Mayan culture history in which basic as-
pects of later (Classic and Postclassic) developments in
political-ideology and political-economy can be better
understood as rooted in long-existing prior (Formative)
social structuring. Focusing on the lineage also connects
the elite with the nonelite sector of society in a way
that the more familiar class-based approach to Maya
studies cannot do and allow a much more dynamic
interpretation of what is now seen to be a much more
complex political interrelationship between the two.
In addition, the author’s approach, which emphasizes
settlement studies above the level of the household, finds
common ground between the predominantly ecological
orientation generally accorded to man-land relationships
and the political-ideological focus of elite-oriented epig-
raphy and iconography by acknowledging the lineage
and the legitimizing potency of recognized lineage an-
cestors as fundamental to both.
There are so many strengths in McAnany’s im-
pressive presentation that it seems almost churlish to
mention any relative weaknesses, especially if they are
to some extent unavoidable. Yet I must admit that, while
the author most admirably and successfully broadens
and clarifies the picture of ancient Maya society by
interjecting the lineage and its importance into scholarly
understanding of Maya prehistory, nonetheless I came
away from a reading of this book without a very clear
sense of the nature of the lineage itself. The impor-
tance of the concept of the lineage is made quite clear
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
281
and some sense of its functional significance in Maya
society is certainly apparent, but the internal structure
and organization of the ancient Mayan lineage remains
rather elusive. To be sure, the author seems to be
aware of the problem and makes some effort to identify
extended family structure and household composition
of the Postclassic and Colonial eras. She also notes
a patrilineal and patrilocal tendency for the lowland
Maya in general. Yet, in spite of these efforts, the reader
understands why the lineage as a corporate entity was
so significant but feels less certain about the actual
membership and internal operation of the lineage proper.
One wishes, too, for some additional elaboration of the
relationship of the lineage to the development of social
and political inequality; the statement is made that they
are related but the topic is not explored in much depth.
However, these and other still relatively undeveloped
issues (such as linking lineages and their ancestors more
closely with the cosmological concepts they embodied
even in the Formative) doubtless will be clarified in
future investigations inspired by this volume and are
less important at this point than the tremendous insights
into ancient Maya culture and the important contribution
to ways of thinking about Maya studies offered by this
admirable book. Mary W. Helms
Martinez, D. P. (ed.): The Worlds of Japanese Pop-
ular Culture. Gender, Shifting Boundaries, and Glob-
al Cultures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998. 212 pp. ISBN 0-521-63729-5. Price: £ 14.95
Japan has been taken to stand for inexpensiveness,
efficiency, and aestheticism at various times; now with
increasing frequency, entertainment is adding itself to
this list. With the tamagotchi finally run out of food,
Poke mon follow in occupying children’s minds all over
the globe, and my daughter continues to be captivated by
the somewhat sticky sweetness of the Sailor Moon com-
ic strip girls. Instead of properly Westernising as crude
globalisation theories would predict, Japan appears to
be Japanising popular cultures on a worldwide scale.
For all those seeking anthropological description and
analysis of Japanese popular culture, this edited volume
will be a boon. In ten individual contributions by authors
based mainly in Japan and Great Britain, a variety of
examples - all of them indeed highly popular and widely
known in their target group, if not the entire population
- are introduced and analysed. Lola Martinez’s introduc-
tion casts spotlights on the many facets of the topic and
succeeds in making a number of fine points. While her
deliberations about the relationship of Japanese popular
culture to gender, national identity, and globalisation
avoid any clear-cut hypothesis, her view of popular
culture as an “arena of negotiation” in which all these
aspects are publicly debated - and the culture’s future
shaped - is certainly commendable.
In terms of thick description and analytical depth,
Ihe three “native” (12 f.) contributors have the greatest
trouble to convince the reader. In the shortest essay of
aU, Yamaguchi Masao wanders somewhat aimlessly be-
tween sumo wrestling and the institution of the emperor,
failing in fact to demonstrate his contention that they are
“part of a large and much more comprehensive system”
(27). Confusing are the original name given for the
famous Hawaiian wrestler Konishiki (“Sully” instead
of Salevaa Fuauli Atisanoe; 26) and the contention
that sumo — with its six annual tournaments held in
regular intervals - has “four seasons of matches” (27).
Keiko Tanaka, in her treatment of advice for stylish
consumption in women’s magazines, surprises with a
rather forced reading of the verbal suffixes -te and
-tai as blunt commands, an interpretation buttressed
by translating every instance as second person singu-
lar into English (person is usually not determined in
Japanese). The patronizing, school teacher-like tone she
thus reads into the magazines, and to which she assumes
unconditional surrender on the part of the - somewhat
condescendingly treated (“no shortage of pupils who
have failed to outgrow their schooldays”; 127) - readers,
appears exaggerated. Nagashima Nobuhiro sketches the
descent of horse racing from a noble pastime of the
affluent classes into the depths of somewhat sleazy
gambling. He then gives an interesting description of
the careers of a famous racehorse and a jockey who
both became “cult objects,” notably among women
who normally keep away from the tracks in Japan.
Interpretation particularly of the latter fact, however,
is left to three female specialist-informants with the
remarkable justification that “such shrewd observers ...
could not miss what went on in the mind of those of
the same sex” (175). For his own speculations about the
reactions of male fans and opponents of horse, jockey
and women’s participation, Nagashima likewise fails to
provide empirical evidence.
On the other end of the scale, Tom Gill und Halldor
Stefansson offer not only shrewd analyses but also an
enjoyable dose of - non-condescending - irony. Gill
introduces superheroes in children’s animated movies,
sensitively comparing Ultraman and Gridman with their
American counterpart Superman; delving into the an-
cient roots of the colour symbolism associated with the
many hero gangs of five; and pointing out the cultural
specificity of socially dependent, mechanically trans-
forming Japanese superheroes as against the individ-
ualist, biologically transforming American superheroes
(such as Superman). Stefansson employs the distinction
between “inside” (uchi) and “outside” (soto) - held to
be crucial by many previous considerations of Japanese
social life - to the two love affairs that attracted unprec-
edented publicity in 1992/93. While Crown Prince Naru-
hito and the commoner Owada Masako were married in
the wedding of the decade, rising sumo star Takanohana
(now Takahanada) quickly abandoned actress, model,
and sex symbol Miyazawa Rie. Contrary to what might
be expected of women, both Owada - a diplomat’s
daughter who has received much of her education at elite
institutions abroad - and Miyazawa - the daughter of a
European father - are shown to be associated with the
“outside.” Stefansson suggests that while in the former
case, this qualification fits into the new paradigm of a
^nthropos 96.2001
282
Rezensionen
revitalised imperial family leading the national quest for
international participation, it did little to appeal to the
sumo organisation that has had trouble in recent years to
contain the rise of Hawaiians, Samoans, and Mongolians
within this most Japanese of sports.
Isolde Standish deals with the successful late-1980s
animated movie “Akira,” decyphering the apocalyptic,
science fiction setting reminiscent of the American movie
“Blade runner”; the use of the bosozoku (motorcycle
gang) style; and the employment of the lone wolf, un-
corruptible koha (“hard type”) hero. While she explains
“Akira”’s success with this incorporation of lower-class
aesthetics and morality, she ends up asking herself
the obvious question how its appeal to middle-class
viewers can be accounted for. Kelly gives the detailed
story of karaoke from its humble beginnings in the
entertainment districts of the 1970s to an extremely
popular pastime that the whole family may enjoy in a
wide variety of places and contexts. The claim that the
often dreaded individual singing performance in front
of the group is perceived as a necessary sacrifice to
the group’s supremacy, however, calls for systematic
empirical scrutiny if alone for the conventionality of
its functionalism. Likewise, the idea that karaoke is
developing into a “way” (do) just like the martial arts
or tea ceremony is not borne out by the fact that -
from my experience - many Japanese consider it as
little else than harmless fun, sufficiently compatible with
substantial drinking that would never be combined with
the traditional arts.
Susan Napier takes up shojo manga, comic strips
for female teenagers, and offers a subtle analysis of
four cases (including Sailor Moon) in which the female
heroes make divergent use of their supernatural, oc-
cult powers. Projected gender images oscillate between
empowerment and conservative submission. Aggressive
dominance and the mastery of complicated technology
are by no means beyond the heroines, thus motivating
Napier to draw the - somewhat strong - conclusion
that “all aspects of the female persona have a far
wider play in Japanese popular culture than they do
in the West” (106). (The name Himiko chosen for
one of the supernaturally gifted females - obviously
taken from the mysterious shamanistic queen mentioned
in a famous third-century Chinese report about Japan
- should have been commented upon.) Paul Harvey
considers the asadora, long-running morning TV serials
that reach enormous viewing rates of up to 70 percent.
He shows how the state-funded NHK channel, carefully
striving for an even distribution of featured regions and
time periods, has been using the serials as vehicles
for social progress and nation-building. In an uplifting
mood, heroines struggle to combine the demands of fam-
ily responsibilities with the fulfillment of their dreams
of personal and societal meaningfulness. And finally,
Jonathan Watts takes a closer look at the tremendous
success story of the J. League, the professional soccer
league founded in 1993, and attributes it not only to
the importation of aging foreign superstars, but also to
the skillful marketing of the new product. In contrast to
the long-established baseball league, soccer teams were
connected to a “home town” and have become major
instruments of community building in some of these.
Fan goods perceived as “cute” help to attract female
spectators, and highly individualistic, even rebellious
stars - virtually unthinkable in baseball - appeal to the
ideals of a new generation.
Almost all contributions are well-informed and draw
plausible connections. Read in conjunction, they pro-
vide a good ethnographic overview of Japanese popular
culture, interesting down to the details also for the
specialist. The aforementioned shortcomings and the at
times sloppy romanisation and hyphenisation of Japa-
nese terms and book titles (e.g., 121, 201) are easily
offset by the collection’s merits. One of the editor’s
recommendations - “Whenever writers felt unsure of
the connections they had made, I had only one bit of
advice to give: ask a Japanese child, or young man, or
young woman, what they think” (5, original emphasis) -,
however, has not been well heeded, just as it often
occurs more generally in research on popular culture.
Even in the absence of systematic fieldwork among the
producers and consumers, many of the contributions
show the strength of an anthropological approach to
popular culture, buttressed by a holistic view and realis-
tic assumptions about culture and society. Yet whenever
participant observation - the methodological advantage
anthropology holds over rivals such as cultural studies -
is more than just vaguely claimed (12), interesting
findings emerge and make one wonder what else lies
undetected. Thus, Gill observes an obsession with clas-
sification (which hero fought which monster with what
machinery in what context?) in children’s conversations
about the TV superheroes. He sees a possible universal
here (50 f.), and my own childhood memories suggest
that he may have a point. And as already outlined,
Tanaka would have been well advised to take her infor-
mants’ claim that “the tone [of the women’s magazines]
has never caused them any annoyance or irritation”
(119) more seriously. So while reading the products of
Japanese popular culture has undoubtedly advanced with
this volume, there is still room for progress in reading
the minds of their producers and consumers.
Christoph Brumann
Mason, Peter: Infelicities. Representations of the
Exotic. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press,
1998. 255 pp. ISBN 0-8018-5880-1. Price: $ 48.00
Es gibt Sprachäußerungen, die an eine bestimmte
Handlung gebunden sind - etwa das “Ja, icn will!” bei
der Eheschließung. Wenn bei der Verwendung dieser
“performativen” Formeln etwas schief läuft, ist davon
auszugehen, daß der Sprecher den situativen Kontext der
Worte nicht durchschaut und sie daher nicht angemessen
anwenden kann. “Infelicities” nennt dies der Philosoph
J. L. Austin.
Das ist der theoretische Ausgangspunkt für Peter
Mason, um europäische Begegnungen mit fernen Welt-
gegenden und ihren Niederschlag in künstlerischen,
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
283
schriftlichen, musealen und theatralischen Repräsenta-
tionen zu untersuchen. Er grenzt sein Thema auf die
Auseinandersetzung mit Amerika und die Zeit von
1500 bis 1920 ein. Das Exotische, so seine These,
ist jedoch nicht das verzerrte Abbild einer wie auch
immer gearteten Realität, sondern es existiert überhaupt
nur durch seine “Entdeckung” und wird allein von
ihr hervorgerufen: Ein beliebiges Element wird aus
einem fernen Setting - das es für die Exotisierung
prädestiniert - in ein anderes, europäisches versetzt,
das heißt, es wird de- und rekontextualisiert. Nicht der
“originale” geographische oder kulturelle Kontext dieses
Elements interessiert, sondern seine Eignung, eine neue
Bedeutung in einem anderen Umfeld anzunehmen. Dies,
so der Autor, unterscheide Exotisierung von Zeitströ-
mungen wie beispielsweise dem Orientalismus, denn
letzterer betone bei aller Verzerrung doch eine gewisse
geographische und kulturelle Spezifizität.
Der Bedeutung von Kunstwerken und Ethnographica
wird in Kunstgeschichte und Museumsethnologie übli-
cherweise mit der ikonographischen Methode nachge-
spürt. Dabei versucht der europäische Betrachter, als In-
terpretationsgrundlage für ein unbekanntes Objekt Ver-
gleichsstücke und bereits bekannte Darstellungstypen
heranzuziehen, das heißt, möglichst eindeutige Kontexte
zu finden. Gerade dies ist laut Mason jedoch unmöglich,
wenn der Gegenstand exotisch im Sinne seiner Aus-
gangsthese ist, weil sich Exotik in ihrer Beliebigkeit
nicht derart spezifisch fassen läßt.
Belege für dieses Unspezifische der exotischen Dar-
stellung sammelt der Autor in den folgenden Kapiteln.
So kann er anhand von Gemälden und Stichen aus dem
16. Jh. zeigen, daß vermeintlich typisch indianische
Attribute wie der Federrock auch bei der Darstellung
von Bewohnern ganz anderer Weltgegenden verwendet
Wurden. Umgekehrt läßt sich etwa für Jan Mostaerts
Bild “Westindische Landschaft” eine Reihe von Elemen-
ten nachweisen, die in Amerika zur Zeit der Entdeckung
nicht vorkamen: Die Ausstattung der Einheimischen um-
faßt unter anderem einen Turban, europäische Erntege-
räte und eine Rüstung sowie lange Trompeten; die Tier-
welt weist neben Papageien und Affen Schafe, Kühe,
Hase und Kaninchen auf. All dies spricht jedoch nicht
gegen die Darstellung einer Landschaft der Karibik, wie
zuweilen behauptet wurde: Mason zeigt detailliert auf,
daß die ungewöhnlichen Attribute durchaus dem im 16.
Jh. üblichen Kanon des Exotischen entsprechen und
besonders gut zur Darstellung einer Weltgegend passen,
die erst kürzlich entdeckt worden war und aus der die
meisten europäischen Künstler weder Gegenstände noch
Menschen noch Tiere gesehen hatten.
Aber auch bei vordergründig ethnographisch reali-
stischen Gemälden ist Exotisierung nachweisbar. Ma-
son belegt akribisch an zehn Bildern Albert Eckhouts
aus dem 17. Jh., daß Hintergrundlandschaft, Kleidung,
Körperhaltung und andere Darstellungselemente dieser
Portraits von Bewohnern Brasiliens bewußt eingesetzt
Wurden, um unterschiedliche Grade von Zivilisiertheit
zu symbolisieren. Sie stehen damit in der Tradition
der “typischen Landschaft”, in der realistisch abgebil-
dete Einzelteile zu einem als charakteristisch erachteten
Ganzen zusammengesetzt werden. Bei dieser Form der
Darstellung waren sogar faktisch unmögliche, aber der
Belehrung dienende Kombinationen üblich, so auch bei
Eckhout, der im Hintergrund der Portraitierten Pflanzen
in mehreren Entwicklungsstadien gleichzeitig wachsen
läßt.
Ähnliche Vorgänge sieht der Autor bei den Kunst-
und Wunderkammern des 16. Jhs.: Spektakuläre Objekte
bestimmten das Sammelinteresse und bildeten Frag-
mente, die für ein gedachtes Ganzes stehen sollten.
Zuordnungen seien ethnographisch aber oft unpräzise
und die von den Gegenständen ausgehenden Diskurse
nicht ethnologisch, sondern - beispielsweise - theolo-
gisch.
Titelkupfer von Büchern so berühmter Reisender wie
Lafitau, Humboldt, de la Motraye und des Sammlers
Levinus Vincent zeigen demgegenüber allegorische Dar-
stellungen - quasi eine “untypische Landschaft”, da
Amerika zuzuordnende Attribute kaum oder gar nicht
abgebildet sind, obwohl sich die Bücher mit ihnen
befassen.
Die “typische Landschaft” entdeckt Mason jedoch
auch in den Schaustellungen von Indianern und Eskimo
seit dem 16. Jh. bis hin zu den Völkerschauen des 19.
und 20. Jhs. Ob für ein aristokratisches Publikum der
frühen Neuzeit oder ein bürgerliches ab dem 19. Jh.:
Die Veranstalter griffen jene Elemente für die inszenier-
ten Vorführungen und die Präsentation des “täglichen
Lebens” in den nachgebauten Dörfern heraus, die ihnen
als besonders charakteristisch erschienen. Die Erwar-
tungshaltung des Publikums konnte je nach Einzelfall
entweder durch ethnographisch Spezifisches oder ethno-
graphisch Unspezifisches bedient werden. Dasselbe, so
Mason, lasse sich für Photographien von Ureinwohnern
des amerikanischen Kontinents zeigen. Das Exotische
sei dabei “sprachlos”: In Show oder Photographie wähl-
ten die Dargestellten die Form ihrer Darstellung nicht
selbst; der europäische Inszenierende erwarte “keine
Fragestellung und keine Antwort” (131) von ihnen.
Museumsausstellungen und die museumsinterne Eti-
kettierung von Ethnographika zeigen laut Mason eben-
falls Exotisierungsprozesse unterschiedlichen Ausma-
ßes. Er verweist in diesem Zusammenhang auf die
1988 in New York gezeigte Ausstellung “ART/Arti-
fact”, in der afrikanische Objekte in drei verschiedenen
Traditionen europäischer Ausstellungsarten gezeigt wur-
den: als Kunst, als ethnographische Belege materieller
Kultur ferner Völker und als Kuriositätensammlung: Der
Kontext reflektierte jeweils europäische Interessen und
Ideologien.
Das Buch ist also eine Sammlung von “Infelicities”,
wobei bestimmte Kontinuitäten hinsichtlich der Präsen-
tation und Repräsentation des Exotischen vom 16. bis
ins 20. Jh. herausgeschält werden. Dies gelingt Peter
Mason besonders überzeugend in jenen drei Kapiteln,
die sich mit Bildern befassen: Hier finden sich sorgfältig
recherchierte und detailliert belegte Analysen sowie eine
Fülle von Verweisen auf weiterführende Literatur und
bestimmte wissenschaftliche Diskussionen. Damit steht
Anthropos 96.2001
284
Rezensionen
das Buch in der guten Tradition solcher Werke wie Hugh
Honours “The New Golden Land” (1975).
Demgegenüber wirken die Kapitel über Schaustel-
lungen, Photographie und Museumsausstellungen etwas
oberflächlicher. Wenn Masons Exotikdefinition allge-
mein und nicht nur für den im Buch behandelten Fall
Amerika von 1500 bis 1920 gelten soll - was er offen
läßt so lassen sich immerhin für eine Reihe von Völ-
kerschauen mit Afrikanern sowie etwa für eine Schau
von Indianern der Nordwestküste Fälle nachweisen,
in denen die Betroffenen sehr wohl den Inhalt ihrer
Darstellungen - zumindest teilweise - selbst bestimmten
oder in denen dies zumindest umstritten ist. Da der
Prozeß der Photographie nur sehr selten in Quellen
dokumentiert wurde, lassen sich belegbare Aussagen
über ein etwaiges Mitspracherecht der Dargestellten
kaum machen, das immerhin in einigen Fällen denkbar
wäre. Masons Beispiele der vagen Etikettierung von
Museumsobjekten scheinen eher auf die üblichen muse-
umsinternen Probleme von Personal- und Zeitmangel als
auf unbewußte Prozesse der Exotisierung hinzudeuten.
Dennoch verweist der Autor zu Recht darauf, daß ein
Übersetzungsprozeß immer einen Rest Unverstandenes,
Unübersetzbares beinhaltet. Somit stellt sich die Frage,
ob der Ethnograph und Ethnologe nicht auch - und trotz
bestem Bemühen - nur Exotisierung betreiben können.
Rein formal gibt es an dem Buch nur eine Winzigkeit
auszusetzen: Die Wiedergabe von Mostaerts Bild ist so
klein, daß man die beschriebenen Details nicht erkennen
kann.
Insgesamt handelt es sich um ein - in der oft sehr
abstrakten Formulierung seiner Ansätze - komplexes,
aber lesenswertes Werk, das dazu anregt, die in der
musealen Praxis und der Verwendung des Begriffs
“Exotik” üblichen Arbeits- und Alltagsdefinitionen zu
überdenken. Hilke Thode-Arora
Meyer, Birgit: Translating the Devil. Religion
and Modernity among the Ewe in Ghana. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 1999. 265 pp. ISBN 0-
7486-1303-X. (International African Library, 21) Price:
£ 14.95
This study is about the Evangelical Presbyterian
Church (EPC) in the Peki region of Ghana (a mis-
sion church established as a result of the activities of
nineteenth-century German Pietist missionaries from the
Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft - NMG), and about
its prayer groups which gave rise to two independent
churches known as Agbelengor - The Lord’s Pentecostal
Church and Evangelical Presbyterian Church of Ghana,
founded in 1961 and 1991 respectively. The reader is
provided with information on both history, doctrines,
worship, and relationships among them and on the Ewe
traditional religion, as the study on African Christianity
and pre-Christian beliefs are not treated here as two
distinct fields.
The book is based on the author’s fieldwork among
Peki Ewe which lasted 15 months between 1988 and
1992. She also profited from the research in the archive
of the NMG and the Staatsarchiv in Bremen, and in
the Colonial Office in London. M. Birgit has consulted
documents in German, English, and - thanks to the help
of local interpreters - in Ewe. During her fieldwork she
spoke to many members of the three churches as well
as to representatives of Ewe traditional religion, and
attended numerous services and religious ceremonies.
Her study concentrates on the local appropriation of
Christianity in an African context by looking at the
whole spectrum of Peki Ewe religious ideas and prac-
tices at the grassroots level.
This study is composed of 7 chapters. Chapter 1,
entitled “Setting the Scene: Peki Past and Present” (1-
27), is a background to the chapters to follow, as it
provides a historical overview of political, socioeconom-
ic, and religious developments in Peki and in its seven
towns. Peki was one of the several Ewe inland states
which through loyalty to the Akwamu (an expanding
Akan state) became rich and powerful. After the uprising
against Akwamu, and especially due to the Asante
War (1869-74), all those states submitted to Peki’s
leadership. It is a pity, that there is no map indicating
the distribution of those political entities. In its further
part the chapter contains information on activities of the
NMG missionaries who arrived in Gold Coast in 1847
and settled in Peki Blengo, the capital of Ewe. They
did not limit themselves to purely religious matters.
After the station in Blengo, they opened many others
in the Peki villages and instigated the establishment of
Christian villages (kpodzi) with a school, church, and
small houses for nuclear families. Following deporta-
tion of the NMG missionaries during the First World
War, in 1916 the Ewe Evangelical Church was formed,
comprising all NMG congregations in Togo and the
Gold Coast. In 1954, the Church’s name was changed
to the “Evangelical Presbyterian Church” (Ghana) and
“Eglise Evangelique du Togo”, as people from other
ethnic groups also became its members.
The nineteenth century has been commonly known
as the century of the missions. In that time many mission
societies were founded in Europe with the aim to convert
all “pagans,” both within and outside their own society-
In the framework of the “Awakening,” the Lutheran
and Reformed Protestants of Hamburg established the
Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft in 1836. Origins,
religious ideas, and aspirations of its missionaries in
their cradle in Württemberg are discussed in chapter 2,
“The Home Base of the Missionaries” (28-53). Special
attention is given to their worldview (interpretation of
the lithograph The Broad and the Narrow Path, very
popular in Pietist circles) and their image of the Devik
the dualistic conception of God and the Devil formed
the basis of Awakened Pietists in their understanding of
the world. Protestants laid much emphasis on the diabo-
lisation of popular religion and were launching a total
attack on it. Their missionaries considered conversion
to Christianity as the appropriate way to lift Africans to
civilised standards. Generally speaking, this informative
and sophisticated chapter offers more than is needed for
understanding of the NMG’s message to the Ewe. For
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
285
example, one can find in it a large discussion on the
Christian tradition of diabology with a history of the
exorcism of Gottliebin Dittus!
In chapter 3, “Vemacularisation” (54-82), some
practical problems connected with the spread of the
Christian message (in order to make converts) are dis-
cussed. The author shows how missionaries tried to
gain control over the Ewe language and culture, and
which terms of the traditional Ewe religion have been
adopted in transmitting the Christian creed. Remarks
on linguistic works of the NMG missionaries and on
the Bible translating into Ewe, as well as a thorough
description of the Ewe traditional beliefs constitute an
useful introduction and background for the Christian-
Ewe discourse.
The NMG missionaries chose the term “Abosam”
as a translation for “Devil.” The author provides three
concepts in the Akan language which could contribute to
its present meaning (77 ff.). In my opinion, it originates
most probably from obosom (pi. abosom), the Akan
Word for deity. In such a way missionaries told people
that worshipping trowo (Ewe term for “divinities”) they
Were serving the Devil. This “diabolisation” is carefully
examined in chapter 4 (83-111). It deals with the ideas
about evil in the context of Ewe religion and shows
how Ewe converts took over the image of the Devil
Preached to them by missionaries in street sermons, and
how they did deal with the overall diabolisation of their
former religion. Ewe Christians continued to be afraid
°f many spiritual beings and agents of evil which are
called in the book “the remnants of ‘heathendom’ and
the Devil” (100). Finally, some cases of backsliding into
‘heathendom” are discussed.
Three remaining chapters concentrate on Christianity
m Peki between the first secession in the EPC in Blengo
and 1992, when B. Meyer had to break her fieldwork.
Chapter 5, “Three Churches Out of One” (112 -140),
heals with secessions in EPC, and with its efforts to
keep members within the Church. Although until the
late 1950s EPC in Peki lost only a handful of dissatisfied
members to new rival churches, two significant seces-
Slons occurred later on. In 1961 a “prayer group” broke
away from the mother church and became autonomous
under the name “The Lord’s Church - Agbelengor”
(“There is life ahead”). In 1985 the church’s name
Was changed to Lord’s Pentecostal Church. The founder
°f Agbelengor was John Sam Amedzro from Blengo.
The church attracted both tro worshippers and EPC
Members. In order to cure the sick, the church even-
tually opened a healing station in Tokokoe. The second
^cession occurred in 1991, when the members of an
mtra-church Bible Study and Prayer Fellowship decided
to leave the mother church, this time causing a split at
national level. The new EPC added “of Ghana” to its
name. Those people who left the EPC for Agbelengor
°r EPC of Ghana attributed their move to the fact that
the EPC failed to deal with demons satisfactorily.
A detailed account of the doctrines and rituals of
those three churches is provided in chapter 6 (141 —
'4)- The author comes to the conclusion that there is
Anthropos 96.2001
no fundamental difference in terms of doctrine between
them. The main difference lies in the space reserved
for the practice of worship and prayer: both Agbelengor
and the EPC of Ghana have developed special prac-
tices devoted to the Holy Spirit who is supposed to
enter a person’s spirit and prevent him/her form being
possessed by an evil spirit. All three churches base
their doctrines on the dualism of God and the Devil.
In the dissident (Pentecostal) churches, “pagan” gods
and occult forces are regarded as Satan’s demons. This
diabolisation confirmed the existence of local gods and
witchcraft and incorporated them into Christian beliefs
as demons. Whereas the split churches deal extensively
with the dark side of this dualism in discourse and ritual,
the EPC asks its members to renounce all the satanic
forces.
Chapter 7, bearing the title “People and Spirits”
(175-212), has more empirical character and presents
a number of cases of people possessed by evil spirits,
“modern” and “foreign” (e.g., Indian) spirits included.
Both the diabolised old gods and witchcraft forces are
thought to operate within the framework of the family.
At the end of the study one can find a brief reflection
which is self-defined by its title: “Modernity, Time, and
the Devil” (213-216). The book contains two maps and
seven tables. At its end one can find an appendix provid-
ing population statistics (217), a very useful glossary of
Ewe terms (238-240), an impressive list of references
(241-260), and an index (261-265).
In writing this monograph, B. Meyer made use of
passages from her articles written earlier. Maybe that is
why some information is repeated in two or even more
chapters, especially in that dealing with the traditional
beliefs and witchcraft. And it is a very good solution, as
it gives the reader a chance to familiarise himself with
so many Ewe terms and concepts, and to look at them
from different points of view. As far as shortcomings
are concerned, they are few and almost insignificant.
Instead of “Department of African Studies, University
of Ghana” (xi), one would rather expect “Institute of
African Studies.” It is rather strange to learn, that boy’s
transformation into manhood is marked by circumcision
at the age of three (71). As far as perusa is concerned, in
my opinion it has nothing in common with an English
loanword “perish,” but rather stems from “parousia,”
which means the second coming of Christ as a victor of
the evil forces. There is inconsistency in writing Ewe
land (70) and Ewe-land (99). One should expect tro
instead of trb (181), and Baeta instead of Baeta (242).
The book by B. Meyer makes the process of the
appropriation of Christianity by the Peki Ewe from
Ghana very vivid and convincing. It testifies to her
deep knowledge of the Pietists’ background and the Ewe
traditional religion and culture.
Stanislaw Pilaszewicz
Moore, Henrietta L. (ed.): Anthropological Theory
Today. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999. 292 pp. ISBN
0-7456-2023-X. Price: £ 14.99
286
Rezensionen
As the title indicates, the book concerns the anthro-
pological theories as they exist at the turn of the century.
Moore, the editor, states at the beginning that she is
not attempting a comprehensive theoretical overview of
the field of anthropology as there are no coherent sets
of anthropological theories. The nine essays that she
includes in the book address the problems of anthropo-
logical theorizing and conceptualizing and the ways in
which the discipline and theory-making are changing
today.
There are ten chapters in the volume. The edi-
tor’s introductory chapter outlines the main themes. In
chapter 2, Carrier and Miller address the relationship
between the global and the local and between macro-
and microprocesses. They reaffirm the importance of
anthropology’s commitment both to theoretical models
and to the particularities of agency. In chapter 3, Ong
calls attention to the importance of anthropology of the
state and citizenship. In chapter 4, Lutz and Nonini
maintain that anthropological theorizing has traditionally
skirted around the issue of what the forms of violence
and the forms of political economy have to do with
each other. They trace the historic transformations and
contemporary reality of the relationship between vio-
lence and political economies. In chapter 5, Battaglia
analyzes the ethics of doing fieldwork and producing
ethnography. In chapter 6, Moore comments on gen-
der and sexuality. In chapter 7, Csordas discusses the
body as a topic of ethnographic concern. In chapter 8,
Boyer discusses cognitive theories and their relevance
for anthropology. In chapter 9, Weiner writes about the
relationship between anthropology and psychoanalysis.
In chapter 10, Thomas expands on cultural studies
and the domain of anthropology: the discipline is dis-
tinctive not only because it is a specific and formal
mode of enquiry but also because of its history and
practice.
This selection of papers presents a wide range of
theoretical thinking and abstraction. There is a mosaic
of anthropological theories but no attempt at synthesis.
However, Moore discerns four main features in the
“landscape of debate” on anthropology. These are: “The
global and the local: culture and political economy,”
“Social justice and cultural relativism,” “Agency and
self-reflexivity,” “What it is to be human or what is
it to be human?” Such a listing generally reflects the
purpose and content of the volume. The focus of this
review will be on the first two essays, both concerned
with political economy. This will reflect something of
the general nature of the theorizing as presented in this
volume.
As in most other articles in the book, Carrier and
Miller’s paper, entitled “From Private Virtue to Public
Vice,” presents an overview of the history of studies
on the topic. They have a discerning comment on the
“history of anthropological fashion.” In the early 1980s,
structuralism and Marxist anthropology were criticized
as “rationalist grand narratives,” having been out of
touch with the humanity of the ethnographic subject.
This the authors see as paradoxical. They explain:
Central to Marxist anthropology was the critique that
focused on the abstract nature of capital and the con-
sequent dehumanizing of communities under capitalist
system. Because of this concern, the Marxist models
provided an effective conceptual tool that leads anthro-
pologists to express their traditional attentions with topics
such as kinship and the household and relate these to
ideas on modes of production that in turn place them
within larger social and historical processes. The models
also allow writers to develop theories of a world system
that articulate their particular ethnographic locations as
integral part of systemic linkages.
While Marx’s early work was more humanistic and
more concerned with the alienation of people from
the world of work, his later writings were increasingly
focused in macroscopic models of economy. Marxist
anthropology had to choose between the earlier and later
emphasis of Marxist thought.
Some anthropologists came to stress the importance
of modes of economic relations, following the later
Marx. Carrier and Miller comment that what began as a
critique of the abstraction created by capital came to be
expressed within the idiom of another abstraction, that
of the economic modelling of modes of production. In
the end this could not be supported by a discipline based
on empathetic ethnography.
Carrier and Miller stress the importance of build-
ing a framework that links the microscopic to mac-
roscopic and refer to relevant arguments presented in
their previously published work on consumption. Their
studies show that consumption is an effective way
by which people objectify virtue in daily life. In the
process of shopping, the image of hedonistic consump-
tion is negated through an emphasis upon saving and
thrift. Consequently, the person experiences shopping
as a virtuous action motivated by the long-term needs
of the household and the desires of the individuals within
it.
Casting these observations into the global market,
Carrier and Miller maintain that we cannot assume that
macroscopic consequences echo in any straightforward
way the microscopic social practices we observe. In-
equalities are increasingly sustained by institutions such
as the North American Free Trade Agreement and the
World Bank. These global institutions insist upon pure
market relations. By their actions they seek to bring
the world into conformity with the virtual reality that
they entertain. They claim that this concept of the pure
market is the authentic expression of the population
at large in their role as customers. The morality that
sustains thrift among shoppers becomes transmitted by
economists into an excuse for exploitation and growing
inequality.
Related also to issues of globalization is Aihwa
Ong’s paper, entitled “Clash of Civilization or Asian
Liberalism? An Anthropology of State and Citizenship-
She addresses how the traditional notion of culture in
anthropology has encouraged a view of non-Western
societies as communitarian in character in contrast to
the individualistic values of Western cultures. Both
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
287
Huntington and other communitarian theorists main-
tain that economic growth has enabled Asian states
to subordinate individual rights to the collective good.
They see a paradox in postcolonial society comprised
of a representative democracy and capitalist economy
that coexist with an authoritarian state. These theorists
stress the importance of Asian values and cultures
in determining a collectivist worldview and minimize
the role of liberal rationality in the making of Asian
societies.
Ong, referring to Foucault, argues that the liberal
rationality of government is tied to the optimum per-
formance of the economy at a minimum economic and
sociopolitical cost. Consequently, political accountabil-
ity in the Asian Tiger States has to be evaluated in
terms of its strategies of governing the society and the
state’s ability to stimulate economic growth. The state
needs to find way to produce rational citizens who will
be entrepreneurial and competitive (52). In contrast to
Huntington’s approach, anthropologists should examine
how politics in the postcolonial society are conditioned
by local culture as well as by the state.
A good part of the chapter is devoted to compare
the state-society relations in Malaysia and Singapore,
the so-called Tiger States. Again Ong maintains that
these economies are well adapted to globalization while
rejecting Western liberalism. The state seeks to produce
the kind of subjects that are attractive to global capital,
both as workers and consumers. More than in the West,
the liberal Asian state educates the public and promotes
an ethico-political meaning of citizenship. Ong makes
the following generalizations to characterize Malaysia:
the government instituted an Islamization policy...
to deploy Islamic values as part of a massive social
engineering of the Malays... A new kind of Malay sub-
ject. .. is promoted who is self-disciplined, entrepreneur-
tal, and devoutly Muslim” (59). Ong maintains that the
Tiger State exemplifies the “caring society” that stresses
a rnutual caring between state and society. However, this
reviewer sees an elitist perspective here. The subaltern
groups have been omitted in the writer’s characterization
and analysis of Malaysia. Do these citizens see their
state as the “caring society” or simply structures of
lnequality? Could we call the economist planners of the
Tiger States virtualizers, to borrow a term from Carrier
and Miller? Perhaps we need to pay attention to Lutz
and Nonini’s warning that “the presence of the powers
°f nation-states frame our ethnography rather than being
Rs object of study” (104).
Lastly, Ong calls attention to the different forms of
liberalism, a perspective, she says, that will challenge
^lrnple assertions of East-West cultural differences.
However, are we sure that we are not simply adding a
Pair of hierarchical dualisms to the list including mod-
ern/nonmodern and individualistic/communitarian, that,
sbe says, are implicit in the traditional anthropological
n°fion of culture? This new pair seems to be “Asian
ec°nomic liberalism/Western liberalism.”
Moore sees anthropology as a debate as well as a set
practices. I have tried to work along this line. The pa-
Anth
pers in “Anthropological Theory Today” are appealing,
stimulating, and perhaps ambitious. I recommend the
book highly to practicing anthropologists and graduate
students. Wing Sam Chow
Moore, Henrietta L., Todd Sanders, and Bwire
Kaare: Those Who Play with Fire. Gender, Fertility, and
Transformation in East and Southern Africa. London:
The Athlone Press, 1999. 307 pp. ISBN 0-485-19569-0.
(London School of Economics Monographs on Social
Anthropology, 69) Price: £ 45.00
Dieser Sammelband präsentiert neue Erkenntnisse
über die Interdependenzen von Geschlechterbeziehun-
gen, Ritualen und Symbolsystemen. Der Dreh- und
Angelpunkt ist das Spannungsverhältnis von Fruchtbar-
keit, Regeneration und gesellschaftlichen Machtbezie-
hungen. Die Palette von performanz- und subjektivitäts-
theoretischen Überlegungen bilden weitere Eckpunkte
der Untersuchungen. Dabei sind Henrietta Moore und
Todd Sanders - beide Sozialwissenschaftler der London
School of Economics - sowie Bwire Kaara, Universi-
ty of Dar es Salaam, als Herausgeber bestrebt, neue
Forschungsperspektiven zu eröffnen, indem sie sozio-
logische und phänomenologische Ansätze kombinieren.
Die Publikation zeichnet sich dadurch aus, dass neben
namhaften Sozialanthropologinnen aus Großbritannien
und Skandinavien auch Soziologen und Politologen aus
Tansania ihre neuesten Forschungsergebnisse präsentie-
ren. Der regionale Schwerpunkt liegt auf ausgewählten
Gesellschaften des südlichen und östlichen Afrika. Im
Folgenden wird eine Auswahl an Beiträgen vorgestellt,
die das Spektrum des Sammelbandes und den damit
verbundenen Erkenntnisgewinn für die Ethnologie ex-
emplarisch veranschaulichen.
Die programmatische Einleitung spannt den Rahmen,
in den sich die einzelnen Fallstudien einfügen. Es geht
um die symbolische Gestaltung von Geschlechterrollen,
von gesellschaftlichen Hierarchien und Ideologien, wo-
bei insbesondere die kulturelle Prägung und die Wan-
delbarkeit von Geschlechterhierarchien dargelegt wer-
den. In diesem Kontext werden Verbindungen zwischen
unterschiedlichen Aspekten des Soziallebens und kultu-
rellen Ausdrucksformen aufgezeigt, konkret wird nach
der transformativen Wirkung körperbezogener Rituale
und damit verbundenen Symbolsystemen gefragt. Das
darauf aufbauende Wissen und entsprechende Statuszu-
weisungen spielen ebenfalls eine zentrale Rolle.
Todd Sanders, Mitherausgeber und Experte für Re-
genrituale in Tansania, illustriert in seinem Beitrag
die Grundthesen des Sammelbandes. Demnach tragen
körperbezogene und regenerative Rituale in kleinbäuer-
lichen Gesellschaften des südöstlichen Afrika zur gesell-
schaftlichen Ordnung bei und bringen darüber hinaus die
soziale und kosmische Welt in ein kulturell akzeptiertes
Verhältnis zueinander. Somit wird die Geschlechtsiden-
tität keineswegs nur durch das Alltagshandeln, sondern
vor allem durch kosmisch und symbolisch verankerte
Rituale geprägt. Auf diesem Wege werden auch kon-
kurrierende Geschlechterkonzepte legitimiert.
‘ropos 96.2001
288
Rezensionen
Der tansanische Soziologe Bwire Kaara wirkt als
Herausgeber an dieser Publikation mit, und widmet sich
darüber hinaus in einem eigenen Aufsatz der Bedeu-
tung von Ritualen in der Akie-Gesellschaft im nörd-
lichen Tansania. Er weist nach, wie Rituale, u. a. die
Rebellionsrituale der Akie-Frauen in Krisenzeiten, die
Sozialbeziehungen neu strukturieren, zwischen gegen-
sätzlichen Positionen vermitteln und damit letztlich den
sozialen Zusammenhalt sichern. Darüber hinaus tragen
sie zum Fortbestand der kosmischen Ordnung bei, denn
diese wird keineswegs nur als abstraktes Symbolsystem
gedacht, sondern ist auf vielfältige Art und Weise mit
der Realität verbunden.
Die transformative Kraft weiblicher Protestrituale ist
auch zentrales Thema von Astrid Blystad, die im Be-
reich Public Health an der Universität Bergen arbeitet.
Ihre Forschung über die Daatoga, eine Ethnie in Tan-
sania, deren Lebensgrundlage die pastorale Ökonomie
darstellt, veranschaulicht die unterschiedlichen Bedeu-
tungen, die dem girgweageeda gadeemga Protestritual
der Frauen in verschiedenen Situationen zukommt. Es
nimmt jedoch immer Bezug auf die weibliche Frucht-
barkeit und das damit verbundene Symbolsystem. Auf
dieser Basis können die Frauen im Ritual wirtschaft-
lichen und politischen Beschränkungen gegensteuern,
zumal sie keine formalen politischen Partizipationsmög-
lichkeiten haben.
Den Wechselwirkungen von Ritualen und symboli-
scher Ordnung widmet sich auch Deborah Kaspin, Ex-
pertin für Kosmologie in ostafrikanischen Gesellschaf-
ten und Mitarbeiterin der Universität Yale. Allerdings
konzentriert sie sich auf die Initiationsrituale der Chewa
in Tansania, die durch Meidungsgebote für Mädchen
und Jungen gekennzeichnet sind. Der Erkenntnisgewinn
dieser Studie liegt darin, dass sie verdeutlicht, wie
wichtig es ist, die Riten nicht als singuläre Ereignis-
se zu betrachten, sondern als wesentlichen Bestandteil
komplexer Ritensysteme. Diese zielen allesamt auf Re-
generation und Erneuerung ab; darüber hinaus spiegeln
sie unterschiedliche menschliche Erfahrungen. Im Detail
arbeitet die Autorin heraus, wie Frauen aktiv an der
Durchführung einzelner Riten beteiligt sind und einzelne
rituelle Expertinnen die Ritendurchführung koordinie-
ren.
Der Frage, inwieweit Frauen aktiv am rituellen Le-
ben beteiligt sind, geht ein weiterer Buchbeitrag nach.
Katherine Synder, Professorin am Queen’s College in
New York, zeigt am Beispiel der Iraqw-Gesellschaft
Tansanias, wie die Geschlechterverhältnisse mit spiritu-
ellen und kosmischen Konzepten verbunden sind. Dazu
analysiert sie Initiationsriten und Hexereiverdächtigun-
gen gegenüber kinderlosen Frauen. Indem ihre Unter-
suchung auch auf die Bedeutung von Haushalten im
Spannungsfeld von öffentlichen und privaten Einfluss-
sphären eingeht, die Trennung der Geschlechterbereiche
mitberücksichtigt und sie mit Konzepten von Reinheit
und Unreinheit in Beziehung setzt, vermittelt sie ein
vielschichtiges Bild des Zusammenspiels von sozialer
und kosmischer Welt.
Grundsätzlichen Fragen zur Wechselwirkung von
gesellschaftlichen Strukturen und religiösen Prozessen
widmet sich Anita Jacobson-Widding, Professorin am
Afrika-Zentrum der Universität Uppsala. Sie kritisiert
die in zahlreichen ethnographischen und theoretischen
Arbeiten verbreitete Differenzierung zwischen der ge-
sellschaftlichen Ordnung und den Ritualen als ungeord-
neter Antistruktur, indem sie die vielschichtige Bedeu-
tung strukturierter Rituale herausarbeitet. Unterschiedli-
che Facetten von biologischen und sozialen Transforma-
tionsprozessen sind demnach die verbindende Klammer
ritueller Aktivitäten und ihres religiös-kulturellen Kon-
texts. Zudem betont sie, dass Fruchtbarkeitskonzepte
und Initiationsriten nur durch die Einbettung in konkrete
Alltagsaktivitäten, z. B. die geschlechtliche Arbeitstei-
lung, zu verstehen sind. Letztlich ist die Antistruktur,
das Chaos in Ritualen, durch den Bezug auf unterschied-
liche soziale Kategorien zu verstehen, die emotional
aufgeladen und transformiert werden. Die Komplemen-
tarität von Generationen und Geschlechtern ist in diesem
Kontext von zentraler Bedeutung.
Insgesamt zeichnet sich diese Publikation dadurch
aus, dass sie neueste empirische Forschungsergebnis-
se und theoretische Überlegungen zum Zusammenspiel
von Geschlechterbeziehungen, Gesellschaftsformen und
Symbolsystemen vorstellt. Indem ein interdisziplinär
und international zusammengesetztes Autorenteam zu
Wort kommt, bietet das Buch neue theoretische Diskus-
sionsimpulse an, die über die empirischen Beispiele aus
dem östlichen Afrika hinausreichen. Rita Schäfer
Mulvaney, John, and Johan Kamminga: Prehistory
of Australia. Washingon; Smithsonian Institution Press,
1999. 480 pp. ISBN 1-56098-804-5. Price: $27.95
If there is a classic on the subject of Australian
archaeology it is this book. “The Prehistory of Australia”
was first published in 1969 by Thames and Hudson
in hardcover, then as a paperback in 1975 by Pelican
Books. The present edition is a completely rewritten,
updated, and expanded version of Professor Mulvaney’s
seminal volume. Its senior author is the doyen of the
discipline in Australia, and he is widely seen as its
father, having pioneered and established professional ar-
chaeology in this country during the 1960s. Kamminga,
too, has an impeccable record, being an internationally
acclaimed specialist on archaeological material studies,
notably micro-wear of stone tools.
The comprehensiveness, breadth of vision, and au-
thority of this volume, having been in the making
for some thirty or forty years, therefore comes as no
surprise. The book represents the sum total of two dis-
tinguished careers, and the well-matured knowledge of
Australia’s finest scholar in the field, honed by decades
of fieldwork, teaching, and writing. During these many
years, several major syntheses have appeared on the
continent’s archaeology and similar topics, but the aca-
demic and technical preeminence of Mulvaney’s volume
remains peerless. With the exception of a few specialised
areas, the book’s veracity is at a level transcending
contemporary knowledge in Australian archaeology. Its
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
289
strength is evident in many of the areas in which similar
books have faltered. For instance, here is finally an
Australian archaeology book addressed in part to the
public that presents a flawless description of radiocarbon
dating and its limitations. The same magnificent grasp
of the subject is evident in many other parts of the book,
and the number of errors of facts or misspelt site names,
a hall mark of most archaeology books, is so minimal
that it would be churlish to mention them.
I have to confess that I have had nothing but
admiration for Professor Mulvaney’s scholarship for
several decades. But in the interest of critical appraisal
it is necessary to note that the great impact this work
might have had is reduced by some aspects related to
deontology and content. Concerning the former, two
issues stand out, and they coincide with the concerns of
the two principal client groups of Australian archaeolo-
gists: the Aborigines and the archaeologically interested
public, especially unpaid archaeologists (often called
“amateurs”).
The first of these concerns is already prompted by
the book’s seemingly innocent title. With the exception
of a very brief contact and historical period (marked by
the introduction of written records), all of Australia’s
archaeology refers to the history of the continent’s
autochthons. They quite justifiably object to the use of
the word “prehistory” to describe what they consider to
be history. Even from a purely scientific perspective,
the term “prehistory” is unacceptable, because it is an
ethnocentric construct of a minority of humanity that
difficult to define and impossible to falsify. If the
mtroduction of writing marks the beginning of history,
we need to bear in mind that for most of the time
Writing has existed it was not accessible to most humans,
^lore importantly, nobody has ever demonstrated that
Written records are more reliable than oral ones, passed
°n through rhyme and song - in fact one could easily
develop an argument demonstrating that oral history is
{he more reliable form of record keeping.
The term “prehistory” is used throughout the book,
eyen though it is probably offensive to more than 90 %
°f all humans who ever lived, and was created primarily
to discriminate between “civilised people” and the rest.
Mulvaney and Kamminga also make no secret of what
they think of a reconciliation on Aboriginal terms. They
are happy to grant Aboriginal people control over their
culture, as long as these rights are not assumed to
136 literal and entitle indigenes to demand the return
cultural materials usurped by colonial masters. The
authors lament various developments in this area, such
as the repatriation of skeletal remains and the court-
cnforced return of Tasmanian archaeological material,
^hich they emotively call “an unfortunate outcome ...
an incalculable cultural catastrophe.” The material in
Question consists of remains of domestic garbage, and if
Was of such immense value, why had it been gathering
Ust for so many years in a university collection?
^hat disturbs this reviewer is the sentiment that
archaeology deserves better treatment from indigenes
ecause it “has given material and scientific support for
Anthropos 96.2001
Aboriginal claims of deep antiquity.” It seems to me
that archaeology produced this material not because it
wanted to support Aboriginal claims, but because this
is what archaeologists do, and they do get paid for it
by the community. Aborigines are not beholden to ar-
chaeologists for doing their job, and the community will
do with the information provided by archaeologists as it
sees fit. If archaeologists involve themselves as partisan
players they become a political group. If as scholars they
demand property rights they are no different from the
antiquarian collectors of past centuries.
The second disturbing ethical issue in this book is its
treatment of researchers who were or are not servants of
the state, the people called “amateurs.” They are given
short shrift throughout the book, except in the section
on rock art. This pattern begins on page 1, where it is
noted that during the 1950s “it was suspected that people
occupied Australia earlier than 10,000 years ago,” when
in fact such sentiments were expressed very much
earlier, but by non-archaeologists. Based on geological
evidence, Basedow reported this early in the century (as
even the authors themselves concede on p. 372, adding
that he said so for the wrong reasons). The shabby
treatment of “amateurs” is particularly evident in the
discussion of the early occupation evidence from Flores
(105). Here the authors mention the recent work of
Michael Morwood at just one site, Mata Menge, adding
that before they can accept this crucial evidence they
must await further research. This evidence has been
available for almost forty years, and it has been accepted
by international scholars of the calibre of a Breuil and a
Koenigswald more than thirty years ago. If the authors
distrust their and Verhoeven’s judgment, what objection
do they have to that of Professor Maringer? Or that
of Sondaar, van den Bergh, de Vos, Mubroto, Aziz,
and Batu? And what, for that matter, is wrong with
Morwood’s judgment?
In terms of content, the volume by Mulvaney and
Kamminga has two weaknesses: its uninformed treat-
ment of the questions of maritime colonisation between
Sunda and Sahul, for which a good deal of literature
exists; and the chapters on rock art. Concerning sea-
faring, it appears that the authors are not aware of
any Pleistocene crossings other than the ones in the
region of Wallacea and Australia. The three rock art
chapters should have been omitted from the book alto-
gether. Flood, whose “Archaeology of the Dreamtime”
compares favourably with the present volume in various
respects, wisely divided the subject and wrote a separate
book on Australian rock art, entitled “Rock Art of the
Dreamtime.” Readers interested in rock art would be
well advised to ignore the three chapters by Mulvaney
and Kamminga and reach for Flood’s rock art book
instead. The present authors’ contribution to Australian
rock art consists essentially of the proposition that rock
art is increasingly being linked with the archaeological
record and with reconstructions of past environments.
Yet in their three chapters they present no cases where
this has been done rigorously or convincingly, in fact
they list various examples of inconclusive attempts in
290
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this area. This is hardly surprising, bearing in mind that
rock art is not an archaeologically relevant resource
at all until it is dated, and that almost no credible
dating evidence for Australian rock art is available. The
authors note this repeatedly, which renders their claim of
successful integration of rock art into the archaeological
framework without real basis. They twice mention a 25
ka date for a painting as evidence of very early rock
art (49, 368), without the required qualifications of such
carbon isotope results. At the same time they fail to
mention the much earlier date from Malangine Cave
by uranium series dating. Indeed, that method, used so
widely abroad, is not mentioned at all in this book. As,
conversely, are many other dating methods (e.g., geo-
chronology, fission track analysis, microerosion analy-
sis, while the description of OSL analysis contains an
error and there is no discussion of ESR).
This book is recommended as a rich, reliable, and
well organised source of data about Australian archae-
ology. Its attempts to preserve the “Cambridge in the
bush” school of archaeology are, however, anachronis-
tic and misguided, and the ethical issues relating to
“amateurs” and indigenes need to be borne in mind.
The first right of the independent scholar is to receive
more recognition than the highly privileged professional.
The first right of the Australian indigenes is to exercise
control over the last thing left to them, their culture
- having been stripped first of their land, then their
livelihood, then their pride, and finally their future (their
children). Robert G. Bednarik
Oppitz, Michael, and Elisabeth Hsu (eds.): Naxi
and Moso Ethnography. Kin, Rites, Pictographs. Zürich:
Völkerkundemuseum, 1998. 396 pp. ISBN 3-909105-
35-1. Price: sfr 58.00
The original idea for publishing this book was to
provide a background volume based on recent ethnog-
raphy for an exhibition held in Zürich in 1997-98.
This exhibition, “Naxi - Dinge, Mythen, Piktogramme,”
focused on the pictographic writing used by the dtö-mbä
religious specialists of the Naxi people in Southwest
China. The stated purpose of the editors is to provide
an incentive for a comparative anthropology of the wider
Himalayan region. The idea is laudable and the result is
certainly an impressive wealth of fresh ethnographical
data on the Naxi and their neighbours, the Moso, both
living in the southeastern corner of this Himalayan
region. A substantial part of the volume contains also
work of more philological nature and concentrates on the
pictographic texts of the Naxi. It is precisely these picto-
graphic texts, used by the dtö-mbä religious specialists
to write down their complex rituals, which brought the
Naxi a certain fame. This is mainly the achievement of
Joseph Rock, an Austrian botanist/explorer who spent
almost thirty years among the Naxi in the first half
of this century and who collected and translated many
of these pictographic texts. The Moso people, who are
culturally related to the Naxi, have no pictographic texts
but have acquired a certain fame as well. This is due to
the form of marriage practised by a part of the Moso.
In the Yongning area in Yunnan province most of the
Moso families live in large matrilineal households. A
man visits his wife only at night at her family’s house
and returns to his own family at daybreak, hence this
form of sexual relationship is called tisese, meaning
“walking back and forth.” Children bom out of this
union remain in the family of the mother. This “walking
marriage” has been the focus of numerous Chinese
publications, scholarly and less scholarly, and the Moso
in the Yongning area have become a veritable tourist
attraction.
The narrow ethnographic focus of this volume - so-
ciocultural practice of the Naxi and Moso peoples-
constitutes a clear binding principle. Contributing to
this sense of unity is the thorough editing of the whole
volume and the introductory chapter by Elisabeth Hsu.
The division of the chapters in three topics - “Kin, Rites,
Pictographs” - provides a useful analytical structure for
this huge amount of empirical detail. Praiseworthy is
also the minute editing and harmonising of the spelling
of ethnonyms, indigenous terminology, geographical
names, etc. Several of the chapters are based on as yet
unpublished doctoral dissertations. They present us with
tantalising glimpses of comprehensive anthropological
studies based on extended fieldwork, something which
has only been possible in China within the last 10-15
years. We can only hope that in the near future we will
see more published results of these studies.
After a well-argued introduction on the problems
of ethnic categories in past and present-day China,
Charles McKhann introduces the kinship systems of four
communities in the Yunnan-Sichuan border region. His
findings, based on extensive fieldwork, clearly demon-
strate that we must be very cautious in relating certain
kinship systems too much to specific ethnic groups, a
common feature of the essentialising state-sanctioned
Chinese ethnography. Instead of opposing the kinship
system and marriage practices of the Lijiang Naxi and
the Yongning Moso, McKhann views these practices in
a broader context and finds strong similarities with other
neighbouring groups like Premi and Tibetans. Much ot
the evidence suggests, according to him, that originally
many of these kinship system were bilateral. Whether
communities, or sections of them, are matrilineal or
patrilineal is more the result of particular historical
factors than ethnic affiliation.
Chinese state-sanctioned ethnography is precisely
where Susanne Knödel directs here attention to in the
next chapter. It consists of a critical analysis of Chi-
nese ethnography on the Moso, mainly focusing on the
matrilineality and “walking marriage” of the Moso in
the Yongning area supplied by a brief discussion on the
present situation (and future development ) of this kin-
ship system based on recent personal observations. Un-
doubtedly, as an exercise in exposing the questionable
bias of Han Chinese and Communist ethnography of
the early times of the People’s Republic, a study of this
literature is still worthwhile. On the other hand, due to
more recent opportunities for doing prolonged fieldwork
Anthropos 96.2001
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291
in Moso/Naxi areas, we have first-hand access now to
more up-to-date and less biased ethnographic data. More
interesting therefore are Knodel’s observations on how
recent economic development in the Yongning/Lugu
area is potentially having a greater impact on family
residence patterns than any of the several campaigns in
the 60s and 70s where Moso were coerced into regular
marriages. How tourism (a.o. Chinese “matriarchy tour-
ism”) and economic opportunities outside of agriculture
will affect Yongning Moso kinship remains to be seen.
In her own contribution to this volume Elisabeth
Hsu proposes a new theoretical approach to the study
of kinship in this area of Southwest China. Integrating
her own fieldwork with an analysis of the work of
especially Shih for the Moso and McKhann for the
Naxi, she finds that traditional kinship theory, dominated
by the principle of unilateral descent, is inadequate in
explaining the kinship practice of these peoples. Instead,
she views the analytic concept of the “house,” first put
forward by Lévy-Strauss, as a heuristic device enabling
us to draw in indigenous kinship ideologies. Hsu dif-
ferentiates between a “hearth-oriented” ideology and an
‘alliance-oriented” ideology. I agree with her that the
availability of statistical material on residence and mar-
riage practices for the Moso makes her argument more
convincing for this group than for the Naxi where this
uiaterial is lacking. Her suggestion that the Yongning
Moso might be matrilineal by default is an interesting
Proposition which will have to be put to the test of
more comparative field data. Moreover, the ethnographic
data already available on other neighbouring groups,
Ьке, e.g., the Premi in Ninglang and Muli, indicate that
mdigenous ideologies, like “hearth- or alliance-oriented”
Geologies, are not limited to Naxi and Moso but have
a much wider basis.
Shih Chuan-kang provides us with a detailed de-
scription (richly illustrated by his own photographs) of
a Moso funeral which, as the most important rite of
the Moso, constitutes an ideal event to understand the
fundamental meaning of being Moso. According to his
brief analysis, this fundamental meaning is to uphold
the value of matrilineal harmony. It is the only event in
Mmgning Moso society involving the whole matrilineal
clan. Being an event so rich in symbolic meaning, it
ls maybe regrettable that Shih only cursorily touches
uPon other cultural aspects at play here, like, e.g., Moso
rehgious beliefs and cosmology.
The next four chapters present us with detailed
ethnographic material either in the form of minute
descriptions or photographic documentation of Naxi
r,tuals. Zhang Xu’s series of photographs of a Naxi
Crémation ceremony held in 1990 in the Sanba area in
hongdian documents this form of funerary rite which
^as much more widespread among the Naxi before
umese influence changed burial customs. He Limin
and He Shicheng give us a very detailed record of a re-
vetment of one of the most elaborate Naxi ceremonies,
rmerly held when persons had died an unnatural death,
uis is followed by a series of photographs by Joseph
°ck commented by Michael Oppitz of the Propitiation
Anth;
ropos 96.2001
of Heaven ritual. According to Rock it is the oldest
Naxi ritual. Finally, Yang Fuquan describes several Naxi
rites, like the wedding ceremony and the New Year
celebration. By discussing the role of the Ssu or the
Naxi life god in these rites, he makes the point that
the Ssu is not a house god but a deity residing in each
individual and giving it life.
Christine Mathieu introduces us to the ddaba reli-
gious specialists of the Moso, a little researched as-
pect in Moso studies with their overwhelming focus
on kinship. Unlike the dto-mba religious specialists
of the Naxi, the ddaba have no script and this is
another important reason why they have been so little
researched. Mathieu’s study is mainly based on informa-
tion gained through interviews with a ddaba from Labei
and the analysis of ddaba oral “texts.” She convincingly
argues that the ddaba oral tradition, in spite of having a
lot in common with the written Naxi dtd-mba tradition,
is a clearly separate tradition. Mathieu stresses the
pivotal role of the ddaba religious specialists as keepers
of Moso lore and as main participants in many aspects of
Moso social life. Since their role seems to have regained
strength in the past two decades it will be interesting to
study whether these specialists are not mere “keepers
of the lore” but also active “cultural inventors” as Shih
pointed out in his chapter. Further study of religious
practice and beliefs of Moso commoners (as opposed
to religious specialists) might divulge that the divide
between “Buddhist Yongnin” and “ddaba Labei” is
maybe not as wide as Mathieu’s study would indicate.
The third and last part of the book is dedicated to
Naxi pictographs. Anthony Jackson and Pan Anshi have
managed to shed new light on the authorship of dtd-mba
manuscripts by systematically studying titles and first
pages of over 5,000 manuscripts in Western collections.
In the following chapter Pan Anshi presents us with
the complete translation of a dto-mba text, underscoring
his point that such an undertaking is perfectly possible
without having a dto-mba religious specialists perform
the ritual since the pictographs are more than just a
mnemonic device to recall a ritual. Clues for translation
can be found in knowing the actual rituals, taking
pictographs for their phonetic value and identifying
“allegorical expressions.” In the last chapter Michael
Oppitz is concerned with Naxi ritual drums, not only
as physical objects but also how they appear in dto-mba
texts and Naxi mythology. His study, then, widens up to
an interesting comparison of one mythical theme found
in many Himalayan cultures, that of the battle among
competing religions for the use of the alphabetic script
(Tibetan). Stories containing these mythical battles be-
tween oral and written religious traditions can be found
among Tibetans, Tamang, Chepang, Gurung, Naxi, and
Moso. One more reason, Oppitz finally concludes, to
call for a trans-Himalayan ethnography. One can only
hope that people will heed his call.
This volume is certainly a very good starting point
for such a widening of the ethnographic topos. We
possess now a comprehensive collection of ethnograph-
ic data documenting local culture in the southeastern
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corner of this Himalayan region. Most chapters provide
a wealth of new knowledge and insights. The level of
analytical depth of the different contributions is rather
uneven and some chapters are mere presentations of raw
data, but all are of high scholarly level and therefore this
whole volume is sure to become a major sourcebook
and starting point for the further development of the
held. Such a development should not only widen the
geographical spectre, but should also result in a change
of focus within the study itself of Naxi and Moso
cultures. This brings me to my only point of criticism:
Being a good reflection of the current state of Naxi
and Moso studies this volume also testifies to some of
the more unfortunate tendencies present in this held.
Both Western and Chinese researchers have shown a
tendency to focus on those aspects of Naxi and Moso
cultures found to be most exotic, enhancing in this way
the risk of essentializing and obstructing a more holistic
and nuanced understanding of these cultures. Although
several contributions undoubtedly explore new grounds,
nevertheless, like in Moso and Naxi studies in general,
also in this volume we do hnd a clear overweight of
studies of matrilineality and marriage customs among
the Yongning Moso and of the ritual activities of the
Naxi dto-mba religious specialists. But again this is
more a critique of the state of the held, not so much
of this book. Koen Wellens
Oswalt, Wendeil H.: Eskimos and Explorers. 2nd
ed. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999. 341
pp. ISBN 0-8032-8613-9. Price: $ 19.95
Nach genau 20 Jahren wurde das Buch von Wendeil
H. Oswalt über die Eskimo und ihre Erforscher neu
aufgelegt. Der Autor selbst deutet dies als ein Zeichen
für das anhaltende Interesse am Volk der Eskimo sowohl
in der breiten Öffentlichkeit wie bei den Anthropologen.
Die Gründe für die Faszination, die gerade die Eskimo
so stark hervorrufen, schildert er in seiner Einleitung
“Why Eskimos?”. Er hält sie für das exotischste Volk der
Welt. Denn, was fordert mehr heraus, als in einem Land
zu leben, wo es fast ständig kalt ist? Oswalts eigene
Faszination wird deutlich, wenn er die verschiedenen
- nicht selten richtigen - Stereotypen aufzählt, die man
über die Eskimo erzählt, und diese dann relativiert durch
ihre ebenfalls oft richtigen Gegensätze: Menschen, die
in Schneehäusern lebten, niemals die Kinder bestraften,
sich der Alten und Schwachen scheinbar ohne Gefühls-
regung entledigten und riesige Wale von kleinen Leder-
booten aus erlegten; dagegen gab es andere Eskimo, die
barfuß gingen, niemals in ihrem Leben einen Eisbären
sahen oder einen Hundeschlitten lenkten. Ein Volk von
Jägern und Sammlern, das über eine größere Fläche
Land verbreitet war, als jedes andere.
Zwei Neuerungen gibt es in dem Buch im Un-
terschied zur Ausgabe von 1979, ein Vorwort des
Autors und eine Überarbeitung des Schlußkapitels mit
Berücksichtigung der neuesten Erkenntnisse zur Ur-
geschichte der Eskimo sowie der heutigen kulturellen
und politischen Entwicklungen. Noch im neuen Vorwort
rechtfertigt Oswalt die Verwendung der Bezeichnung
Eskimo, wie viele andere Eskimologen dies tun, seit
sich herumgesprochen hat, dass die Selbstbezeichnung
vieler Eskimo “Inuit” ist. Diese Selbstbezeichnung gilt
jedoch nur für die Gruppen in Kanada und im nördlichen
Alaska, während die Grönländer und die Gruppen im
südlichen Alaska sich anders nennen. Deshalb ist die
einzig allumfassende Bezeichnung weiterhin “Eskimo”.
Das Hauptanliegen des Buches ist es, auf den Spuren
der Entdecker die frühesten Nachrichten über die Eski-
mo aufzuspüren. Wie sahen die ersten Begegnungen aus,
welche Reaktionen wurden auf beiden Seiten ausgelöst,
welche Informationen über dieses nördliche Volk wur-
den bekannt und wie hat man sie interpretiert? Oswalt
gibt, soweit bekannt, die Lebensgeschichte der Forscher
wieder, ihren Werdegang, ihre Motivationen und Auf-
traggeber, er schildert ihre Fahrten mit den diversen
Schwierigkeiten und Fehlschlägen und gibt ihre Schil-
derungen von den Begegnungen mit Eskimogruppen
wieder. Diese reichen von knappen Erwähnungen bis
zu längeren Abhandlungen. Viele Originalzeichnungen
aus den alten Werken sind in dem vorliegenden Buch
abgedruckt, darunter die erste Darstellung von Eskimo,
die in Europa bekannt wurden.
Oswalt beschränkt sich jedoch nicht auf die Wieder-
gabe der alten Berichte, er kommentiert sie und stellt
ihnen heutige Sichtweisen und Kenntnisse von bestimm-
ten Elementen der traditionellen Eskimokultur entgegen.
Somit erzählt er nicht nur eine Geschichte der frühen Er-
forscher der arktischen Welt und ihrer Erkenntnisse, son-
dern er gibt auch einen Überblick über die traditionellen
Lebensweisen der Eskimo. Hierbei wird auf Grund des
Aufbaus des Buches nicht verallgemeinert, wie dies in
übergreifenden Beschreibungen weitgehend der Fall ist,
sondern er differenziert nach den Regionen, die gerade
besprochen werden, und er schildert immer wieder die
Gemeinsamkeiten und Unterschiede zwischen den Grup-
pen. Besonderes Augenmerk legt er auf die materielle
Kultur, auf die technischen Erfindungen, um in einer
schwierigen Umwelt zu überleben. Die enorme Anpas-
sungsfähigkeit an unterschiedliche Gegebenheiten und
Klimazonen fasziniert ihn offensichtlich selbst und wur-
de auch von den frühen Forschern besonders registriert.
Andere Kulturelemente wie Sprache und Kunst oder
auch physische Merkmale, die vor allem den frühesten
Reisenden in die Augen stachen, da die meisten anderen
Erkenntnisse an den Sprachschwierigkeiten scheiterten,
werden von ihm ausdrücklich weniger berücksichtigt.
Der Zeitraum, in dem die ersten Kontaktaufnahmen
zwischen Europäern und Eskimo stattfanden, ist außer-
gewöhnlich groß: einige Gruppen gehörten zu den ersten
Amerikanern, die westliche Seefahrer jemals zu Gesicht
bekamen, andere Gruppen zu den letzten entdeckten
Völkern. Über 1000 Jahre muss Oswalt daher in seinem
Buch abdecken. Die neun Kapitel sind vorrangig regi°'
nal gegliedert. Begonnen wird mit den Reisen und Sied-
lungen der Normannen in Grönland und Labrador, und
den Schluss bilden die Forschungen über die Gruppe11
im Beringmeergebiet. Daneben versucht Oswalt jedoch
auch, verschiedene Entdeckungsphasen zu charakterisie'
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
293
ren und eine zeitliche Abfolge zu berücksichtigen. Da
diese nicht immer von Ost nach West verlaufen ist, gibt
es hier in der Erzählabfolge einige Brüche.
Nach den Normannen berichtet Oswalt von den
ersten Seereisen der Engländer Ende des 16. und Anfang
des 17. Jhs. Diese Seefahrer verschleppten oft Eskimo
nach Europa. Auf die Entführung von Gruppenmitglie-
dern reagierten die Einheimischen verständlicherweise
eher feindlich, was das Stereotyp von den Eskimo, die
keinen Krieg kennen, ebensowenig bis heute ausgeräumt
hat wie spätere Bekanntschaft der Russen mit dem
entwickelten Kriegswesen der Pazifik-Eskimo.
Mit “Perfect Craze” ist das Kapitel jener Zeit zwi-
schen dem 16. und 18. Jh. überschrieben, als man auf
der ehrgeizigen Suche nach der Nordwest-Passage, der
nördlichen Verbindung nach Asien, war. Damals war
der Kontakt zu den Eskimo nur ein Nebenprodukt im
Verlauf geographischer Entdeckungen.
In Westgrönland suchte man inzwischen vergeblich
nach den Überlebenden der alten Normannenkolonie,
üie “moderne Geschichte” begann 1721 mit dem Mis-
sionar Hans Egede, der die Sprache der Eskimo lernte
und ausführlicher über ihre Kultur berichtete. Diese
Ausführungen wurden vor allem 1767 durch David
Crantz und sehr viel später durch Kaj Birket-Smith
nrgänzt. Warum Oswalt letzteren in diesem Zusammen-
hang anführt, einen alten Berichterstatter wie Paul Ege-
de, dessen Verständnis der Eskimokultur schon wesent-
lich weiter ging als das seines Vaters, ist unverständlich.
Hier wird die Problematik der Auswahl der genannten
Heisenden und Forscher deutlich, die doch willkürlich
hleiben muss, abhängig vom Zugang des Autors zu
bestimmter Literatur und seiner Interessenlage.
Oswalts Vorgehen kann hier beispielhaft dargestellt
Werden. Hans Egede war der erste, der das Winterle-
hen der Eskimo schilderte. Entsprechend gibt Oswalt
hier eine ausführliche Beschreibung des Winterlebens
nieder, kontrastiert durch das Leben im Sommer mit
hen unterschiedlichen Jagdmethoden, Behausungen usw.
Solche Beschreibungen werden in späteren Kapiteln
bann wiederholt, wenn sich neue Erkenntnisse ergeben
haben oder wenn sich die Lebensweisen bei anderen
Cruppen unterscheiden. Ebenso werden immer wieder
einzelne Phänomene und Aspekte der Eskimokultur,
aber auch zeitgebundene Fragestellungen der Forscher
(die Frage, ob Eskimo “fett” sind oder ob Eisbären Wal-
r°sse mit Gesteins- oder Eisbrocken erschlagen können,
allgemein bekannte Glaubensvorstellungen und Mythen,
^undehaltung, “Kayak-Angst” usw.) an passender Stelle
ausführlich behandelt, nicht nur im Hinblick auf einen
stimmten Autor oder eine Zeit, sondern von Oswalt
nach heutigem Wissensstand wiedergegeben.
Auf diese Weise schildert Oswalt aufeinanderfolgend
16 Entdeckung der Polar-Eskimo, der Ostgrönländer
Und der verschiedenen kanadischen Gruppen. Die Be-
wohner der kanadischen Zentralarktis gelten meist als
die typischen” Eskimo schlechthin, die in Schneehäu-
Sern leben und Robben an den Atemlöchern jagen. Von
lesem Stereotyp weichen schon die Eskimo Nordalas-
as mit ihren großen Zeremonien, den Masken, der
Anth
mpos 96.2001
Bedeutung der Waljagd und der besonderen Stellung des
Anführers des Walfangbootes ab.
Mehr als ein Drittel aller Eskimo leben in Alaska
südlich der Beringstraße, in der Mehrzahl in der subark-
tischen Zone, teilweise in Waldgebieten. Entsprechend
ist die kulturelle Anpassung an diese natürliche Um-
welt eine andere als bei den arktischen Gruppen. Die
ersten Europäer, die mit ihnen in Kontakt kamen, waren
Russen. Besonders die Konjaken und die Chugach im
südlichsten Verbreitungsgebiet entsprechen nicht den
üblichen Vorstellungen von den Eskimo. Dennoch hat
man schon früh die Eskimogruppen von Alaska als
Verwandte der Grönländer erkannt und sie von den
benachbarten Indianern unterschieden.
Nicht ganz verständlich ist, warum Oswalt aus seiner
Beschreibung die Eskimo Sibiriens ausklammert und in
seinem teilweise sehr ausführlichen Anmerkungsteil be-
handelt. Das Argument des Mangels an Informationen,
das der Autor hier anführt, trifft auch für einige andere
Eskimogruppen zu.
Das zehnte und letzte Kapitel, “Before and Af-
ter Explorers”, wurde von Oswalt auf den neuesten
Stand gebracht und durchgesehen von den renommierten
Prähistorikern und Eskimologen Don E. Dumond und
James W. VanStone. In ihm werden kurz verschiedene
Theorien zum Ursprung und zur Verbreitung der Eskimo
dargelegt, wobei der Anmerkungsteil fast so lang ist
wie der eigentliche Text. Die moderne Entwicklung in
den verschiedenen Lebensbereichen von der Ernährung,
Wohnung, Transportmittel, Schulen, Mission bis zu den
politischen und wirtschaftlichen Ambitionen werden je-
weils kurz angerissen.
Der erste Anhang liefert zwei Übersichtskarten, die
eine über die traditionellen Wohngebiete der verschie-
denen Eskimogruppen mit Bevölkerungszahlen, die an-
dere gibt die Stationen der wichtigsten besprochenen
Forscher mit den Jahreszahlen ihrer Reisen wieder. Der
zweite Anhang geht auf die Frage ein, ob die Eskimo
und Aleuten ein eigenes “Culture Area” bilden.
Ebenso wie sein Buch über die Alaska-Eskimo von
1967 ist die vorliegende Publikation ein übergreifendes
Standardwerk der Eskimologie, das sich hervorragend
auch als Einstiegsliteratur in das Thema eignet. Auch die
kommentierte Literatur und Bemerkungen zu weiteren
Fragestellungen im Anmerkungsteil eines jeden Kapitels
sowie die ausführliche Literaturliste am Ende des Bu-
ches können nicht nur demjenigen weiterhelfen, der sich
mit der Entdeckungsgeschichte im arktischen Bereich
und ihrer Bewohner beschäftigt, sondern man findet hier
Grundlegendes und Weiterführendes zu vielen Themen,
die die Eskimo betreffen. Evelin Haase
Pérez Tíldela y Bueso, Juan (comp.): Obras clásicas
para la historia de Iberoamérica. Madrid: Digibis, 1998.
(Colección Clásicos Tavera, Serie 1: Iberoamérica en la
Historia, 1).
Digibis fue creada por varias fundaciones para publi-
car, además de obras impresas, CD-ROMs como éste. Se
trata de la posibilidad, antes inexistente, de poder contar
294
Rezensionen
con las ediciones originales poco menos que inhallables
(y, de haber varias, con la mejor) de obras clásicas
de todo tipo, sin excluir obras modernas importantes.
La Serie 2 abarca recopilaciones temáticas sobre Ibe-
roamérica (por ej. “Obras Clásicas de Náutica y Nave-
gación”), la Serie 9 reproduce “Fuentes Lingüísticas
Indígenas”, y hay varias series sobre la “Historia de
España y Portugal”. Además de la Colección Clásicos
Tavera, Digibis edita otras como la de Publicaciones
Periódicas (por ej. la tan valiosa Revista Andina cuz-
queña, vols. 1-20). En resumen, bibliotecas enteras de
ediciones escogidas de obras útilísimas en un puñado de
cedés. Algunos presentan obras contemporáneas, como
el de “Historia y Sociedad Peruana”, con 35 libros de
la Ed. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, clásicos
de los estudios actuales sobre el mundo andino.
El CD-ROM aquí reseñado contiene 15 obras consa-
gradas entre las clásicas de Iberoamérica, comenzando
por la “Historia natural y moral de las Indias” de José
de Acosta en su primera ed. de 1590. Las “Cartas y
relaciones” de Hernán Cortés, por su parte, datan de
la primera mitad del siglo XVI; de las 5 relaciones se
conservan 4; en el siglo XVIII fueron publicadas por
primera vez las únicas 3 que se conocían entonces, y las
4, finalmente, en 1852; nuestro CD reproduce la edición
de París de 1866 que incluye, además de esas 4, muchas
otras cartas de Cortés diversas de las de “relación”. Sirva
esto para ejemplificar los acertados criterios de selección
aplicados por Digibis.
Las otras obras reproducidas son el “Dicciona-
rio Geográfico-Histórico de las Indias Occidentales ó
América” (A. de Alcedo, 1786, 5 vols.); “Piraterías y
agresiones de los ingleses y otros pueblos de Europa”
(D. Alsedo Herrera 1883); la muy erudita y consultada
“Historia antigua de México y de su conquista” (F.
Clavijero, 2 vols., 1844, 11780-81 en italiano); las fa-
mosísimas “Noticias secretas de América” (J. Juan y A.
de Ulloa, 1826, primera ed. de Londres del ms. de 1748);
“La relación y comentarios del governador” (A. Núñez
Cabeza de Vaca, 1555; la relación es más conocida con
el título de “Naufragios”, U542, y fue reeditada por el
autor en 1555 con sus comentarios): “Historia natural,
civil y geográfica de las naciones situadas en las riveras
del río Orinoco” (J. de Gumilla, 2 vols., 1791, título algo
distinto en 11745); “Geografía y descripción universal de
las Indias” (J. López de Velasco, 1894, ms. de fines del
siglo XVI, 11880 y sigs. en varios números del Boletín
de la Sociedad Geográfica de Madrid)', “Virtudes del
indio (Palafox y Mendoza, 1650); tres obras del Inca
Garcilaso y dos de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.
La reproducción escaneada es de tipo fotográfico, sin
transformación en escritura eletrónica habitual. Ello no
permite la búsqueda de términos o nombres, pero nos
presenta la obra como la tendríamos si fuéramos felices
poseedores de un ejemplar original, más las ventajas
de la electrónica que nos permite girar las láminas,
agrandarlas, etc. El programa incluye, por supuesto, una
gran cantidad de otras funciones. Y la editorial acepta
ahora incluso encargos “al la carta”, e. d., confecciona
CDs con los títulos que el cliente elija entre los más
de 1.300 ya disponibles. Como además realiza a pedido
impresión en papel, el lector puede llegar a poseer una
reproducción poco menos que facsimilar hasta de un
incunable. En resumen: el fondo editorial de Digibis es
un tesoro bibliográfico más allá de todo encomio.
Agustín Seguí
Pezeu-Massabuau, Jacques: Demeure mémoire.
Habiter: Code, sagesse, libération. Marseille: Editions
Parenthèses, 1999. 180 pp. ISBN 2-86364-607-9. Prix:
FF 80,00
Häuser, Wohnungen und eigentlich jede Form um-
bauten Raumes haben eine besondere Eigenschaft: Diese
Gebilde sind Ausdruck der gestalterischen Kraft und
der Konzeptionen der Erbauer; zugleich aber zwingen
sie den darin lebenden oder sich auch nur besuchsweise
aufhaltenden Menschen ihre Ordnung auf. Diese beiden
Positionen - Ausdruck eines Konzeptes und Ursache
einer Wahrnehmung - stehen oftmals zueinander im
Widerspruch. Ihre Unverträglichkeit ist mitunter der
Grund, ein Gebäude abzureißen, um es durch eine
“zeitgemäßeres” oder “funktionsgerechteres” Bauwerk
zu ersetzen. Welche Eigenschaften sind für den Benutzer
so “ins Gesicht schlagend” (um damit eine prägnan-
te Formulierung des Verfassers, S. 19, aufzugreifen),
daß sie als prägend, unter Umständen störend oder gar
schmerzhaft empfunden werden? Der Autor belegt in
zahlreichen Kapiteln die Bedeutsamkeit der Zeichen,
die jedem Haus zu eigen sind und vom ihm ausgehen.
Bei dieser “Sprache des Raumes” geht es ihm - in
Abgrenzung gegenüber dem semiotischen System von
Saussure - nicht einfach um die in der Form des
Gebäudes eingeschriebenen Zeichen, sondern um die
durch das Bewohnen, durch das Leben mit und in den
Häusern immer wieder wahrgenommenen Signale. So
gibt zum Beispiel das Material der Häuser Proportionen
und Baupläne vor (Kap. 1). Aber nicht die konkreten,
nach Ablauf einer gegebenen Frist verfallenden oder
abzureißenden Häuser sind dabei wesentlich, sondern
das auf diese Weise entstehende Raumempfinden, das
seinerseits wieder Richtlinie für den Bau neuer Häuser
ist.
Überhaupt reflektiert der Autor immer wieder auf
das “Geburtshaus”, das für ihn Urbild des Hauses in
der Wahrnehmung und universelle Metapher für das
richtige, gute Haus ist. Durch das Geburtshaus wird
die Wahrnehmung des Menschen geprägt; Häuser, in
denen man aufgewachsen ist, werden im Vergleich zu
den Menschen der eigenen Familie, der eigenen Kultur
als (ausdrucks-)stärker, als dauerhafter empfunden. Die
Form ihrer Räumlichkeit gibt der Wahrnehmung des
Menschen seine Grundstruktur (Kap. 2). Der Autor
verweist ausdrücklich darauf, daß seine Interpretationen
des Hauses offen sind (14), er befaßt sich aber dennoch
mit zentralen Metaphern des Hauses in der französi-
schen Sprache: das Haus als Nest, als Ei, als Grotte-
Metaphern verwenden das Bild des Hauses auch als
Ausdruck von Schutz und Abgrenzung, wobei Fenster
und Türen zugleich Durchlässe und auch Möglichkeiten
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
295
der Abschottung sind (Kap. 3). Ein weiterer Zugang ist
die Betrachtung des Hauses als Bekleidung. Der Mensch
fühlt sich “bekleidet”, so wie er auch ein Raumgefühl
hat. So wie die Kleidung kulturellen Regeln unterliegt,
ist auch das Empfinden für den richtigen Raum, das
richtige Haus unterschiedlich (Kap. 4). Terence Turner
hat die prägnante Formel des “social skin” vorgeschla-
gen. Damit drückt er aus, daß Kleidung wie auch Häuser
Artefakte sind, die den Ausdruck sozialer Zugehörigkeit
ermöglichen, und die zugleich die Dimension einer
sozialen Identität oder einer gesellschaftlichen Maske
annehmen. (The Social Skin. In: J. Cherfas [ed.], Not
Work Alone. Beverly Hills 1980). Das Haus ist ein
Reflex der Erfahrungen von Grundformen. Der Kreis als
architektonische Form ist danach ein Abbild der Mutter-
brust, Drei- und Viereck sind davon abgeleitete Formen.
Das Haus insgesamt wird so zum Ort der Entspannung,
auch wenn bestimmte Teile und bestimmte Zeiten da-
von ausgenommen sind (Kap. 5). Das Haus vermittelt
Sicherheit und Geborgenheit, so wie es entwicklungs-
psychologisch der ersten vorgeburtlichen Wahrnehmung
entspricht. Aus dieser Sicherheit heraus ist das Haus
auch die strukturierende Kraft der sozialen Integration,
des Empfindens von Distanz und Nähe, horizontaler
und vertikaler Differenzierung. Dieser Gedanke ist nicht
neu und wurde in differenzierter Form von Hillier
und Hanson (The Social Logic of Space. Cambridge
1985: 150 ff.) ausgedrückt. Hillier und Hanson haben
das Verdienst, an einer Reihe von konkreten Beispielen
soziale Restriktionen von verschiedenen Hausformen
belegt zu haben. Verschiedene soziale Lebensformen,
verschiedene Auffassungen von Familie sind demzufol-
ge auch die Grundlage der Typologie der Hausformen:
Enger an die soziale Gruppe gebundene Menschen leben
demzufolge in offenen Strukturen, “Europäer” dagegen
tsolieren sich mehr (Kap. 6). So wie Familiengröße
und Hausform einander bedingen, so sind bestimmte
Hausformen auch stärker in das öffentliche Leben in-
tegriert. Oft handelt es sich um bestimmte Teile des
Hauses, zu denen die Öffentlichkeit Zutritt hat. Typisch
für solche privaten und zugleich öffentlichen Häuser
Slnd Übergangsbereiche (Kap. 7).
Der gute Geschmack wird dem Autor zufolge durch
bas Geburtshaus geprägt. Die Ästhetik der richtigen
Earben, der Helligkeit, der Proportionen, der richtigen
IHöbel entspricht dem im Haus der Kindheit erfahrenen
und folgt einem Schema des goût national (Kap. 8).
h*1 Anschluß an diese These ist folgende Frage an
ben Autor zu richten: Wenn “der Russe”, “der Slave”
°der “der Marokkaner” tatsächlich durch die Form des
Elternhauses in seinem sens du beau geprägt wurde
^4), wie ändert sich dann Geschmack, warum gilt dann
Heues als schick? In der ethnologischen Debatte ist die
Existenz eines goût national eine nicht haltbare These,
and viele auch ethnographisch untersuchte Formen des
*vulturwandels belegen, daß das Empfinden der richti-
§en Form komplexeren Regeln folgt als der nationaler
Zugehörigkeit. Häuser sind nicht nur Maßstab des guten
Heschmacks, sondern auch Medien spiritueller Kommu-
nikation. Viele Grundformen von Häusern, wie Kreuze,
Anthropos 96.2001
Kreise oder Spiralen gelten in den jeweiligen Kulturen
zugleich als Schutzzeichen. Überhaupt ist das Haus eine
école du sacré, auch wenn diese Bedeutung sich den
Bewohnern nur impliziert, unterhalb der Schwelle der
bewußten Wahrnehmung mitteilt. Richtiges und falsches
Handeln, Ethik und soziale Normen internalisieren die
Bewohner durch Form, Art und Kontinuität der Häuser
(Kap. 9).
Häuser sind aber keine perfekten Schöpfungen, son-
dern bedürfen der ständigen Reparatur oder gar des
Neubaus. In solchen Situationen ist es das Wissen der
Handwerker, das die Eigenart der Häuser reproduziert,
so wie in der modernen Gesellschaft erst die bricola-
ge aus einer Unterkunft ein harmonisches und bedeu-
tungsvolles Heim macht. Der Autor versucht in diesem
Zusammenhang eine Gegenüberstellung der langlebigen
Häuser des Abendlandes, wo die christliche Religion
Beständigkeit zu einer zentralen Tugend erklärt, und
der zerbrechlichen, von Naturgewalten immer wieder
zerstörten und wiederaufgebauten Häuser des Fernen
Ostens, wo der Buddhismus eine fatalistische Haltung
begünstigt (Kap. 10). Überhaupt wird soziale Ordnung
von Häusern reflektiert und vorgeben: Symmetrien, so-
ziale und räumliche Schichtungen und auch Asymme-
trien zwischen rechts und links, Männern und Frauen
werden zuerst im Haus der Kindheit erfahren und dann
als universelle Ordnung der Gesellschaft verinnerlicht.
Häuser sind Metaphern auf den eigenen Körper, aber zu-
gleich auch auf die Körperlichkeit der Gesellschaft. Der
Autor verweist dabei auf das bekannte ethnographische
Beispiel der Dogon in Westafrika, wo die Anordnung
der Häuser in einer Ortschaft Haupt, Körper und Glied-
maßen eines menschlichen Körpers entspricht (116).
Dabei fehlt allerdings ein Verweis auf die Tatsache,
daß die Bergsiedlungen der Dogon heute zum großen
Teil leer stehen, und die Menschen neue, ganz anders
strukturierte und besser zugängliche Ortschaften in der
Ebene gegründet haben.
Diese “Sprache der Topographie”, wie der Autor es
formuliert, muß durch den richtigen Gebrauch in einer
Gesellschaft erst erlernt werden. Sie umfaßt nicht nur
die räumliche Orientierung, sondern auch die Zuweisung
von Wertigkeiten: Licht, Geräusch und Geruch sind
mit bestimmten Plätzen verbunden und werden so zu
unauslöschlichen Prägungen (Kap. 11). Das gleiche gilt
für den Rhythmus von Arbeit und Ruhe, Mahlzeiten
und anderen Aktivitäten, die kulturabhängig vorgegeben
sind. Dabei geht es nicht nur um den Tagesablauf, wäh-
rend dem zu bestimmten Zeitpunkten einzelne Dinge
aktualisiert werden, sondern auch um den Jahreskalen-
der, mit seinen Perioden intensiverer oder geringerer
Arbeit, und den Festen, für die es jeweils bestimmte
Plätze, bestimmte Geräusche und Gerüche gibt. Das
Haus interpretiert oder übersetzt die Art und Weise, wie
die Kultur die Zeit in Perioden aufteilt (Kap. 12). Häuser
bestimmen aber nicht nur die individuelle Fähigkeit des
Empfindens, sondern geben auch Raum zum Ausdruck
sozialen Zusammenhalts (Kap. 13).
Im letzten Abschnitt (Kap. 14 und 15) versucht der
Autor, die Transformation der tradierten normativen
296
Rezensionen
Funktionen des Hauses in der industrialisierten Ge-
sellschaft aufzuzeigen. Aus den Traditionen werden
demzufolge Regeln, die sich zunächst in Utopien und
Idealen vom richtigen Wohnen niederschlagen. Gene-
ralstabsmäßig geplante Orte, wie z. B. Karlsruhe, sind
Ausdruck solcher Utopien von sozialer Ordnung und
Hausbau. Aus dem 19. Jh. gibt es eine Reihe von
Arbeitersiedlungen, für die Mindestnormen für Wohn-
oder Schlafbereiche als verbindliche Richtlinien galten.
Gefängnis- und Krankenhausarchitektur sind Bereiche,
in denen Baunormen sich weitestgehend durchgesetzt
haben. Im Bereich des Städtebaus verweist der Autor
auf den Baron Haussmann, der um die Mitte des 19.
Jhs. das Stadtbild von Paris radikal modernisieren ließ.
Postmoderne Architektur steht im Widerspruch gegen
die so geschaffene Gleichförmigkeit und stellt individu-
elle Freiräume zur Gestaltung des Wohnraumes in den
Vordergrund (vgl. für einen Überblick über Haussmann
und die postmodernen Gegenthesen D. Harvey’s “The
Condition of Postmodernity” [Oxford 1990: 39-118]).
Normen sind nicht mehr verbindlich und stehen gegen-
über dem Bedürfnis nach Identifikation jedenfalls im
Hintergrund.
“Demeure mémoire” ist ein Essay, ein provozieren-
der Versuch über die Dimension der Objektbedeutungen
von Häusern. Mit der Form ist vielleicht auch die
oft sehr knappe Ausführung zu erklären, der wichtige
Hinweise auf englischsprachige Standardwerke fehlen
(z. B. Hillier and Hanson 1985; Harvey 1990; J. Hanson,
Decoding Homes and Houses. Cambridge 1998). Proble-
matischer noch erscheint die Bezugsebene der im Text
enthaltenen Beispiele. Neben den für den Rezensenten
nachvollziehbaren ethnographischen Beispielen werden
Beschreibungen von Häusern aus literarischen Werken
von G. Bachelard, J. Verne, H. de Balzac, M. Proust
und anderen auf gleicher Ebene genannt. Sind litera-
rische Dokumente Zeugen gesellschaftlicher Realität?
Oder wird hier nicht einfach die Leistung der künstle-
rischen Verdichtung durch die Literaten unterschlagen?
Die fragwürdige Parallelisierung von Romantexten und
ethnographischen Berichten bleibt für den Autor wohl
nur deshalb unproblematisch, weil beides immer wieder
nur illustrativ herangezogen wird. Beim Skizzieren der
Verästelungen von Zeichen und Bedeutung des Hauses
und des Wohnens beschränkt sich der Autor auf die
theoretische Ebene. Die im Text enthaltenen Belege
haben nicht mehr als illustrativen Charakter. Diese
methodische Schwäche, die nur mit der ausführlichen
Darstellung eines Fallbeispieles hätte umgangen werden
können, reduziert die Überzeugungskraft der ansonsten
interessanten Thesen des Autors. Hans Peter Hahn
Platte, Editha: Frauen in Amt und Würden. Hand-
lungsspielräume muslimischer Frauen im ländlichen
Nordostnigeria. Frankfurt: Brandes & Apsel Verlag,
2000. 290 pp. ISBN 3-86099-296-1. Preis: DM 39,80
Die Lebenswelt und Alltagsstrategien ranghöher Ka-
nuri-Frauen stehen im Betrachtungszentrum dieser Pu-
blikation, die 1998 an der Universität Frankfurt als
Dissertation eingereicht wurde. Darin legt Editha Platte
die Ergebnisse ihrer Forschungen dar, die sie zwischen
1991 und 1996 im Ort Musune im ländlichen Nordosten
Nigerias durchführte. Thematisch und institutionell ist
die Arbeit eingebunden in den Sonderforschungsbereich
“Kulturentwicklung und Sprachgeschichte im Natur-
raum Westafrikanische Savanne” der Universität Frank-
furt.
Aus diesem Kontext ergibt sich die thematische
Schwerpunktsetzung der Untersuchung sowie die Glie-
derung dieser Veröffentlichung. Denn neben einer detail-
lierten Darlegung der Geschichte des Gebietes und der
Dynastie in Musuhe widmet sie sich der heutigen Be-
deutung von Würdenträgerinnen, die eine vorkoloniale
Ämterhierarchie repräsentieren. Auch die Einteilung der
Kapitel spiegelt diese thematische Ausrichtung: Einem
kurzen Überblick über den Forschungsstand zu rangho-
hen Frauen in Afrika und einer Erläuterung der Feld-
forschungssituation folgt ein Kapitel zur historischen
Entwicklung von Macht- und Herrschaftsformen im
Kanuri-Gebiet, wobei die Autorin zwar die aktuelle
politische Situation erwähnt, sich aber vor allem auf
die vorkoloniale und koloniale Phase konzentriert. Hin-
gegen steht das dritte Kapitel ganz im Zeichen einer
aktuellen Situationsbeschreibung des Ortes Musune, wo-
bei ökologische, infrastrukturelle und demographische
Grundinformationen illustriert werden. Gleichzeitig er-
läutert die Autorin ökonomische sowie gesellschaftli-
che Zusammenhänge. Im vierten Kapitel vermittelt die
Verfasserin Einblicke in die sozialen und verwandt-
schaftlichen Strukturen innerhalb der Familie des mai,
des lokalen Machthabers. Unterschiedliche Ämter und
Funktionen ranghöher Frauen stehen im Betrachtungs-
mittelpunkt des fünften Kapitels, welches vor allem
die Kriterien und die Zeremonien zur Titelverleihung
beschreibt. Die Leistung der Ethnologin besteht hier
in der Chronologisierung und den zeitlichen Längs-
schnitten, die sie anhand mündlicher Überlieferungen,
biographischer Angaben und einer detaillierten Lite-
raturauswertung erstellt. Historische Hintergründe und
Veränderungen durch innergesellschaftliche Verschie-
bungen, koloniale und nachkoloniale Einflüsse bilden
auch die Eckpunkte des sechsten Kapitels, das sehr
genau die religiösen, dynastischen und administrativen
Dimensionen der Frauenämter untersucht. Ein regionaler
Vergleich erlaubt es, die Lokalstudie zu spezifizieren
und die Reichweite der Arbeit zu reflektieren. Im Epilog
beschreibt Editha Platte sehr persönlich ihre eigene
“Turbanisation”, d. h. Titelverleihung, wodurch sie die
Grundaussagen ihrer materialreichen Analyse bestätigen
kann und ihre Rolle während des Forschungsprozesses
eine besondere Note erhält.
Wenn man nach den Erkenntnisgewinnen dieser Stu-
die fragt, so ist neben der historischen Schwerpunkt-
setzung vor allem die außergewöhnliche Thematik und
Fragestellung der Ethnologin hervorzuheben. Die Aus-
einandersetzung mit den Ämtern und Einflußmöglich-
keiten ranghöher Frauen in einem islamisch geprägten
ländlichen Raum Westafrikas ist zweifellos ein wichti-
ger Beitrag zur ethnologischen Forschung. Dies betrifft
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
297
insbesondere die Tatsache, daß die Autorin sich der
Kanuri-Gesellschaft Nordnigerias zuwendet, gerade weil
über sie - wie die Autorin zu Recht betont -, bislang
kaum Informationen zur Situation der Frauen vorliegen.
Wünschenswert und bereichernd wäre es gewesen,
wenn die mit dem Status der Amtsträgerinnen ver-
bundenen Einflußmöglichkeiten an konkreten Entschei-
dungsprozessen und -konflikten veranschaulicht worden
wären. Dies betrifft vor allem die Interessenvertretung
von Frauen; denn die stärkere Berücksichtigung der
Differenzen und Spannungen zwischen ranghohen Ver-
treterinnen der lokalen Elite und allen anderen Frau-
en in der lokalen Gesellschaft hätte neue Impulse für
die Analyse geben können. Darüber hinaus wäre ei-
ne abschließende Diskussion der eingangs skizzierten
theoretischen Einbettung der Arbeit in die ethnologische
Frauen- und Geschlechterforschung zur übergeordneten
Reflexion der empirischen Erkenntnisse sinnvoll gewe-
sen.
Trotz dieser kritischen Einwände legt Editha Platte
mit ihrer Publikation eine fundierte Auseinandersetzung
mit den institutioneilen Rahmenbedingungen und der
lokalen Bedeutung von Amts- und Titelträgerinnen im
ländlichen Nordosten Nigerias vor, deren historische
Tiefe und regionale Vergleiche auch für weitere Studien
über afrikanische Frauen “in Amt und Würden” wichtige
Impulse geben könnten. Rita Schäfer
Rapport, Nigel: Transcendent Individual. Towards a
Literary and Liberal Anthropology. London: Routledge,
1997. 220 pp. ISBN 0-415-16966-6. Price: £ 45.00
Contemporary social and cultural anthropology has
^any faces. These become visible if one is trying to
define what anthropology is about and what anthro-
pologists really do. The case of anthropology makes
clear that cultural reality is not simply represented but
ls in fact grasped only by the way in which human
subjects experiencing the world live that reality. What
anthropology is really all about is to render mutually
mtelligible the different ways of experiencing the human
World.
The production of books shows definitely that an-
thropology has many faces with no doubts. However,
the face shown by Nigel Rapport in his “Transcen-
dent Individual” is one of the more interesting. And
c°ntroversial at the same time. I would like to stress
ln the beginning that Nigel Rapport has written an
Unusual book, hardly put to trial of traditional review,
t contains a set of ten essays preceded by the piece
hfled “Manifesto,” with essential to the idea of all
Support’s considerations subtitle, “Towards a Liberal
^nd Literary Appreciation of the Conscious and Creative
udividual.” So constructed “a book of essays” bears
the theme of individuality, and especially the links
etween individuality and the writing of social science,
he author states: “Here is a book of essays intent on
a s°cial-scientific appreciation of the individual who
|^akes himself or herself ex nihilo and in an originary
ashion - who comes to be, who achieves a conscious-
^nth
ness, outwith and beyond the sociocultural environment
in which he or she was bom and has been social-
ised/enculturated” (1). The individual subject Rapport
addressess is both the self of the social scientist and
the self of his or her informants. Rapport investigates
both, but also the necessary relationship between the
two in the origination of anthropological data. For him
the individual is a liberal-humanist subject, conceived
as seat of consciousness and creativity, as guarantor
of meaning. This construction is exactly contrary to
the majority of schools in social science, including
anthropology. A dissolved, decentred, and deconstructed
individual actor has been developed by the adherents of
Durkheim’s concept of “social facts,” structuralists and
poststructuralists. “Transcendent Individual” is written
against these schools of thought and predominant forms
of sociology and sociocultural anthropology adopting
this point of view. The author prefers to adopt another
style of thinking, being a broadly understood “literary
anthropology.” In the terms of textual heritage which
he claims for his book, the following names are of
special importance: F. Nietzsche, E. M. Forster, J. S.
Mill, G. Bateson, E. Leach, J. Fernandez, A. Cohen, G.
Steiner, and J. Berger. In addition, Richard Rorty has to
be mentioned, because Rorty’s project “is to reconcile
the writings of Nietzsche and Mill: to show that the
egoistic and aesthetic philosophy of Nietzsche and the
public-minded and liberal philosophy of Mill can be
made to work together in the life of one person, become
that person’s life-philosophy” (9).
In this book a number of themes interweave them-
selves but also represent different ways of approaching
the same phenomenon: the individual writing of socio-
cultural reality which is “individuality” in its core. In
chapter 1 Rapport is trying to enumerate a number of
significant ways in which the world becomes imper-
sonal in social science. There are special “impulses”
to construct the world as a united entity: cognitive,
social, religious, objective, and negatory. All of them
lead toward generalization. Rapport argues that the only
real knowledge of the world is individual and particular,
and of this social science should treat. All arguments
used by him may be pulled together under the title
of “methodological individualism.” The main goal of
chapter 2 is to show that it is possible to create a
way for himself or herself be rewriting the writing of
anthropological “others” to outline - in this process
of recontextualisation (Rorty’s idea) - a developmental
relationship between social structure and individual cre-
ativity. We can read that “Imagination is the key in this
portrayal: the key resource in consciousness, the key to
human existence” (33).
Chapter 3 indicates that individual narratives are a
mode of thought which gives meaning to experience.
By writing, a fundamental kind of narration, Rapport
understands a metaexperience, the considered ordering
of experience in symbolic form, and the conscious
production of meaning. This is not only typical for our
society, but - as Victor Turner puts - it there were
never any innocent, unconscious savages, living in a
•ropos 96.2001
298
Rezensionen
time of unreflective and instinctive harmony. Human
beings - Rapport agrees - are all and always sophis-
ticated, conscious, and reflexive, capable of laughter
at our own institutions. After reviewing the role of
Nietzsche and Geertz in the process of “literary turn”
in anthropology, the author concludes that there are
individuals experiencing cultural and linguistic forms,
and through this action creating meaning in terms of
their unique biographies and personal histories of “in-
trapsychic strategies and practices” (63). In other words,
every interpretation of culture gives onto individual
worldviews and construction of meaning. Meanings are
psychologically particular and diverse. Chapter 4 goes to
the conclusion that the study of social life and the study
of storytelling might focus in common on a fundamental
feature of the human condition which is a relationship
between movement and identity, and the crucial place
of movement in the acquisition and representation of
knowledge. Anthropology becomes, and it is in the light
of Rapport’s argumentation, “iterology.”
In chapter 5 (about the Malinowskian “Diary”) and
6 (“Writing Fieldnotes”) the reader is approaching the
more “empirical” part of essays. Especially important
is chapter 7, “Domino Worlds. At Home on the Domi-
noes-Table in Wanet,” which shows how the theoretical
premises “work” in cultural context. To play the lan-
guagegame in Wanet is to call the world to order in a
rather particular way: “even when played among fellow
Wanet adepts, precisely the same doubts, uncertainties,
disorders creep into the system of conceptualisation
as in other symbol-languages” (139). The last three
essays continue this style of reasoning rising successive
arguments for the discursive and individual character
of sociocultural representations. Everything in culture
depends on individuality, concludes Rapport his defense
of liberal individualism.
As said in the beginning of this review, “Tran-
scendent Individual” is a very personal book, a kind
of “confession” and manifesto. Nigel Rapport uses
philosophical, literary, and anthropological concepts and
data, and wants to show that subjective anthropology
has to be written in celebration of individuality. He
strongly argues for the commitment of the individual’s
consciousness to a liberal agenda, and appreciates the
individual self as a methodological, moral, pragmatic,
and aesthetic subject. By juxtaposing literary and philo-
sophical tradition against the mainstream “objective”
anthropology, he actually offers his own “personal”
vision of social science. A reader could or could not
agree with it. It depends on the individual decision, of
course. WojciechJ. Burszta
Reimann, Ralf Ingo: Der Schamane sieht eine Hexe
- der Ethnologe sieht nichts. Menschliche Informations-
verarbeitung und ethnologische Forschung. Frankfurt:
Campus Verlag, 1998. 333 pp. ISBN 3-593-36115-9.
(Campus Forschung, 770) Preis: DM 74,00
Interdisziplinäre Kooperation, insbesondere zwi-
schen Kultur- bzw. Sozialwissenschaften und Naturwis-
senschaften, wird zunehmend gefordert und gefördert.
Doch die fächerübergreifende Zusammenarbeit wird
häufig dadurch erschwert, daß die Vertreter von Fächern,
die sich eigentlich ergänzen, zu wenig über die Ziele,
Ansätze, Methoden und Erkenntnisse der jeweils ande-
ren Disziplin wissen sowie häufig auch die jeweilige
“Fachsprache” nicht zu entschlüsseln vermögen. Hier
könnten Arbeiten, die primär darauf abzielen, zwischen
verschiedenen Disziplinen zu übersetzen, d. h. die jewei-
ligen Forschungsgegenstände wechselseitig transparent
zu machen, eine wertvolle Verständnishilfe bieten und
hierdurch in bedeutsamer Weise den interdisziplinären
Dialog fördern. Leider sind derartige Arbeiten nach wie
vor rar. Eine lobenswerte Ausnahme stellt das vorlie-
gende Buch des Ethnologen Ralf Ingo Reimann dar, der
es sich zur Aufgabe gemacht hat, zwischen Ethnologie
und Kognitionswissenschaften zu vermitteln. Reimann
hat die Erkenntnisse und Ansätze der modernen Kog-
nitionswissenschaften, jenem interdisziplinären Konglo-
merat aus künstlicher Intelligenzforschung, kognitiver
Linguistik, Philosophie des Geistes, Neurophysiologie
sowie in den USA auch der Ethnologie, in einer Art
und Weise aufgearbeitet und aufbereitet, die Ethnologen
sowie anderen Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaftlern einen
guten ersten Zugang zu dem Forschungsgegenstand der
Kognitionswissenschaften ermöglicht.
Zur Einführung entfaltet Reimann unter Bezugnahme
auf einen ethnographischen Text von Oppitz (Scha-
manen, Hexen, Ethnographen. In: H. P. Duerr [Hrsg.],
Der Wissenschaftler und das Irrationale, Bd. 1. Frank-
furt 1981) ein für Ethnologen relevantes Szenario: An-
läßlich eines schamanistischen Initiationsrituals erspäht
der nepalesische Schamane Kathka eine Hexe, der den
Schamanen beobachtende Ethnologe (Oppitz) dagegen
sieht nichts, bzw. lediglich den sich verändert gebär-
denden Schamanen Kathka. Das Bild, das Reimann hier
entstehen läßt, rührt an einen neuralgischen Punkt der
Ethnologie, nämlich die Frage, wie man mit “überna-
türlichen Phänomenen” respektive “anderen Realitäts-
auffassungen” umgeht. Die Einstellungen, die das Gros
von Ethnologen gegenüber scheinbar unerklärlichen Er-
eignissen einnimmt, hält Reimann für unbefriedigend.
In der Regel, so argumentiert er, würden Ethnologen
Hexen- und Geistervorstellungen als Teile indigener
Theorien zur Erklärung der Welt und ihrer Erscheinun-
gen deuten und sich darauf beschränken, diese möglichst
akribisch zu dokumentieren, ohne dazu Stellung zu
nehmen, ob es Hexen gibt oder nicht, bzw. ob und was
der Schamane gesehen hat. Diese Frage, so lautet sein
Vorwurf, könne die Ethnologie nicht befriedigend erklä-
ren, da sie sich bisher vornehmlich in ethnographischen
Partikularien verzettelt habe, anstatt sich einer weitaus
wesentlicheren, übergreifenden Fragestellung zuzuwen-
den, nämlich der Aufgabe, “diejenigen mentalen Fä-
higkeiten transparent zu machen, die allen Menschen
ermöglichen, eine Muttersprache zu erwerben und die
sozialen und kulturellen Eigenheiten jener Gesellschaft
zu verinnerlichen, in die sie hineingeboren werden” (17)-
Hier drängen sich Zweifel auf: m.E. ließe sich allenfalls
dem Teilbereich der Kognitiven Ethnologie eine derar-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
299
tige Aufgabenstellung zuschreiben, keinesfalls aber der
Ethnologie in ihrer Gesamtheit. Ganz abgesehen davon,
daß die herkömmliche Ethnologie nicht über die theore-
tischen und methodischen Voraussetzungen verfügt, um
die “mentalen Fähigkeiten” des Menschen transparent zu
machen. Einem derartigen Erkenntnisziel kann sie sich
nur in Zusammenarbeit mit den Disziplinen annähern,
deren primärer Forschungsgegenstand die mentalen Fä-
higkeiten des Menschen sind. Reimann hat diese Be-
merkung allerdings nicht en passant gemacht, sondern
sie besonders betont und zum Leitthema des gesamten 1.
Teiles seiner Buches erhoben. Durch kritische Reflexion
der Praxis ethnologischen Forschens, Theoretisierens
und Publizierens versucht er, diese seine fundamentale
Kritik an der Ethnologie zu untermauern. Dieser Teil des
Buches ist, um es unumwunden auszudrücken, außeror-
dentlich platt geraten. So handelt Reimann den ethnogra-
phischen Forschungs- und Erkenntnisprozeß sowie die
Problematik ethnographischer Repräsentation ab, ohne
die ausführlichen “Writing Culture” Debatten, die diese
Problembereiche auf subtile Weise durchleuchtet haben,
auch nur zu erwähnen. Desgleichen reduziert er die
Diskussion ethnologischer Theorienbildung (auf insge-
samt 5 1/2 Seiten) hauptsächlich auf die Leitfiguren Rad-
cliffe-Brown und Lévi-Strauss bezogen, wobei er diese
Beschränkung in keinster Weise plausibel zu machen
versucht. Reimann zeichnet hier ein sehr enges, deut-
lich veraltetes und verzerrtes Bild des Faches, das der
Vielschichtigkeit der modernen Ethnologie nicht gerecht
wird. Diese erschöpft sich keineswegs in theoriearmen,
kulturrelativistischen Regionalstudien, sondern umfaßt
zahlreiche Richtungen (wie z. B. die psychologische,
linguistische, politische Ethnologie, die Wirtschafts- und
Ernährungsethnologie, die ethnologische Sozialisations-,
Emotions- und Geschlechterforschung etc.), deren über-
greifendes Ziel jeweils das Erkennen der Universalien
des menschlichen Lebens und Verhaltens in all den
beobachtbaren regionalspezifischen Partikularien ist. In
aH diesen Teildisziplinen gibt es komplexe theoretische
s°wie methodische Ansätze. Ein entscheidendes Man-
ko dieses ersten Buchteiles liegt m.E. darin, daß Rei-
^ann sich hier nahezu ausschließlich auf Dan Sper-
bers Schriften “On Anthropological Knowledge” von
1982 (!) bezieht. Sperbers damalige Überlegungen zu
den Bedingungen ethnologischer Erkenntnisgewinnung
sowie -Vermittlung sind in den nachfolgenden fachinter-
nen Debatten noch wesentlich erweitert und verfeinert
Worden. Angesichts der umfangreichen selbstkritischen
Literatur, die Fachvertreter in den vergangenen beiden
Dekaden hervorgebracht haben, muten Reimanns Refle-
xionen etwas dürftig und wenig tiefgründig an, vor allen
Gingen aber fügen sie den allseits bekannten Diskussio-
nen keinerlei neue Aspekte hinzu. Auch sein Überblick
über die Entwicklung der Kognitiven Ethnologie, mit
dem er einen Übergang zum zweiten, der menschli-
chen Informationsverarbeitung gewidmeten Teil seines
°uches schafft, läßt einige wichtige neuere Werke (z. B.
K D’ Andrade and C. Strauss [eds.], Human Motives and
Cultural Models. Cambridge 1992; R. D’Andrade, The
Development of Cognitive Anthropology. Cambridge
Vnthropos 96.2001
1995; B. Shore, Culture in Mind. New York 1996; C.
Strauss and N. Quinn, A Cognitive Theory of Cultural
Meaning. Cambridge 1997) unberücksichtigt.
Doch es wäre unfair, die Besprechung an diesem
Schwachpunkt des Buches festzumachen. Dem ethnolo-
gisch geschulten Leser sei geraten, diesen einführenden
Part einfach zu überspringen und mit der Lektüre auf
S. 74, dem Beginn des zweiten und eigentlichen Haupt-
teils des Buches, fortzufahren. Dieser rund 200 Seiten
umfassende Teil über “menschliche Informationsverar-
beitung” ist in drei Kapitel untergliedert. Das erste dieser
Kapitel ist den physiologischen Grundlagen der Wahr-
nehmung gewidmet, wobei sich der Autor vornehmlich
auf die beiden Wahrnehmungsformen konzentriert, die
für das menschliche Leben besonders wichtig sind:
die visuelle Wahrnehmung und die Wahrnehmung von
Sprache. Der Leser erhält einen Einblick in die kom-
plizierten, hierarchisch organisierten Informationsverar-
beitungsprozesse, die durch externe Stimuli der Sinnes-
organe ausgelöst werden. Nur ein kleiner Prozentsatz
der vielfältigen “inputs”, die ein Mensch durch seine
Sinnesorgane aufnimmt, werden so komplex, daß sie
die Schwelle zur bewußten Wahrnehmung passieren.
Die Grenze zwischen Wahrnehmung und konzeptuellem
Verstehen ist schwer zu ziehen. Wo endet Wahrnehmung
und wo beginnt Denken? Was ist Denken überhaupt?
Was geschieht beim Denken? Welche neurophysiolo-
gischen Strukturen und Prozesse liegen menschlichem
Denken zugrunde?
Diesen spannenden Fragen ist das 5. und umfang-
reichste Kapitel (150 Seiten) des Buches gewidmet,
das die schlichte Überschrift “Denken” trägt. In die-
sem Teil steckt sicherlich die größte Anstrengung und
Leistung des Autors, nämlich die umfangreiche und
schwierige Materie der vielfältigen kognitionswissen-
schaftlichen Untersuchungen, Erkenntnisse und Annah-
men über menschliches Denken in komprimierter und
dennoch gut verständlicher Form darzulegen. Schritt
für Schritt führt Reimann den Leser tiefer in den
Dschungel der Kognition. Zunächst macht er mit den
drei Grundformaten gedanklicher Repräsentation (Vor-
stellungen bzw. “images”, Propositionen, mentale Mo-
delle) vertraut, die in den Kognitionswissenschaften
voneinander unterschieden werden, und expliziert die
differenten Formen des Denkens, die mit diesen gedank-
lichen Repräsentationsformen korrelieren. Nach dieser
Einführung in die Grundbausteine des Denkens wendet
Reimann sich der kognitiven “Architektur”, d. h. den
angeborenen mentalen Gedächtnissystemen zu, welche
die unabdingbare Voraussetzung für Informationsver-
arbeitung, für Denkprozesse bilden. Er erläutert die
neurophysiologischen Grundlagen und Besonderheiten
der drei basalen Gedächtnissysteme, des sensorischen,
des Langzeit- und Kurzzeitgedächtnisses, und be-
schreibt, wie Informationen in die einzelnen Gedächtnis-
systeme gelangen, auf welche Weise und für wie lange
sie dort abgespeichert werden. Für das Denken stellen
das sensorische sowie das Langzeitgedächtnis lediglich
Informationsspeicher dar, das Denken selbst spielt sich
im Kurzzeitgedächtnis ab. Im letzten Abschnitt des
300
Rezensionen
Kapitels befaßt sich Reimann dann mit der komplexen
Thematik des “Denkens als Prozeß in der realen Zeit”
(194). Er skizziert die zentralen Gedankenprozesse, die
voneinander unterscheidbar sind, und betrachtet sukzes-
sive ungerichtetes Denken (u. a. Träume) sowie gerich-
tete Gedankenprozesse, Logik und nichtdemonstrative
Schlußfolgerungen, demonstrative Gedankeninhalte und
Metakognition.
In dem abschließenden 6. Kapitel, das nicht mehr
als 12 Seiten umfaßt, präsentiert Reimann fünf Fall-
beispiele devianter menschlicher Informationsverarbei-
tung. Dieses Kapitel erhebt nicht den Anspruch, das
Thema veränderter Bewußtseinszustände erschöpfend zu
behandeln, sondern ist lediglich als knapper Ausblick
konzipiert, der auf die zentrale Bedeutung hinweisen
soll, die psychodynamischen Aspekten und Emotionen
in bezug auf Kognitionen zukommt. Denn es sind oft-
mals psychische Aspekte, die den “normalen” Ablauf
menschlicher Informationsverarbeitung stören.
Der gesamte zweite Teil, d. h. der Hauptteil des Bu-
ches, ist m. E. gut gelungen. Er ist klar und einleuchtend
gegliedert, vor allem aber versteht Reimann es, auch
sehr komplizierte Sachverhalte auf eine anschauliche,
durch viele Beispiele und Sprachbilder aufgelockerte
Weise darzustellen, so daß die Lektüre niemals ermü-
dend wird, sondern stets spannend bleibt. Am Ende des
Buches kehrt Reimann zu seinem Einführungsszenario
zurück und zieht in bezug auf die Hexenwahrnehmung
des Schamanen Kathka das Fazit, daß es unerheblich
ist, ob Hexen ontologisch existieren oder nicht, da
die elementaren Ingredienzien menschlicher Wirklich-
keit stets mentale Repräsentationen sind. “Für Kogni-
tionswissenschaftler unterscheidet sich Kathkas Hexen-
wahrnehmung in vieler Hinsicht nicht von gewöhnli-
cher Perzeption. Die für naive Realisten verblüffen-
de Antwort aus der Perspektive der Kognitionswissen-
schaft zielt nicht auf das Ungewöhnliche einer Hexen-
wahrnehmung, sondern darauf, daß jegliche menschli-
che Wirklichkeit eine Konstruktion, ein Gehirnzustand,
ist. Kein Kognitionswissenschaftler käme auf die Idee,
die Hexe woanders zu suchen als in Kathkas Kopf’
(273).
Trotz der Mängel im ersten Teil kann das Buch un-
eingeschränkt als Einstiegslektüre für alle an den Kog-
nitionswissenschaften und dem Forschungsbereich der
Kognitiven Ethnologie Interessierten empfohlen werden.
Durch seine verständliche Darstellungsweise eignet es
sich auch für Studierende in den ersten Semestern.
Birgitt Röttger-Rössler
Richter, Sabine: Das Powwow-Fest bei den Black-
foot - Ein Ausdruck indianischer Identität. Ulm: Abtei-
lung Anthropologie, Universität Ulm, 1998. 81 pp. ISSN
1434-2219. (Forschungsberichte, 3)
Das Bild der heutigen nordamerikanischen Indianer
wird besonders geprägt durch die farbenprächtig und
aufwendig kostümierten Teilnehmer der als Powwows
bekannten Tanzveranstaltungen. Da sie bisher nur selten
Gegenstand wissenschaftlicher Publikationen waren, ist
eine weitere Veröffentlichung zu diesem Thema sehr
zu begrüßen. Die von Richter vorgelegte Untersuchung
gliedert sich in 7 größere Abschnitte, denen die Autorin
Vorbemerkungen und Begriffsdefinitionen voranstellt.
Der erste Abschnitt umfaßt eine generelle Einfüh-
rung in die Materie, die Vorgefundene Quellenlage, die
Zielsetzung dieser Arbeit sowie Angaben zum Ablauf
der Feldforschung, auf der sie basiert. Aus letzteren
erfährt man beispielsweise, daß die Entscheidung zugun-
sten der Blackfoot, einer Ethnie im nördlichen Plains-
und Präriegebiet, durch einen Studienaufenthalt (Native
American Studies) der Autorin in Montana und durch
bei einem früheren Besuch entstandene Kontakte fiel.
Während und nach dem Studium 1993-94 und einem
erneuten Aufenthalt 1996 beobachtete Richter insgesamt
14 Powwows, fertigte Bild- und Tonmaterial über sie an
und interviewte Teilnehmer und andere Personen.
Im zweiten Abschnitt werden unter dem Aspekt
indianischer Identität seit dem 18. Jh. verschiedene
Themenbereiche angesprochen. Richter beginnt mit ei-
ner knappen Einführung zu den Blackfoot im allge-
meinen, bevor sie sich ihren Tänzen widmet. Mehrere
Angaben aus diesen Unterkapiteln müssen jedoch kor-
rigiert werden oder bedürfen zumindest einer weiteren
Erläuterung. Der Autorin zufolge wurde den Blackfoot
das Pferd “etwa um 1730 von den Shoshone vermittelt”
(10) - hier könnte man irrtümlich auf eine Übernahme
des Pferdes von den Shoshone schließen. Aus der von
Richter angegebenen Quelle “The Horse in Blackfoot
Indian Cultures” von John C. Ewers (1955) geht je-
doch eindeutig hervor, daß die damals noch pferdelosen
Blackfoot von berittenen Shoshone angegriffen wurden,
und Ewers wegen der kriegerischen Auseinandersetzun-
gen zwischen den beiden Ethnien eine Übernahme des
Pferdes von den Flathead, Kutenai, Nez Percé oder Gros
Ventre durch die Blackfoot für wahrscheinlicher hält.
Zu kritisieren ist ebenfalls Richters Aussage bezüglich
der Trennung der Piegan in zwei Gruppen, welche sie
aufgrund der Grenzziehung zwischen Kanada und den
USA an das Ende des 19. Jhs. plaziert (11). Obwohl
solche Aussagen in zumeist älterer Literatur über die
Blackfoot zu finden sind und allgemeinere Werke die
Blackfoot nur in die Blood, North Blackfoot und Piegan
untergliedern, verweisen einige neuere Publikationen
auf die Spaltung des letzteren Stamms in eine nördliche
und eine südliche Gruppe zu Beginn des 19. Jhs. Zudem
haben die ab 1850 beginnenden Chroniken (Winter
Counts) der South Piegan wenig mit der zu diesem
Zeitpunkt aktiven Chronik der North Piegan gemein-
Ferner differenzieren zwei Winter Counts der Blood
in einigen Fällen schon in der 1. Hälfte des 19. Jhs.
zwischen den beiden Gruppen. Nach den Angaben der
Autorin kam es beim Sonnentanz zu einer Zusammen-
kunft aller Blackfoot (13). Dieser Punkt wird nicht oft
in der Literatur angesprochen, jedoch existieren auch
hier Hinweise oder direkte Aussagen, daß jeder Stamm
seine eigene Zeremonie abhielt. Außerdem überliefern
mehrere Winter Counts der North Blackfoot und einer
der Blood für 1866 zwei Sonnentanzlager in geringer Di-
stanz zueinander. Eine der Chroniken beschreibt dies als
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
301
besonderes Ereignis, da die beiden genannten Stämme
in der Regel separate Sonnentänze durchführten. Neben
dem Sonnentanz erläutert Richter noch einige Tänze
der Blackfoot ohne religiösen Charakter. Im letzten Teil
dieses Abschnitts stellt die Autorin die Geistertanzbe-
wegung und die Peyote-Religion als panindianische Ent-
wicklungen, in welche die Blackfoot nie stark involviert
waren, kurz vor.
Durch panindianische Charakterzüge zeichnen sich
auch die weit verbreiteten Powwow-Feste aus, denen
sich der dritte Abschnitt ausführlich widmet. Hier be-
ginnt Richter mit der Entwicklungsgeschichte der Tanz-
feste, die schon vor 1950 in den südlichen Plains
unter der Bezeichnung Powwow bekannt waren; im
Anschluß erwähnt sie einige generelle Merkmale dieser
Veranstaltungen. Ein weiteres kleines Unterkapitel be-
faßt sich mit dem Ort des Geschehens - häufig spezielle
Powwow-Arenen oder Sporthallen -, bevor im nächsten
die Eröffnung eines jeden Powwow-Nachmittags und
-Abends, der reglementierte Einzug der Ehrengarde,
Würdenträger und Tänzer auf den Tanzplatz, detailliert
geschildert wird. In der Reihenfolge ihres Einzugs wer-
den im Folgenden die Tanzkategorien, die sich durch
Kleidung, Accessoires und Tanzstil deutlich unterschei-
den, ausführlich beschrieben; anschließend folgen Aus-
führungen zu den Trommelgruppen und den Liedern,
die den akustischen Rahmen liefern. Zum Abschluß des
Abschnitts geht die Autorin kurz auf den weiteren
Ablauf eines Powwows nach dem Einzug der Tänzer
ein.
Nach einer knappen einleitenden Vorstellung über die
Situation der heutigen Blackfoot wendet sich Richter
lrn vierten Abschnitt im besonderen ihren Powwows
2u. In den Mittelpunkt stellt sie die North American
Indian Days, welche alljährlich von den South Piegan
!n Browning, Montana, auf der Blackfeet-Reservation
ausgerichtet werden. Neben Einblicken in die Entste-
hungsgeschichte, die Vorbereitungen und den Platz der
Veranstaltung sowie einem Abriß der Indian Days von
1996 gilt das Augenmerk der Autorin auch nichtobliga-
torischen Zeremonien während eines Powwows wie zur
Namensgebung oder Ehrung einer Person, fakultative
Tänze und Lieder sowie Rahmenereignisse. Ein Grenz-
^echsel beendet den 4. Abschnitt: Die Powwows der
kanadischen Blackfoot sind weitgehend identisch mit
denjenigen der Blackfoot in den USA; einige Unter-
schiede sind jedoch vorhanden. Beispielsweise existiert
eine weitere Tanzkategorie bei den Männern, und die
Veranstaltungen wirken allgemein traditioneller, weil sie
Weniger kommerzialisiert sind und häufiger Blackfoot
gesprochen wird.
Der fünfte Abschnitt behandelt urbane Möglichkeiten
'udianischer Identitätspflege. Durch politische Maßnah-
men in Städte gedrängt, blieben viele Ureinwohner auch
m der Fremde arm, aber aufgrund ihrer Situation ent-
standen intertribale politische Organisationen - Richter
führt hier den National Indian Youth Council (N.I.Y.C.)
und das American Indian Movement (A.I.M.) an. Neben
diesen bestehen weitere stammesübergreifende Vereini-
gungen, Selbsthilfegruppen und Gesellschaften, die der
Anthropos 96.2001
indianischen Stadtbevölkerung beispielsweise in Indian
Centers zur Seite stehen. Außer den Indian Centers
organisieren spezielle Powwow-Clubs die kleineren ur-
banen Tanzfeste und geben indianischen Besuchern wie
Teilnehmern der intertribalen Veranstaltungen die Mög-
lichkeit zur Abgrenzung von Nichtindianern und Pflege
einer indianischen Identität fern der Heimat.
Im sechsten Abschnitt erläutert die Autorin kurz die
Entwicklungsgeschichte des Panindianismus, welcher
unter anderem zu den relativ einheitlichen Powwows
führte. Auf der anderen Seite scheint der Panindianismus
als Anregung zu wirken, Teile der eigenen Stammes-
kultur wiederzubeleben. Die sehr knappe Zusammenfas-
sung, die den siebten Abschnitt ausmacht, bringt auf den
Punkt, daß Powwows nur ein Ausdruck heutiger india-
nischer Identität neben der Fortführung alter Traditionen
auf den Reservationen und den politischen und sozialen
Aktivitäten in den Städten sind.
Insgesamt gesehen hat Richter eine gute Einfüh-
rung in den Powwow-Komplex geliefert, welche durch
die Illustrationen weiter veranschaulicht wird. Einige
Aspekte, die hinsichtlich der indianischen Identität ver-
nachlässigt werden konnten, wurden von der Autorin
kaum thematisiert. Auch andere, nicht direkt mit den
Powwow-Festen in Zusammenhang stehende Bereiche
wurden nur kurz angesprochen, vermittelten jedoch das
themenrelevante Basiswissen. Abgesehen von den be-
mängelten Textstellen des zweiten Abschnitts erweist
sich die Publikation als solide wissenschaftliche Arbeit
mit übersichtlichem Aufbau sowie guter Lesbarkeit und
ist somit empfehlenswert. Dagmar Siebelt
Rowse, Tim: Obliged to Be Difficult. Nugget
Coombs’ Legacy in Indigenous Affairs. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000. 254 pp. ISBN
0-521-77410-1. Price: £ 14.95
This book is part of a larger research endeavour
in which Tim Rowse has attempted “to approach Aus-
tralia’s twentieth century history” through a biography
of Nugget Coombs, one of Australia’s leading public
servants and policy intellectuals from the 1940s to
the early 1990s. As Rowse notes, the focus in this
book is more on “policy development” and Coombs’
contribution to “ideas about good policy” in Indigenous
affairs, than on biography as “career narrative” (7). This
is an appropriate and rewarding focus.
Rowse covers major thematic debates occurring in
Australian Indigenous Affairs from the mid 1960s, as
seen through the actions and involvement of Nugget
Coombs. Most of this action and involvement occurs
in the decade to the mid 1970s, when Coombs was a
member of the Commonwealth government’s appointed
policy troika, the Council for Aboriginal affairs. Howev-
er, some of the action extends on through the 1980s and
into the early 1990s, when Coombs in retirement was a
University-based non-government operative. Rowse also
provides a brief conclusion bringing debates through
to the present Howard Coalition Commonwealth gov-
ernment’s rather problematic engagement with Indige-
302
Rezensionen
nous Affairs. This government’s “assault” on Indigenous
organisations and their leadership, through a rather
narrow focus on accountability for the expenditure of
program funds, is seen as in direct contrast to Coombs
vision, towards the end of his life, of a developing
“bottom-up” Indigenous federalism. Rowse sees little
hope for progress towards this vision under the current
government. However, he seems to endorse Coombs
view that developing local and regional Indigenous orga-
nisations should in time become “units of government”
within Australian federalism “in their own right”; “not
merely a client but an indispensable part of the nation’s
government.” This, Rowse argues, is “Coombs legacy
for Australia’s next century” (223).
As a researcher who focuses on contemporary Indig-
enous affairs policy, I was struck by how clearly the
roots of current policy debates could be seen in the late
1960s. We have not moved very far. Rowse identifies
“a politics of choice” which entered Indigenous affairs
in the late 1960s, of which Nugget Coombs was part.
Nugget and others attempted to “persuade successive
governments to accept the right of Aborigines to choose
the nature and extent of their involvement in Australian
society and ... to act in a way that made that choice
a reality” (6). In time this politics was identified with
the new policy term “self-determination.” However,
despite this new term, the policy was not, Rowse argues,
as much of a change from the previous practices of
the “assimilation” era as it might sound. Governments
were still “soliciting indigenous cultural change” and
innovation, but were now doing so at the level of
group Indigenous life, rather than at the level of the
individual. Governments wanted Indigenous groups to
“develop new forms of association in order to render
their collective projects both recognisable in legislation
and familiar to established practices of government”
(132). This continues to the present day, with gov-
ernments now asking native title claimants to develop
“prescribed bodies corporate” to hold native title and
manage its interactions with non-Indigenous interests.
Rowse also identifies the search of governments
for a national Indigenous leadership from the early
1970s. Coombs advocated a “bottom up” approach to
developing this leadership, through the encouragement
of local community councils and regional Indigenous
service organisations, which would in turn and in their
own way come together as a more national Indigenous
leadership. But governments were impatient, and did
not heed Coomb’s counsel, preferring instead to create
instant Indigenous leaders in nationwide Indigenous-
specific elections. Coombs was sceptical of the ability of
these leaders to tie into and reflect local organisational
concerns, and advocated to the end his bottom up
federalism. However, Coombs also knew how difficult
it was to keep even emerging local and regional Indig-
enous organisations “effectively Aboriginal” and in one
interesting chapter Rowse recounts Coombs attempts to
assist the Central Land Council in this regard.
Rowse also writes of Coombs disappointment with
the Alligator Rivers’ uranium mining agreements of
1978 arguing that this was a “turning point” which
demonstrated to Coombs “the fragility of Australian
governments’ and corporations’ respect for local po-
litical processes among Aboriginal people” (160). Fol-
lowing that experience, Rowse argues, Coombs became
a “more outspokenly critical public intellectual” (174)
and from 1979 to 1983 devoted much of his energy to
the advocacy of a treaty with Indigenous Australians.
He wanted to “persuade non-indigenous Australians
that they badly needed a treaty because, without it,
their nationhood was morally flawed and increasingly
subject to hostile international scrutiny” (178). Rowse
later recounts how Coombs was also quite critical of
the Hawke government’s creation of the Aboriginal and
Torres Strait Islander Commission in 1989 and the Keat-
ing government’s handling of Native Title legislation
in 1993.
Whether within government or outside it, Coombs
was clearly both a critical and a strategic thinker on In-
digenous affairs. He pushed for more than governments
were generally willing to concede, but also knew how
to work with and expand the potential of what they did
concede. This book provides marvellous insights into an
extraordinary man operating in a very difficult policy
area. Will Sanders
Rubinstein, Raechelle, and Linda H. Connor
(eds.): Staying Local in the Global Village. Bali in
the Twentieth Century. Honolulu: University of Ha-
waii Press, 1999. 353 pp. ISBN 0-8248-2117-3. Price:
$47.00
This volume of essays is the result of the Third
International Bali Studies Workshop, held in Sydney in
1995. Earlier meetings took place in 1986 in Leiden
and 1991 in Princeton. The meeting in Leiden was
primarily focussed on the interaction between anthro-
pology, literature, and history in the study of Bali,
while “modernity in Bali” became one of the themes
during the workshop in Princeton. Continuing a so-
phisticated interdisciplinary approach and elaborating
questions concerning modernity, the Sydney workshop
addressed the almost inevitable theme of the 1990s:
“globalization.” How the people of Bali experienced
processes of globalization during the closing years of
Suharto’s New Order and how these global influences
stimulated local discourses about Balinese identities is
the main theme of this well edited book. Taken together,
the essays in the book summerize the main trends in
Bali studies during the 1990s and the editors deserve
applause for the careful way in which they have arranged
the various essays into a connected set of. arguments.
In their introduction Connor and Rubinstein put the
island of Bali in a wider context in order to introduce
the concept of globalisasi through which Balinese them-
selves try to make sense of their place both in the
Indonesian nation-state and in the international tourist
market.
Chapter 1 by Michel Picard is a brilliant exemplary
essay that deserves a wider audience beyond the limited
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
303
number of Bali specialists. He analyses how, as a result
of a series of interactions between the colonial state and
Balinese intellectuals in the course of the 20th century,
new categories, like “tradition,” “religion,” “art,” etc.,
emerged which framed Balinese culture in new au-
thoritative ways. In chapter 2 Margaret Wiener shows
how one particular term, puputan, which refers to the
violent “ending” of the battles which had taken place
in 1906 and 1908 when the Dutch conquered South
Bali, became a symbol of “national” resistance against
colonialism. In public memory, which was appropriated
by the Indonesian state and communicated through cere-
monies, monuments, and history books, puputan became
an important characteristic of Balinese identity. In 1994,
however, the same slogan was used by a large crowd
that protested against unwanted investments by Jakarta
tycoons in rural Bali. I like the argument but a more
comparative approach on history making in Indonesia
Would have been helpful here. Wiener tends to see,
for instance, the construction of the puputan monu-
ment in Klungkung and its historical diorama as a
unique occasion, whereas it is clearly copied from the
National Monument in Jakarta which provided a model
for a series of similar local monuments throughout
Indonesia.
In a timely effort to provide an update of recent
Political developments in Indonesia and their repercus-
sions in Bali, Putu Suasta and Linda Connor give in
chapter 3 a summary of the major protest movements
that took place at the provincial level since the early
1990s. Discussing the role of the so-called middle-class,
the authors rightly conclude that this is a very hybrid
Phenomenon which does not represent one particular
Program. In this respect the latest discussion in Bali on
regional autonomy is very interesting. Should adminis-
trative autonomy take place at the district level, where
the old dynasties want to revive their former power, or
should it be concentrated at the provincial level where
reform-minded intellectuals exert more influence?
That dynastic ambitions can flourish in a modern
§lobal context is shown by Graeme MacRae in chapter
4 in which he sketches a concise history of Ubud which
Was transformed from an anonymous village under a
subordinate noble house into a bustling tourist centre
Under the patronage of one of the leading aristocratic fam-
hies of Bali. This chapter aptly illustrates the relevance
°f the title of the book because the ultimate interests
°f the leading noble family of Ubud, which is in many
respects a global village, can only be understood in their
Very local terms.
Both Thomas Reuter and I Gede Pitana focus in their
c°ntributions on tensions within Balinese society. In
chapter 5 Reuter sheds light on the Balinese mountain
^ea, a region that has been ignored since the 1930s.
^ investigates how in earlier periods outside influences
ave been actively “localized” and tries to make a com-
Parison with contemporary developments in which state
a§encies patronize the “not yet developed” mountain
Pe°ple by referring to hegemonic Hindu images. I am,
°Wever, not convinced of the necessity to apply a rather
Anthropos 96.2001
rigid set of dichotomies such as secular versus ritual
authority as Reuter seems to advocate. I Gede Pitana
shows in chapter 6 how the authority of the Brahmana
priests in Bali has gradually been challenged by priests
from commoner descent groups and that despite strong
support by state agencies the Bramana monopoly on
the performance of big public rituals has on several
occasions successfully been undermined. As a result the
Hindu image of Bali has become more complex.
Next to the big public rituals, which show the
“religious” face of Bali, the performing arts commu-
nicate the “artistic” side of the “Balinese character.”
In an illuminating essay Brett Hough shows in chapter
8 how various categories, like art and culture - the
emergence of which we witnessed in chapter 1 - and
the formal training in the arts at state institutions were
firmly framed in a national developmental discourse.
The resulting tensions between bureaucratic burdens and
artistic aspirations created the context in which the arts
are educated in Bali.
Television is believed to be the medium which re-
duces the world into a village and which gives every
village a view on the world. In chapter 9 Mark Ho-
bart discusses how local television is interpreted and
evaluated by a small group of local intellectuals with
whom he has been engaged over the last thirty decades
in an ongoing debate on Balinese culture. They react
just like moderate leftist professional media specialists
in the Western world. One wonders whether this is a
compliment for those media specialists or a devastating
criticism on his informants. Anyway, contrary to most
media specialists Hobart concludes, among other things,
that the Balinese are not passive subjects of a hegemonic
mass medium but active agents (or for that matter vic-
tims) who are deeply sceptical about the accuracy of its
messages. Hobart does not hesitate to make things very
complicated by referring to Lacan and Spivak, etc., but
I wonder whether this really helps us to understand the
Balinese perspective. What worries me is that he seems
to present his informants as the typical Balinese, by
stating rather casually that he has heard similar opinions
by other Balinese in other places in Bali (287 f.). I would
argue that besides Hobart other people should enter the
field of media studies in Bali too.
In this book globalisation is generally seen in po-
litical and cultural terms. Economy is an almost un-
derdeveloped field in the realm of Bali studies. A
promising exception is the article by Ayami Pakistani
who investigates in chapter 7 the effects of changing
urban fashion and commercialised subcontracting on the
position of female weavers and local gender relations in
the east Balinese village of Sidemen. One article does,
however, not compensate systematic neglect. We know a
lot about the local nuances of modernity in Bali but next
to nothing about the economic impact of globalisation
on the local economy. There is in this respect since the
1930s an unfortunate but strong continuity of a Western
lack of interest in the economic circumstances in which
Balinese live. Maybe a theme for the next Bali Studies
Workshop? Henk Schulte Nordholt
304
Rezensionen
Russell, Catherine: Experimental Ethnography. The
Work of Film in the Age of Video. Durham: Duke
University Press, 1999. 392 pp. ISBN 0-8223-2319-2.
Price: £ 14.95
Der experimentelle Film und die experimentelle Er-
fahrungswissenschaft Ethnographie haben sich im Laufe
ihrer jüngeren Geschichte immer wieder wechselseitig
beeinflusst. In diesen dialektischen und kreativen Re-
flexionsprozess gilt es seit jüngst, die anregende Studie
“Experimental Ethnography” der amerikanischen Film-
wissenschaftlerin Catherine Russell mit einzubeziehen.
Sie hinterfragt in ihrem reichhaltigen Werk nicht nur ein-
gespielte Konventionen der audiovisuellen Wiedergabe
von äusserer Wirklichkeit, sondern öffnet das Feld und
den Blick für neue Beziehungen, die sie vor allem aus
dem Zusammenspiel von experimentellem und ethno-
graphischem Film heraus entwickelt. Die Kombination
dieser unterschiedlichen, autonomen filmischen Prakti-
ken, die beide am Rande des gängigen Kinos angesiedelt
sind, mag bloss auf den ersten Blick erstaunen. Die
Praxis dessen, was man gemeinhin ethnographischen
Film nennt, kann nämlich als ein fortwährendes Ex-
perimentieren betrachtet werden, denn es gilt jeweils
originäre formale Entsprechungen auf inhaltliche Fra-
gestellungen zu finden. So sollten sich Ästhetik und
Kulturtheorie wechselseitig beeinflussen. Dennoch sind
es oft gerade die formalen Gesichtspunkte, die in der
Praxis und beim Nachdenken über Ethnographie, Film
und Video gerne ausser acht gelassen werden, um so
mehr als sich die Diskussionen über ethnographische
Filme oft bloss an ihrem Inhalt orientieren.
Auch wenn Catherine Russell Ethnographie grund-
sätzlich als einen Diskurs über die “Anderen” ver-
steht, handelt es sich für sie dabei weniger um die
wissenschaftliche Praxis, eine “andere” Kultur aus den
unterschiedlichsten Perspektiven zu repräsentieren, als
vielmehr um eine kritische Methode, diese Kultur zu
lesen. In Anlehnung an Bill Nichols, einen der grossen
amerikanischen Filmwissenschaftler, empfiehlt sie weni-
ger, durch den ethnographischen Film hindurchzusehen,
sondern ihn als die kulturelle Ausdrucksweise eines
subjektiven Blicks anzusehen. Dementsprechend gelte
es, die Diskursanalyse der inhaltlichen Auseinanderset-
zung vorzuziehen. Hierbei sei es von Vorteil, sich am
sogenannten experimentellen Film zu orientieren. Im
Gegensatz zum ethnographischen Film zeichnet sich der
experimentelle Film, neben seinem subjektiven Blick,
der einen anderen Realismus schafft, vor allem durch
eine Betonung formaler Aspekte aus. Die Überbetonung
des Formalen ist aber zugleich die Schwäche der meisten
theoretischen Texte zum experimentellen Film. Führt
man also beide Filmgattungen zusammen, so ergänzen
und erhellen sie sich eben wegen ihrer unterschiedlichen
Betonung des Formalen gegenüber dem Inhaltlichen auf
wunderbare Weise.
Jeder Film kann ethnographisch gelesen werden, weil
er ein kulturelles Produkt ist. Dennoch lässt Catherine
Russell den Spielfilm bewusst beiseite und konzentriert
sich explizit auf den ethnographischen und den experi-
mentellen Film. In diesem Sinne begreift sie die experi-
mentelle Ethnographie als ein methodisches Vordringen
ästhetischer Aspekte in den Bereich der Darstellung kul-
tureller Phänomene, als einen Zusammenstoss von Sozi-
altheorie mit formaler Experimentierfreude. Die Autorin
verfolgt mit “Experimental Ethnography” das Ziel, eine
Verschiebung von einer realistischen Ästhetik hin zu
einer Ästhetik der Kollision von Stimmen, Kulturen
und Körpern einzuleiten. Es gilt nämlich, die menschli-
che Bedingtheit (human condition) als eine fortgesetzte
kulturelle Begegnung, Veränderung und Übersetzung
zu verstehen. So versucht Catherine Russell einerseits
aufzuzeigen, wie Filmemacher mit dem “Anderssein”
(“otherness”) ihrer Wirklichkeit experimentiert haben
und wie andererseits das Paradigma des objektiven Rea-
lismus als ein zeitlich bedingtes Moment zwar grosse
Auswirkungen auf das kulturelle Gedächtnis hat, aber
eigentlich überholt ist.
In ihren diesbzüglichen Überlegungen orientiert sie
sich, nebst dem jüngeren ethnologischen Diskurs zu ex-
perimentellen Formen geschriebener Ethnographie, vor
allem an Walter Benjamin. Dabei hat es ihr sein nach-
haltig wirkender Essay “Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter sei-
ner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit” besonders angetan.
Ihm erweist sie die Referenz mit ihrem Untertitel “The
Work of Film in the Age of Video” (Die Filmarbeit
im Videozeitalter). Walter Benjamin hatte in seinem
1935 erschienen Aufsatz unter anderem argumentiert,
dass Film und Kino mehr als jede andere Kunstart die
politische und soziale Rolle der Kunst in der Kultur ver-
ändert haben. Am Ende des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts
sind es Video und Formen von digitalen Bildern, die
zu einer ähnlich grundlegenden Veränderung beitragen,
indem sie als “kulturelle Werkzeuge” verschiedenste
Lebensbereiche des alltäglichen Lebens beeinflussen.
So versteht Catherine Russell das Video zugleich als
eine Ausdehnung des Kinos, auch wenn es oft wie
eine Allegorie von dessen verschwindender Aura wirkt.
Dennoch handelt ihr Buch nicht primär von Video,
sondern von den neuen Sichtweisen, die uns dieses
Medium in bezug auf den Film sowie die kulturelle
Rolle von Avantgarde und Ethnographie eröffnet. Die
Beziehung von Film und Video dient ihr zugleich als
eine Analogie für die ethnographische Geschichtsschrei-
bung. Dieser empfiehlt sie einen Paradigmenwechsel
innerhalb der ethnographischen Betrachtungsweise: weg
von verlorenen und verschwindenden Kulturen hin zu
einer der kulturellen Transformation. Dabei übersieht sie
geflissentlich, dass der ethnographische Diskurs komple-
xer ist, als die postmoderne Brille es zu sehen erlaubt.
“Experimental Ethnography” ist in fünf grosse Teile
gegliedert. Gleich zu Beginn entwickelt die Autorin,
sich an Walter Benjamin inspirierend, ihre Perspektive
postmoderner Ethnographie entlang eines kurzen Ab'
risses des experimentellen und des ethnographischen
Kinos. Nachdem sie ihren theoretischen Rahmen ab-
gesteckt hat, wartet sie mit einem reichhaltigen und
anregenden “Filmprogramm” auf, das unter anderem
Werke von Luis Bunuel, Ray Birdwhistell, Peter Km
belka, Su Friedrich, Chantal Akerman, Andy Warhob
Bill Viola und Chris Marker umfasst sowie solche von
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
305
Maya Deren, Jean Rouch, Robert Gardner, Margaret
Mead und Gregory Bateson. Anhand ihrer Filme, die
Catherine Russell auf erstaunlich raffinierte Weise mit
ihrem theoretischen Rahmen in enge Beziehung zu
setzen weiss, spannt sie den thematischen Bogen von
Kino und kolonialer Kultur, über “Dokumentarfilm vor
dem Dokumentarfilm”, “den undisziplinierten Blick”
bis hin zu “anderen Realitäten”. Dabei untersucht sie
beispielsweise, wie sich die Ethnographie das Terrain
mit der Pornographie und der Zoologie teilt, wie der
formale Minimalismus in Verbindung mit fixem Blick
zwar gewisse panoptische Effekte produziert, aber zu-
gleich eine innere Spannung zwischen Betrachter und
Betrachtetem kreiert und dadurch eine visuelle Lich-
tung für interkulturelle Erfahrung und Repräsentation
schafft, oder wie die modernistische Faszination für
religiöse Rituale besondere Berührungspunkte zwischen
Avantgarde und ethnographischer Praxis schafft und die
epistomologischen Grundlagen des visuellen Wissens
herausfordert. Die Konklusion, zugleich der fünfte, mit
‘Autoethnographie: Reisen zu sich selbst” überschriebe-
tte Teil, führt persönliche Filmerfahrung mit kultureller
Repräsentation zusammen. Am Beispiel von verschie-
denen Tagebuchfilmen untersucht Catherine Russell den
Zwischenraum von Reisebericht und Autobiographie,
Me er von Filmemachern wie Jonas Mekas, Sadie
Benning oder Chris Marker ausgelotet wurde. Indem
Sle die Tagebuchfilme als Teil des persönlichen und
kulturellen Gedächtnisses darstellt, zeigt sie zugleich
die vermeintlichen Limiten der Selbstdarstellung in
Unterschiedlichen kulturellen Zusammenhängen sowie
die impliziten Widersprüche des autoethnographischen
^lodus auf. Daraus folgert sie, dass Autobiographie
ln Film und Video wegen der subjektiven Erfahrung
Md Darstellung als Form radikaler Ethnographie einen
Wesentlichen Teil der Kulturgeschichte bildet.
Auch wenn Catherine Russell manchmal zu sehr
dem Hang zur postmodernen Abschweifung nachgibt
Md in ihrer Interpretation der Filmbeispiele gelegent-
lch Zirkelschlüsse präsentiert, kommt ihr das grosse
Verdienst zu, mit ihrem Buch die oftmals enge, trockene
Mskussion um Film, Video und Ethnographie mit neuen
eziehungen anzuregen und aufzufrischen.
Majan Garlinski
Schiffauer, Werner: Die Gottesmänner. Türkische
Mmisten in Deutschland. Eine Studie zur Herstellung
Migiöser Evidenz. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2000.
352
Pp. ISBN 3-518-39577-7. (suhrkamp taschenbuch,
-N rr1 U U 1 U
ü?7) Preis: DM 18,80
. B>as Buch beschreibt Genese und Erosion der Grup-
perung des als “Khomeini von Köln” weithin bekannten
j Mtaleddin Kaplan (1926-1995). Sein Verfasser ist
daber des Lehrstuhls für vergleichende Kultur- und
/Malanthropologie an der Europa-Universität Viadrina
Frankfurt an der Oder. Die Ergebnisse seiner For-
s Mgsaufenthalte in einem türkischen Dorf im ponti-
“C) 611 veröffentlichte er in den beiden Studien
le Bauern von Subay. Das Leben in einem türkischen
Anth
r°Pos 96.2001
Dorf’ (1987) und “Die Migranten von Subay. Türken in
Deutschland: Eine Ethnographie” (1991). Wie Schiffau-
er dem Leser in seiner neusten Studie verrät (14), hat
die Begegnung mit einem der Migranten aus Subay, der
zur Kaplan-Gemeinde in Augsburg gehörte, zur weiteren
wissenschaftlichen Auseinandersetzung mit dem Thema
des türkischen Islamismus in Deutschland beigetragen.
Im Rahmen verschiedener Forschungsaufenthalte in der
Kaplan-Gemeinde in Augsburg sammelte er umfang-
reiches Material dazu, wovon eine Reihe seiner wis-
senschaftlicher Beiträge der letzten Jahre zeugen. Dem
mit dem Thema vertrauten Leser begegnen daher eine
Reihe von Gedankengängen aus früheren Publikationen,
die Schiffauer in dieser Studie zu einer umfassenden
und überzeugenden Gesamtdarstellung der Kaplan-Be-
wegung zusammengetragen hat. Dabei geht er auf zwei
verschiedenen Ebenen vor: “Zum einen enthält dieses
Buch eine historisch-anthropologische Darstellung der
Gemeinde von 1983 bis zu Kaplans Tod 1995. Das
Augenmerk auf dieser Ebene richtet sich auf das Zusam-
menspiel von dogmatischer Entwicklung (einer zuneh-
menden Radikalisierung) und sozialer Transformation
(einer zunehmenden Ausbildung von Sektenstrukturen)”
(13). Hierbei stützt Schiffauer sich neben Interviews
mit Experten vor allem auf die Analyse von Predigten
und Schriften Kaplans sowie auf die Auswertung der
von der Bewegung herausgegebenen Zeitschrift. “Zum
anderen enthält das Buch die Fallstudie einer einzelnen
Gemeinde, nämlich der Augsburger Moschee der Ka-
plan-Anhänger. Es wird untersucht, wie auf lokaler Ebe-
ne die Entwicklung in der Gesamtgemeinde rezipiert und
verhandelt wurde” (14). Hierzu dienen ihm vor allem
die Ergebnisse seiner teilnehmenden Beobachtung, der
Einzelgespräche und lebensgeschichtlichen Interviews.
Das Buch gliedert sich in die drei Teile Debat-
ten - Evidenzen - Erfahrungen. Der erste Teil (39-
151) befaßt sich mit einer ausführlichen Darlegung
der Position Kaplans in der Auseinandersetzung um
die Rolle des Islams in der heutigen Türkei. Dies
geschieht sowohl in seiner fundamentalen Ablehnung
des laizistischen Staates, wie er durch den “Vater” der
modernen Türkei, “Atatürk”, begründet wurde, als auch
in seiner Kritik an den Konzeptionen anderer islami-
scher Bewegungen, die auf unterschiedlichen Wegen
an der Transformation der Türkei in einen islamischen
Staat arbeiten. Der zweite Teil (155-227) behandelt die
Evidenz der Lehre Kaplans im Leben seiner Gemeinde
und seiner Anhänger. Hierbei zeigt der Verfasser auf,
wie das Problem der “Veralltäglichung” zum Umbau
einer ursprünglich offenen charismatischen Bewegung
zu einer in sich abgeschlossenen und exklusiven Sekte
geführt hat. Der dritte Teil (233-331) schließlich zeigt
am Beispiel von drei ausgewählten Biographien auf, wie
sich die Begegnung mit Kaplan auf unterschiedliche
Weise auf das Leben seiner Anhänger ausgewirkt hat.
Dabei gelingt es Schiffauer darzustellen, wie zunächst
die individuellen persönlichen Voraussetzungen der Be-
fragten zu einer Identifizierung mit Kaplan und seinen
Zielen führten, während die weitere Entwicklung der
Bewegung - zumindest in zwei Fällen - wiederum die
306
Rezensionen
Distanzierung davon zur Folge hatte. Diese Beobachtun-
gen veranlassen Schiffauer abschließend zu einer Kritik
an der gegenwärtigen Fundamentalismusdebatte. Das
Hauptkorpus des Buches umrahmen eine Einführung
(17-33) und ein Epilog (335-339). Während erstere
das Spannungsfeld um die Entstehung verschiedener
islamischer Gemeinden in Augsburg in den siebziger
und achtziger Jahren und damit auch das erstmalige
Erscheinen des Phänomens “Kaplan” zum Inhalt hat,
faßt letzterer die Ereignisse nach dem Tod Cemaleddin
Kaplans summarisch zusammen, die im Mord am Geg-
ner seines Sohnes und Nachfolgers Metin Kaplan zu
einem dramatischen Höhepunkt gelangten. Für einen in
der Materie nicht bewanderten Leser - aber auch für den
Experten - sind die verschiedenen im Buch verteilten
Exkurse zu bestimmten Einzelfragen sehr hilfreich, da
sie wichtige Informationen zum Verständnis der darge-
stellten Zusammenhänge bieten.
Das Besondere des Phänomens “Kaplan” ist nur
auf dem Hintergrund der Auseinandersetzungen um das
richtige Verständnis des Islams innerhalb der verschie-
denen islamischen Gruppierungen in der Türkei und in
Deutschland zu verstehen. Innerhalb dieses Diskursfel-
des, das Schiffauer einführend beschreibt, stellt die Be-
wegung Cemaleddin Kaplans zweifellos den Gegenpol
zum laizistischen Grundverständnis der türkischen Re-
publik dar. Ausgehend vom Grundgedanken der Einheit
aller Muslime im gemeinsamen Bekenntnis der Einheit
Gottes, fordert er eine Umgestaltung der türkischen
Republik in einen islamischen Staat, der diese Einheit
sinnenfällig mit einem Kalifen an seiner Spitze zum
Ausdruck bringt. Damit knüpft Kaplan an ein Staatsver-
ständnis an, wie es sich in der Urgemeinde von Medina
durch den Propheten Muhammad verwirklicht hat und
als Institution bis zu den Reformen Atatürks weiterbe-
standen hat. Gemeinsam mit anderen islamischen Or-
ganisationen ist Kaplan die Ablehnung der türkischen
Republik. Anders als sie alle strebt er die Umwandlung
außerhalb des bestehenden institutionellen Rahmens an.
In dieser Frage kommt es 1983 zum Bruch zwischen
Kaplan und der islamistischen Bewegung um Necmettin
Erbakan, die dieses Ziel auf parlamentarischem Weg als
politische Partei verfolgt. “Hier genügt die Anmerkung,
daß Kaplan im Gegensatz zu Erbakan die Überwindung
des Kemalismus nicht mehr innerhalb des politischen
Systems für möglich hielt. Eine revolutionäre Politik
muß mit dem institutionellen Rahmen brechen, wenn
sie Aussicht auf Erfolg haben will. Die Kritik der Ka-
plan-Bewegung am säkularen Nationalstaat ist kompro-
mißloser und radikaler als die der anderen Gemeinden”
(54). Dieser Charakter einer offenen charismatischen
Bewegung veränderte sich jedoch unter dem Eindruck
einer “Veralltäglichung” des revolutionären Anspruchs.
Wichtige Stationen auf dem Weg zur geschlossenen
Sekte waren die Ausrufung des Islamischen Bundes-
staates Anatolien 1992 und schließlich die Proklamation
Kaplans zum Kalifen 1994. Durch diese Inszenierung
seiner politischen Vorstellungen versuchte Kaplan, auf
die Krisen innerhalb seiner Bewegung zu reagieren.
Wenngleich er damit für gewaltige medienpolitische
Aufmerksamkeit sorgte, zeichnete sich doch immer
mehr die Bedeutungslosigkeit seiner Bewegung ab. Sein
Sohn und Nachfolger Metin Kaplan versuchte, auf die-
sen Prozeß mit einer zunehmenden Radikalisierung zu
reagieren, die mit dem Mord an einem Gegenkalifen
einen Höhepunkt erreichte. Dieser Mord “steht für den
Moment, in dem die Gewaltrhetorik in faktische Gewalt
umschlug. Cemaleddin Kaplan predigte zwar immer
von Glaubenskrieg, Revolution und Opfertum - aber er
sprach sich immer auch gegen die faktische Ausübung
von Gewalt aus” (337).
Zusammenfassend ist zu sagen, daß Werner Schif-
fauer die bislang genaueste und präziseste Darstellung
einer exklusiven islamistischen Bewegung gelungen ist,
die über Jahre das Bild von den islamischen Fun-
damentalisten in Deutschland geprägt hat. Indem er
das Besondere der Kaplan-Bewegung im Kontext der
gesamten islamischen Szene darstellt, leistet er einen un-
verzichtbaren Beitrag zum besseren Verständnis der ver-
schiedenen islamischen Gruppierungen. Bemerkenswert
sind die Schlußfolgerungen, die er aus der Fundamen-
talismusdebatte zieht: “Die Islamisten sind uns nicht so
fremd, wie es zunächst scheint. Wie wir alle suchen
sie eine Antwort auf die neue Unübersichtlichkeit zu
Beginn des neuen Jahrtausends. ... Die Geschichte der
hier vorgestellten Männer ist somit als Parabel für die
Situation des Wissens zu Beginn des neuen Jahrtausends
zu lesen” (329 ff.). Thomas Lemmen
Schomburg-Scherff, Sylvia M., und Beatrix Heint-
ze (Hrsg.): Die offenen Grenzen der Ethnologie. Schlag-
lichter auf ein sich wandelndes Fach. Klaus E. Müller
zum 65. Geburtstag. Frankfurt: Verlag Otto Lembeck,
2000. 315 pp. ISBN 3-87476-356-0. Preis: DM48,00
Dieses von Sylvia Schomburg-Scherff und Beatrix
Heintze herausgegebene Sammelwerk beinhaltet einige
sehr interessante Blicke auf die Ethnologie, wenngleich
es dem Titel, “Die offenen Grenzen der Ethnologie”,
nicht ganz gerecht wird. Schließlich handelt es sich bei
diesem Buch um eine Festschrift, so daß die beiden Her-
ausgeberinnen gewissen Zwängen unterlagen, von denen
sie sich nicht befreien konnten. Insgesamt betrachtet
sticht der übliche “Festschriftcharakter” allerdings nicht
übermäßig hervor, da nur wenige Autoren sich explizit
mit dem Geehrten, Klaus E. Müller, auseinanderset-
zen. Zwar beginnt das Buch - “zur Einstimmung” "
mit einem Essay von Bernhard Floßdorf, in dem der
Publizist an seine langjährige Freundschaft mit Klaus
E. Müller erinnert. Die weiteren Artikel gehen auf das
Werk von Müller hingegen meistens nur am Rande ein
(manche überhaupt nicht) und konzentrieren sich auf die
Präsentation ihre eigenen Arbeiten.
Die Organisatorinnen haben die Artikel in drei Ka-
tegorien - Rückblicke, Einblicke und Ausblicke - ein-
geteilt, mit denen sie die sich wandelnden Themen des
Faches verdeutlichen möchten. Als “Rückblicke” wer-
den vor allem ethnohistorische und wissenschaftshisto-
rische Themen präsentiert. Die “Einblicke” stellen un-
terschiedliche Themen und ethnologische Ansätze vor,
Anthropos 96.2001
--------------:-----..irgr - ------ I _ ||„in„i I - ■ - in . - -...- --- ----- -------- -
Rezensionen 307
die aktuelle Phänomene untersuchen. Die “Ausblicke” schlagen neue Wege der Ethnologie vor, die häufig inter- disziplinär angelegt sind. Diese Einordnung der Artikel ist an einigen Stellen nicht ganz geglückt, dennoch in der Regel plausibel. Interessanterweise beschränkt sich das Buch nicht auf die Ethnologie, sondern schließt Blicke von außen ein, durch die unser Fach und insbesondere die Diskussion darüber sehr bereichert werden. Die Artikel, die thematisch von einer “Ethnographie der Geschichte” bis zur “Ethnographie des Cyberspace” reichen, sind sehr unterschiedlich abgefaßt, sowohl im Stil als auch im Inhalt. Einige sind mitunter etwas hol- perig geschrieben, während andere stilistisch brillieren. Einige Autoren beschränken sich detailliert auf Einzel- Phänomene (und vergessen dabei, über den regionalen Tellerrand zu sehen), während andere ihr Thema im größeren Kontext diskutieren und dabei die Relevanz für die Ethnologie bzw. für die weitere Entwicklung des Faches ansprechen. Insgesamt betrachtet, präsentieren sie einen guten Überblick über Themen der derzeitigen Ethnologie und vermitteln einige interessante Einblicke ln unser Fach. Trotz dieser Vielfalt werde ich nur eini- ge Artikel vorstellen, die meines Erachtens besonders das Gesamtthema des Buches, die offenen Grenzen der Ethnologie, repräsentieren. Meine Auswahl deutet keineswegs auf die Qualität der Beiträge. Das Buch präsentiert gewissermaßen die “neuen We- ge durch den ethnologischen Dreischritt”, die von Gerd Baumann vorgeführt werden. Anhand seiner Überle- gungen zur multikulturellen Gesellschaft demonstriert er den prozeßhaften Charakter von Kultur, die er als eiue “sich ständig im Wandel befindliche Aktivität aller ■^usammenlebenden” definiert (163). Im ersten Schritt Präsentiert Baumann interdisziplinäre Ansätze zu den Konzepten Nationalstaat, Ethnizität und Religion, die er als kollektive Problematiken multikultureller Ge- Sellschaften betrachtet. Anschließend blickt er auf den Kulturbegriff, der in der Diskussion um Multikultu- rafismus überwiegend ein “statisches Erbe” beschwört, anstatt daß Kultur im ethnologischen Sinn als eine Momentaufnahme in einem stetigen Wandlungsprozeß” ^griffen wird. Im dritten Schritt kehrt Baumann die roblematik um und zeigt anhand von Beobachtungen 61 türkischen Jugendlichen in vier europäischen Städten nationalstaatlich eigene Konsistenz und Konvergenz Politischer Kultur. Basierend auf dichten Beschreibun- §en, demonstriert Baumann somit, wie die Ethnologie en “Finger auf die Dialektik des menschlichen Zu- Sanimenlebens” legen kann und durch Neuvernetzung ^erwarteter Details etablierte Fragestellungen auf den Kopf stellen kann (167). k ^er interdisziplinäre Ansatz des Buches wird ins- esondere durch zwei Artikel demonstriert, die ge- |VlSsermaßen den Rahmen für die anderen Beiträge efem. Beide Autoren, John Middleton und Jörn Rü- ?en’ betrachten von ihrer jeweiligen Disziplin ausge- nd die Verbindung von Ethnologie und Geschichts- jssenschaft. Während Middleton seine Überlegungen ordings anhand eines ethnographischen Beispiels, die u*fiir der Swahili, erläutert, diskutiert Rüsen den Ein- fluß der Ethnologie auf die Geschichtswissenschaft von einer theoretischen Ebene aus. Beiden gemein ist die Forderung, die Grenzen zwischen beiden Fächern zu öffnen und von dem jeweils anderen Fach zu lernen. So offenbart Middletons Untersuchung über eine Ge- sellschaft von Kaufleuten das Fehlen einer detaillierten “Ethnographie der Vergangenheit”, die seiner Ansicht nach für das Verstehen der Gegenwart unerläßlich ist (24 f.). Sein Artikel stellt - ausgehend von der Gegen- wart - Aussagen über die Vergangenheit der Swahili, wobei er besonders den Wandel bestimmter Phänome- ne heraus arbeitet, Aspekte der strukturellen Kontinuität gegenüber, die über ein Jahrtausend stabil waren. Rüsen diskutiert in seinem Beitrag dagegen die “kulturtheore- tische Wende” der Geschichtswissenschaft, wobei er die Ethnologie als “Paradigma für die Thematisierung der Menschenwelt als Kultur” bezeichnet (292). Er kritisiert an der Ethnologie insbesondere die Marginalisierung von Wandel und Veränderung, die allerdings, wie bereits Middleton demonstriert, nur eingeschränkt der Wirklich- keit entspricht, da viele Studien gerade den Wandel und das Veränderbare im Blick haben. Auch von ethnologischer Warte wird die Ethnolo- gie in diesem Band für ihren oftmals zu statischen Blick, der den Wandel zugunsten des Unveränderlichen vernachlässigt und dadurch falsche Vorstellungen von Traditionen konstruiert, kritisiert. Dabei geht Britta Du- elke von ihren Beobachtungen einer Knabeninitiation in Australien aus und Mark Münzel von einer Mythe der Kabori in Brasilien. Duelke diskutiert anhand ihrer Feldforschung den Umgang mit Traditionen in einer Zeit des Wandels und demonstriert dabei die Anpassungs- fähigkeit von (scheinbar unveränderlichen) essentiellen Werten, die oftmals im Widerspruch zu den Erwartungen der Gesellschaft steht. Sie kritisiert dabei insbesondere die ahistorische Tendenz vieler ethnologischer Studien, die statt den Wandel zu untersuchen vermeintlich un- veränderliche Traditionen rekonstruieren (131). Dadurch entstand in der australischen Öffentlichkeit ein Bild einer “traditionell primitiven, statisch und nicht ent- wicklungsfähigen Urbevölkerung”, mit denen die Ab- origènes noch heute konfrontiert werden. So wird ihr seit 1976 gesetzlich verbrieftes Recht auf traditionelles Landeigentum in Frage gestellt, wenn sie Zeichen kul- tureller Veränderungen verkörpern, denn insbesondere das Zeremonialleben gilt als Indikator für Echtheit und Legitimität. Münzel kritisiert an ethnologischen Studien vor allem, daß sie gerade bei indianischen Kulturen stets eine harmonisierende Ordnung herausarbeiten, statt sich auf ein “Denken außerhalb fester Systeme” einzulassen. Er zeigt anhand der Mythe, daß indianische Weltbilder keineswegs geschlossene Systeme sind, sondern weitere, höchst individuelle Lesarten möglich sind, wobei er allerdings keineswegs die Existenz kollektiver Tradi- tionen wie beispielsweise einen einheitlichen Stil und eine einheitliche Thematik der Mythen leugnet. Mit Rückgriff auf die ethnopoetic-Forschung demonstriert Münzel, daß der Unterschied zwischen urbanem und indianischem Brasilien, d. h. zwischen dem Klischee der Unordnung und der harmonisierenden Ordnung, von
Anthr0pos 96.2001
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Rezensionen
außen konstruiert ist, aus emischer Perspektive aber
nicht zutrifft.
Sylvia M. Schomburg-Scherff arbeitet ebenfalls mit
einem kontinuierlich veränderbaren Konzept, wobei sie
sich auf Romane karibischer Autorinnen stützt, die
sie als “Frauenversionen karibischer Identitätsproble-
matik” interpretiert. Sie weist in ihrem Beitrag ein-
drucksvoll auf die Relevanz von literarischen Werken
für die Ethnologie hin und demonstriert, daß Romane
“Selbstbilder” aus der Sicht der “Betroffenen” sind, die
Vorstellungen, Urteile, Kommentare, Reflexionen und
Selbstreflexionen der Autorinnen enthalten. Diese Bilder
präsentieren keineswegs ein monolithisches oder stati-
sches Bild, sondern außerordentlich komplexe Bilder, die
fluktuierend und dynamisch “aus einer Vielzahl von Per-
spektiven” zusammengesetzt sind (249). Daher schließt
Schomburg-Scherff entgegen einigen karibischen An-
sichten auch Romane “weißer” Schriftstellerinnen ein,
die ebenfalls die Aufmerksamkeit auf die Komplexität
kreolischer Gesellschaften lenken.
Die Variationsvielfalt der Ethnologie wird auch von
drei Beiträgen demonstriert, die sich mit Kunst beschäf-
tigen. Josef Franz Thiel untersucht zwei Motive der
Kunst Benins und der Yoruba in Nigeria, wobei er,
statt wie häufig bei kunstethnologischen Studien formale
Aspekte in den Vordergrund zu stellen, die beiden Mo-
tive im inhaltlichen Kontext diskutiert. Michael Wiener
dagegen beschäftigt sich in seinem Beitrag mit der
modernen “westlichen” Kunst, die seiner Ansicht nach
einen Beitrag für die Ethnologie liefern könnte. So zeigt
seine Untersuchung der schamanistischen Séance von
Joseph Beuys, daß trotz aller Unterschiede ein Blick auf
den ethnologischen Gehalt in modernen Kunstwerken
der Ethnologie zeigen könnte, “wie Erfahrungen des
Fremden in Form gebracht oder wissenschaftliche Er-
gebnisse auf anderen Ebenen der eigenen Gesellschaft
rezipiert werden” (244). Neben diesen ethnologischen
Blicken auf Kunst, die bereits die Offenheit der Grenzen
verdeutlichen, präsentiert Hans Wernher von Kittlitz
einen eher kunstwissenschaftlichen Zugang zu einem
bisher in der Ethnologie wenig bearbeiteten Thema, die
Ikonophagie, d. h. das Verzehren von Kunstwerken bzw.
Teilen von Kunstwerken, wobei er die bildlich gestaltete
Nahrung sowie die Kunstperformance außer acht läßt.
Er blickt vor allem auf europäische Ikonophagie im
Kontext des Heiligenkultes, die er als “Einverleibung
von Bildsubstanz”, gewissermaßen eine Steigerung der
“Sinnesannäherung” und der “Sinnesteilhabe” interpre-
tiert.
Die Auflösung der Grenzen illustriert gewisserma-
ßen Andreas Ackermann, der in seinem Artikel erste
Überlegungen zu einer “Ethnographie des Cyberspace”
anstellt, wobei er Themen ethnologischer Forschung
im Internet sowie die Anforderungen an die Feldfor-
schung diskutiert. Insbesondere geht er der Frage nach,
ob sich im Internet soziale Kleingruppen re-etablieren,
d. h. ob über symbolische Verbindungen elektronischer
Kommunikation dennoch Identität und Gemeinschaften
entstehen können. Obwohl seiner Ansicht nach virtuelle
Gemeinschaften nur im eingeschränkten Sinn Gruppen
sind, die erst bei zusätzlichen persönlichen Begegnun-
gen entstehen, fordert sein Beitrag traditionelle ethnolo-
gische Konzepte von Gemeinschaften heraus.
Zum Abschluß meines knappen Überblicks möchte
ich noch einen Artikel erwähnen, der sich mit der Ver-
änderung der Ethnologie beschäftigt. Karl-Heinz Kohl
diskutiert in seinem Beitrag die Rolle der Ethnologie
in Prozessen kultureller Selbstbehauptung. Anhand drei-
er Beispiele demonstriert er, wie die Verschriftlichung
mündlicher Traditionen die Kultur der “Erforschten”
beeinflußt hat und wie unterschiedlich die ethnogra-
phischen Werke jeweils verwendet wurden. Er fordert
dabei nachdrücklich, daß die Ethnologie keineswegs den
Anspruch, eine kritische Wissenschaft zu sein, aufgeben
darf, wenn sie im Dienst der von ihr Erforschten steht,
genauso wenig, wie sie es zur Kolonialzeit tat, als sie
im Dienst der jeweiligen Kolonialadministration stand.
Zum Abschluß nenne ich die Artikel, auf die ich
in der Rezension nicht weiter eingegangen bin. Beatrix
Heintze berichtet über die deutsche Loango-Expedition
von 1873 bis 1876. Johannes W. Raum untersucht die
Bedeutung Max Webers für die Theorienbildung in der
Ethnologie, wobei er sich überwiegend auf die eng-
lischsprachige Rezeption bezieht. Christian Vogt inter-
pretiert anhand eigener Beobachtungen die Struktur der
ethnischen Identität bei den Batek in Malaya. Hanne
Straube beschäftigt sich mit türkischen Migranten in
Deutschland sowie den stereotypen Bildern, die von
ihnen in der Türkei und in Deutschland konstruiert
werden. Muna Nabhan schreibt über den Wandel des
islamischen Volksglaubens in Ägypten und seine Aus-
wirkungen auf die weibliche Spiritualität. Erica Jane de
Hohenstein blickt auf den brasilianischen Candomble
und stellt die über die Religion gewonnene Macht der
Frauen heraus. Walter von Lucadou analysiert Berichte
und Untersuchungen über den Spuk. Annette Kühnei
hinterfragt die Chancen der Entwicklung einer interkul-
turellen Kompetenz im Rahmen eines Bildungsurlaubs
anhand ihrer eigenen Erfahrungen bei der Organisation
solcher Reisen in Jamaika. Bettina Schmidt
Shima, Mutsuhiko, and Roger L. Janelli (eds.):
The Anthropology of Korea. East Asian Perspectives.
Papers Presented at the Seventeenth Taniguchi Interna-
tional Symposium. Osaka: National Museum of Ethnol-
ogy, 1998. 237 pp. ISSN 0387-6004. (Senri Ethnological
Studies, 49)
Dieser Sammelband beinhaltet eine Zusammenstel-
lung von Beiträgen eines internationalen Symposiums
für ethnologische Studien zu Korea im Nationalmuseum
von Osaka im Sommer 1993. Den Autoren wurde hier
die Gelegenheit gegeben, ihre neuesten ethnologischen
Arbeiten zu Korea zu präsentieren und zu diskutie-
ren, wie die Herausgeber Shima und Janelli in ihrer
fünfseitigen Einführung hervorheben. Als weiteres Ziel
stellen Shima und Janelli heraus, die Beziehung der
Studien untereinander zu untersuchen und bestimmte
Thematiken als Verbindungspunkte zu anderen ostasia-
tischen Gesellschaften, wie vor allem China und Japan,
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
309
heranzuziehen. Mit den Vergleichen von prinzipiellen
“Topics” aus der Forschung werden einerseits Unter-
schiede zwischen den ostasiatischen Nachbarländern wie
China und Japan illustriert, als auch Gemeinsamkeiten
und Wechselbeziehungen in den ostasiatischen Gesell-
schaften aufgezeigt, wobei bedauerlicherweise jedoch
Untersuchungen zu Nordkorea ausgespart bleiben. Als
weitere Hauptthematik dieses Sammelbandes ist die
Beziehung zwischen der konfuzianischen Ideologie und
den koreanischen Sozialsystemen zu nennen. Nach der
knappen Einleitung der Herausgeber folgen 11 kurze
Einzelstudien (keine über 30 Seiten stark), jede indi-
viduell gestaltet und mit Literaturangaben und den not-
wendigen Glossaren zu den chinesischen, koreanischen
und japanischen Schriftzeichen versehen. Die Untersu-
chungen der renommierten japanischen, koreanischen
und amerikanischen Autoren behandeln ihre Themen
entweder aus historischer Sicht oder fokussieren die Ge-
genwart. Einige der hier zusammengestellten Aufsätze
Untersuchen Formen der sozialen Beziehungen, die nicht
auf Verwandtschaft basieren und in der koreanischen
Gesellschaft zunehmend an Bedeutung gewinnen. Eine
der Studien stellt die politischen Beziehungen in seinen
Untersuchungsmittelpunkt, welche durch die regional-
begründeten Allianzen der Lokaleliten weit über die
Uorfgrenzen hinausreichen.
Der von Hesung Chun Koh betitelte Aufsatz “Das
Beharren koreanische Familiennormen in einem konfu-
zianischen Staat: Eine Analyse von Kriminalfällen aus
dem 18. Jahrhundert” (7-36) untersucht den Prozess,
durch welchen konfuzianische Ideen von China aus
eingeführt wurden und die älteren, indigenen koreani-
schen Familienpraktiken überlagert wurden. Koh stellt
heraus, wie die Position der Frauen nicht besonders mit
der neuen Ideologie harmonierte und die persönlichen
Beziehungen belastete, die später in den von Koh unter-
suchten Gerichtsverhandlungen offen zu Tage traten.
Shima Mutsuhiko betrachtet in seiner Studie “Die
Vergangenheit mit Hilfe von Genealogien der Verges-
senheit entreißen” (37-63) die Entwicklung von patri-
hnearen Verwandtschaftsgruppen. Shima vergleicht die
Genealogien von Abstammungsgruppen, die über einige
Jahrzehnte zusammengestellt wurden, um zu ermitteln,
Welche Ergänzungen, Streichungen und andere Ände-
rungen eingetreten sind. Seine vergleichenden Studien
Zeigen, wie in diesen Genealogien die Aktivitäten der
Verwandtschaft schriftlich festgehalten wurden und so
has Abstammungssystem bildeten, welches noch im
heutigen Südkorea vorherrscht.
Kim Kwang-oks Aufsatz “Die konfuzianische Ge-
staltung einer kulturellen Gemeinschaft im gegenwär-
hgen Südkorea” (65-93) untersucht die politische Di-
mension des Konfuzianismus im gegenwärtigen Südko-
rea. Er geht der Frage nach, wie der Konfuzianismus
a*s politische Quelle in der Lokalpolitik ausgenutzt und
manipuliert wird. Sein Aufsatz will verdeutlichen, wie
le lokale Elite im südlichen Korea auch gegenwärtig
amit fortfährt, die konfuzianische Ideologie zu benut-
2er>, um ihren priviligierten Status zu bewahren - wobei
Slch die konfuzianischen Ideen im Laufe der Zeit rasch
Anth
wandelten und an die sich immer wieder veränderten
sozialen und wirtschaftlichen Bedingungen anpassten.
Kim zeigt, dass der Konfuzianismus nicht einfach nur
von einer Generation zur nächsten übergeben wurde,
sondern dass er aktiv in die sozialen und kulturellen
Umwälzungen involviert ist.
Der Aufsatz von Ch’oe Kil-söng “Der Glaube an
böswillige Geister” (95-109) konzentriert sich auf eine
Sammlung von religiösen Ideen, die als Hauptalterna-
tive zum Konfuzianismus betrachtet wird. Die Rituale
für die Toten untersuchend, stellt Ch’oe fest, dass der
Konfuzianismus auf der einen Seite Verwandtschaft be-
tont und dazu tendiert, die sozial Unterpriviligierten zu
benachteiligen. Der Schamanismus hingegen wird als
ein Hilfsmittel betrachtet, sich um die Toten zu küm-
mern, die in den konfuzianischen Riten ignoriert werden.
Ch’oe schlägt vor, dass konfuzianische Ahnenverehrung
und schamanistische Rituale für die Toten allgemein als
ein einziges komplementäres Set von Ritualen für tote
Familienmitglieder und Verwandte betrachtet werden.
Der Aufsatz von Hidemura Kenji “Sozialer Wandel
und Christentum in der modernen südkoreanischen Ge-
sellschaft” (111-127) beschäftigt sich mit dem Chri-
stentum im Südkorea. Sein historischer Bericht über Ko-
reas protestantische Konfessionen führt hin zur großen
Erneuerungsbewegung von 1907, die erheblich zu der
spirituellen Tendenz beigetragen hat, die immer noch
vielen südkoreanischen Kirchen ihren eigenen Ausdruck
verleiht. Anhand von zwei ethnographischen Fallstudien
illustriert der Autor die Vielfalt der südkoreanischen
Christenheit aufgrund der verschiedenen sozialen Um-
wälzungen, die die Menschen erfahren haben. Als einer
der Hauptgründe der wachsenden Anzahl von Gläu-
bigen macht der Autor die Urbanität aus. Hidemura
zeigt, wie Frauen, die dem männerorientierten Konfu-
zianismus eher entfremdet sind, im Christentum einen
modernen Ersatz für den Schamanismus suchen und
sodann mit Hilfe des Christentums neue soziale Netz-
werke aufbauen in einer nichtfamiliären Umgebung. Mit
Blick auf Japan zeigt Hidemura, wie das Christentum
im Vergleich zur japanischen Situation einen absolut
unterschiedlichen Kurs eingeschlagen hat - begründet
in den anderen sozialen und wirtschaftlichen Bedingun-
gen in Japan.
Yoo Myung-ki führt mit ihrem Aufsatz “Gemein-
schaft und Verwandtschaft in einem südkoreanischen
Dorf’ (129-138) Beispiele der Vererbung und Ah-
nenverehrung an, die nicht mit den standardisierten
konfuzianischen Formen (die das Erstgeburtsrecht beto-
nen) konform gehen. Diese alternativen Praktiken der
Gleichberechtigung beim Erbe sind besonders weit
verbreitet auf den der Küste Südkoreas vorgelagerten
Inseln. Yoo schließt ihre Untersuchung mit der Überle-
gung ab, dass ein einziges Verwandtschaftsmodell nicht
für die gesamte koreanische Gesellschaft gelten kann.
Yoo befürwortet daher die Annahme eines dualen Ver-
wandtschaftsmodell, welches für das Nachbarland China
schon 1990 von Myron Cohen vorgeschlagen wurde.
Suenari Michios Untersuchung zur koreanischen Ver-
wandtschaft (139-155) besteht auf einer nochmali-
'ropos 96.2001
310
Rezensionen
gen Prüfung des Konzeptes der Blutsverwandtschaft.
Die von ihm untersuchten Aktionsgruppen setzen sich
aus unilateralen Verwandten zusammen, anstatt aus Li-
neagesegmenten. Und daraus folgernd schlägt Suenari
vor, dass man bei den vergleichenden Untersuchun-
gen ostasiatischer Verwandtschaft dieses Konzept der
Verwandtschaft als ein analytisches Werkzeug einsetzt.
Er empfiehlt ebenfalls, dieses Konzept auch für die
Erforschung der Geschichte von Abstammungsgruppen
zu nutzen.
Itö Abito untersucht in seinem Aufsatz (157-169)
die Leitungspositionen in Entwicklungsbewegungen
von zwei Dorfgemeinschaften, die beide unter starker
Regierungskontrolle stehen, aber in unterschiedlichem
politischen Milieu angesiedelt sind (eine während der
japanischen Besatzungszeit von 1919-1945 und die
andere unter der Verwaltung von Park Chung-hee von
1961-1979). Itö vergleicht die Beziehungen zwischen
den Regierungsverwaltern und der lokalen Gemeinschaft
in den beiden historischen Zeiträumen und hebt be-
sonders die Unterschiede hervor. Daneben betont er
die Wichtigkeit, die Interaktion der Regierung mit der
lokalen Gemeinschaft zu untersuchen und herauszufin-
den, wie diese Interaktion von den Konzeptionen der
Dorfgemeinschaften gestaltet wird.
Die Aufsätze von Roger Janelli und Dawnhee Yim,
sowie von Asakura Toshio fokussieren die nichtver-
wandtschaftlichen Beziehungen im gegenwärtigen Süd-
korea und untersuchen ihre Verbindungen zu früheren
Zeitperioden. Janelli und Yim (“Die Genealogie des
‘Harmoniebestrebens’ zwischen Mitarbeitern eines süd-
koreanischen Konglomerates”; 171-190) betrachten die
Strategien, wodurch männliche Angestellte in den Büros
einer modernen südkoreanischen Firma versuchen, posi-
tive Beziehungen zu ihren Mitarbeitern aufzubauen und
zu behalten. Die Autoren verweisen auch auf Beispiele
ähnlicher Konstellationen in Amerika und Japan.
Asakura Toshios Aufsatz mit dem Titel “Aspekte der
Yangbanisation” (191-211) untersucht die Ausweitung
von Elitepraktiken auf die gegenwärtige südkoreanische
Gesellschaft, die früher nur mit der Yangban-Ober-
schicht assoziert wurden. Diese Ausweitung bezeichnet
er als “Yangbanisierung”. Asakura weist zum Schluss
auf Parallelentwicklungen hin, einmal in der japanischen
Gesellschaft (Samuraisierung) und in der Gesellschaft
auf Okinawa (Munchuisierung).
Den Sammelband beschließt ein Aufsatz von James
Watson (“Yangbanisierung in vergleichender Perspek-
tive. Ein Blick von Südchina aus”; 213-227), einem
Chinaexperten. Watson greift einige der Hauptthemati-
ken der hier vorgestellten Studien auf und stellt Ver-
gleiche zwischen Südchina und der südkoreanischen
Gesellschaft in den Mittelpunkt. Das Phänomen der
Yangbanisierung vergleicht Watson mit einer parallelen
Entwicklung der “Oberschichtbildung” im südöstlichen
China. Während die Koreanisten in ihren Untersuchun-
gen demonstrierten, dass das Verstehen der koreanischen
Gesellschaft viel von den Vergleichen mit Studien der
Nachbarländer (vor allem China und Japan) profitiert,
zeigt Watsons Studie, dass umgekehrt die Analyse der
chinesischen Gesellschaft von der Ethnographie Koreas
ebenfalls großen Nutzen ziehen kann.
Abschließend möchte die Rezensentin den Sam-
melband von Shima und Janelli den an ostasiatischen
Gesellschaften interessierten Ethnologen besonders im
Hinblick auf vergleichende Forschungen empfehlen.
Astrid Winterhaider
Sieber, Roy, and Frank Herreman (eds.): Hair in
African Art and Culture. München: Prestel Verlag, 2000.
192 pp. ISBN 3-7913-2291-5. Price: DM 98,00
This volume was prepared to accompany a traveling
exhibit on hair in African art and culture. It consists
of 164 beautiful colour illustrations of the artefacts
shown in this exhibit, 15 black and white illustrations
of other objects, and 118 black and white photographs
showing how Africans treat and wear their hair. There
are also a “Prologue” and “History” of hair in Africa
(Roy Sieber), a useful bibliography, and fourteen essays
of varying lengths and value: (1) Niangi Batulukusi:
“Hair in African Art and Culture”; (2) Frank Herreman:
“Sculptural Modes of Representing Coiffures”; (3) Wil-
liam Siegmann: “Women’s Hair and Sowei Masks in
Southern Sierra Leone and Western Liberia”; (4) Elze
Bruyninx: “Coiffures of the Dan and Wé of Ivory Coast
in 1938-1939”; (5) Roy Sieber: “A Note on Hair and
Mourning, Especially in Ghana”; (6) Babatunde Lawal:
“Orilonse. The Hermeneutics of the Head and Hairstyles
among the Yoruba”; (7) James H. Vaughan: “Hairstyles
among the Margi”; (8) Els De Palmenaer: “Mangbetu
Hairstyles and the Art of Seduction: ‘Lipombo’”; (9)
Manuel Jordán: “Hair Matters in South Central Africa”;
(10) Barbara Thompson: “Cross Dressing for the Spirits
in Shamba Ughanga”; (11) Roy Sieber: “A Note on
Gender Reversal”; (12) Karel Nel: “Headrests and Hair
Ornaments. Signifying more than Status”; (13) Mariama
Ross: “Rasta Hair, US and Ghana. Personal Note”; (14)
Kennell Jackson: “What Is Really Happening Here?
Black Hair among African Americans and in American
Culture.”
The most valuable feature of this volume is the
striking collection of 118 photographs showing African
hairstyles. Many of these photographs are from earlier
decades and form an invaluable record in themselves ot
how Africans appeared and behaved. These photographs
are often placed near photographs of artefacts represent-
ing similar styles and objects. Throughout this collection
the placement and sequence of photographs constitute
an integral part of the way valuable information is
conveyed.
The fourteen essays in this collection vary strikingly
in length and value. All but two are by art historians
(Vaughan is an anthropologist and Jackson an historian)-
All are of some anthropological interest, but most are
more likely to appeal to the casual museum-viewer and
not to serious scholars. Many are merely descriptive
accounts of how, when, and where Africans wore then-
hair or how accurately wooden sculptures portrayed
such grooming. Little or no indications of what hah
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
311
or grooming signified to Africans are found in most of
the essays. Instead, they are descriptive, though some-
times with valuable quotations from earlier, historically
significant writings (Sieber). It seems clear that where
an essay is truly informative, it is because it has been
influenced by an anthropological and/or sociological
approach to culture and society. One essay, that by
Lawal, constitutes a major scholarly contribution to
understanding beliefs, symbolism, art, and ritual in an
African culture, in this case, that of the author, the Yor-
uba. An essay by Siegmann on women’s Sande masks
also provides much useful ethnographic material and
explanation about Sande artefacts and the significance
of hair. The rest of the essays are essentially descriptive
though Thompson’s hardly makes much sense even in
these terms since it is under two pages long and Ross’s
is not only brief but mainly about herself.
The title of this collection is somewhat misleading
since it deals only with headhair. Of course, African
cultures are concerned with other aspects of hair besides
that on the head; body hair is sometimes shaved and
relates to complex ideas about humanity. It is sometimes
portrayed in sculpture, but anything below the neck
seems out of bounds in these essays.
The excellent photographs, the articles by Lawal
and Siegmann, and the useful bibliography make this
a useful contribution to anthropological understanding.
T. O. Beidelman
Simoons, Frederick J.: Plants of Life, Plants of
Death. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press,
1998. 568 pp. ISBN 0-299-15904-3. Price: $ 34.95
Frederick J. Simoons stellt in diesem Buch magi-
sche, rituelle und religiöse Bedeutungen ausgewählter
Pflanzen von der antiken Zeit bis in die Gegenwart vor,
Vvobei er ein weites geographisches Gebiet von Amerika
bis Asien mit besonderem Schwerpunkt auf Indien und
Europa einschließt.
Nach einer Einführung (Kap. 1, “Introduction”) be-
fasst er sich zunächst in Kap. 2 (“Tulsi, Holy Basil of
Ihe Hindus; with Notes on Sweet Basil in the Mediterra-
nean World”) mit Ocimum sanctum, einer aromatischen
Easilienkrautart, die in Indien tulsi oder tulasi genannt
^ird und - einst wie heute - dort als heilige Pflanze gilt
und sowohl in Tempeln als auch im häuslichen Bereich
Verehrt wird.
Kap. 3 (“Sacred Fig-Trees of India”) ist den Rie-
Senbanyanbäumen Ficus religiosa und Ficus indica ge-
Wldmet, die im Hinduismus ebenfalls als heilig erachtet
Werden. Früheste Nachweise hierzu gibt es aus der Zeit
ber Industalkultur (Harappa, ca. 2500-1700 BC).
In Kap. 2 und 3 stellt der Autor zunächst botanische
*nformationen und die Verbreitung der Pflanzen vor
ünd erläutert ihnen zuerkannte Eigenschaften: Sowohl
Ocimum sanctum als auch Ficus religiosa und Ficus
l^dica gewähren Schutz vor Bösem, wirken reinigend,
üaben Bedeutung beim zeremoniellen Eid und üben
^eilende Wirkungen aus, z. B. gegen Kinderlosigkeit
und auch generell durch die Vertreibung Krankheiten
Anthropos 96.2001
verursachender Geister. Das Sammeln von Ocimum
sanctum für hinduistische Zeremonien unterliegt Re-
geln (z. B. nicht durch Frauen, nicht bei Nacht). Ficus
spp. wird zudem im Hinduismus und Buddhismus die
Eigenschaft zuerkannt, Wünsche erfüllen zu können. Es
bestehen verschiedene weitere Assoziationen mit der
Transzendenz: Ocimum sanctum wird mit Gottheiten
(u. a. Vishnu) assoziiert. Unter einem Ficus religiosa
wiederum wurde Buddha erleuchtet (Bodhi Baum) und
Vishnu geboren. In Banyanbäumen (Ficus indica, Ficus
religiosa) können gute und böse Geister wohnen.
Anschließend wendet sich Simoons Pflanzen von
traditioneller Bedeutung im westlichen Kulturbereich
zu: Mandrake (Mandragora officinarum, Mandragora
autumnalis', Kap. 4, “Mandrake, a Root Human in Form;
with Notes on Ginseng”), die er mit Ginseng (Panax
ginseng) in Ostasien vergleicht, und Knoblauch (.Allium
sativum) und verwandten Zwiebeln (v.a. die Küchen-
zwiebel, Allium cepa\ Kap. 5, “A Question of Odor?
Garlic and Its Relatives as Impure Foods in the Area
from Europe to China”). Mandrake und Ginseng haben
beide einen menschenähnlich geformten Wurzelstock,
der ihre magisch-religiöse Bedeutung stark beeinflusste.
Der Unterschied zwischen beiden besteht darin, dass
Mandrake, die im frühen Europa und Nahen Osten
bedeutsam war, heute bedeutungslos geworden ist, der
Ginseng dagegen hat in Ostasien bis heute seine Bedeu-
tung als wichtige Heilpflanze gewahrt.
Der Autor beschreibt Verbreitung, Handel und Fäl-
schungen von Mandrake. Verwendet wurde Mandrake
zur Förderung von Liebe, Fruchtbarkeit, Wohlstand,
in der Heilkunde (sowohl als Allheilmittel als auch
gegen Einzelleiden). Weiterhin kann Mandrake “mad-
ness” heilen, aber auch hervorrufen. Sie sollte einerseits
böse Geister vertreiben, wurde aber auch für Hexerei
verwendet. Überlieferungen zufolge hingen Solomons
Weisheit, die Macht Alexanders des Großen und der
Erfolg von Jeanne d’Arc damit zusammen, dass sie alle
ein Stück Mandrake bei sich trugen. Sammeln und Um-
gang mit Mandrake wird von Verhaltensregeln begleitet.
Der Autor zeigt Zusammenhänge mit der Alraune auf.
Kap. 5 beinhaltet die Darstellung der Bedeutung des
Knoblauchs von Europa bis China sowie Verwendungen
von Knoblauch und anderen Zwiebeln, insbesondere
Zusammenhänge mit Mächten des Jenseits. Sie gel-
ten als schlecht riechend - und da die menschlichen
Ausdünstungen nach ihrem Genuss unangenehm und
intensiv sind, werden sie von religiösen Personen bzw.
Respektspersonen und generell vor magisch-religiösen
Anlässen gemieden. Andererseits vertreiben sie durch
ihren Geruch das Böse (z. B. den Bösen Blick oder
böse Geister) und wirken dadurch krankheitsheilend
und vertreiben den Tod. Sie werden als Aphrodisiaka,
Stärkungsmittel und Stimulanzien verwendet.
Anschließend wendet sich Simoons verschiedenen
Bohnenarten zu, denen historisch-magisch-rituelle Auf-
merksamkeit zukommt: Vigna mungo (Kap. 6), Vicia
faba (Kap. 7-9). In Kap. 6 (“Ritual Use and Avoidance
of the Urd Bean [Vigna mungo] in India”) führt der
Autor zunächst unter Einbeziehung des Kastenwesens
312
Rezensionen
und der Farbsymbolik die hinduistischen Vorstellungen
über Unreinheit aus. Auf dieser Grundlage erläutert
er dann die rituelle Bedeutung - besonders das Mei-
dungsgebot - verschiedener Nahrungsmittel, vor allem
der urd-Bohne (weiterhin Sesam, Fleisch, alkoholische
Getränke, Salz, Pilze). Er weist auf die Lebendigkeit der
Bedeutung in der Gegenwart und ihre Übereinstimmung
mit den jahrtausendealten vedischen Schriften hin.
Kap. 7 (“The Color Black in the Pythagorean Ban
of the Fava Bean [Vicia faba]”) behandelt antike Ess-
verbote und weitere Meidungsgebote der Fava-Bohne,
besonders durch Pythagoras und die Pythagoräer, ferner
weitere Beispiele aus dem alten Griechenland und Rom
(wie Demeter-Kult, Orphiker). In diesem Kapitel legt
der Autor den Schwerpunkt auf die magisch-religiösen
Erklärungen der Meidungsgebote. Im folgenden Kap. 8
(“Favism and the Origin of the Pythagorean Ban on
Fava Beans”) diskutiert der Autor dann medizinische
Erklärungen der pythagoräischen Meidung der Fava-
Bohnen und erläutert den Favismus (eine Form des erbli-
chen Glukose-6-Phosphatdehydrogenase-Mangels, der
im Mittelmeerraum verbreitet ist; nach dem Genuss
von Fava-Bohnen kommt es innerhalb von Stunden
oder wenigen Tagen zu einer schweren, u.U. lebensbe-
drohlichen hämolytischen Anämie mit Hämoglobinurie).
Eindeutige historische Belege für ein Vorkommen bzw.
eine Identifikation des Favismus und vor allem seine
Assoziation mit Fava-Bohnen stellt er nicht fest. In
Kap. 9 (“Pythagoras Lives: Parallels and Survivals of
His Views of Beans in Modern and Premodern Times”)
erläutert der Autor heutige Ansichten und Vorstellungen
über Bohnen und vergleicht sie mit den magisch-religiö-
sen Vorstellungen zur Zeit des Pythagoras. So zeigt er
Ähnlichkeiten zu Vorstellungen über und Assoziationen
von Bohnen mit Fruchtbarkeit, Liebe, Heirat ebenso wie
mit Tod und Verstorbenen z. B. in Europa, Ägypten und
Indien auf.
In Kap. 10 (“Further Notes, Elaborations, and Con-
clusions”) schneidet der Autor verschiedene weitere
Charakteristika von Pflanzen an, die als Grundlage
magisch-religiöser Bedeutungszuweisungen dienen, vor
allem Dornigkeit, Geruch, Größe, Alter, Bewegung,
Geräusche (z. B. durch Bewegen der Blätter im Wind),
Samen, Absonderungen, Form, Farbe, Standort (“heilige
Plätze”), Eigenheit des Wachsens (z. B. Würgfeigen)
sowie Erscheinungen beim Menschen nach Verzehr (wie
Flatulenz). Eine Vielzahl an Anmerkungen, eine aus-
führliche Bibliographie und ein Index runden das Buch
ab.
Simoons zeigt die Vielfalt der Zusammenhänge zwi-
schen Mensch und Pflanzen unter besonderer Gewich-
tung der magisch-religiösen oder rituellen Seite auf.
Dabei sieht er das Hautanliegen des Menschen in der
Wahrung und Förderung der Interessen seines Familien-
und Gruppenverbands - im Unterschied zur heutigen
Tendenz in der US-amerikanischen Jugend, das Selbst
und die Altersgruppe sowie materielle Wünsche in den
Vordergrund zu stellen.
Der Verfasser vertritt die Ansicht, dass der Umgang
mit den genannten Pflanzen primär auf die Absicherung
der menschlichen Grundinteressen (unmittelbares Wohl-
ergehen, Fruchtbarkeit, Gesundheit, Schutz vor Gewalt,
vor dem Bösen, vor Krankheit und Tod) in magisch-re-
ligiöser Form zielt. Eine - bewusste oder unbewusste -
Erkenntnis von biomedizinischen Effekten stellt er in
eine Gruppe mit materiell-deterministischen (Marvin
Harris), ernährungsbezogenen und umwelttechnischen
Aspekten, die er alle für höchstens sekundär hält. Dies
führt er am Beispiel des Favismus, vor allem mit Blick
auf das pythagoräische Meidungsgebot der Fava-Boh-
nen, detailliert aus.
Hinsichtlich der Heilkunde jedoch, die ja meist
auch eine Pflanzenheilkunde beinhaltet, unterschätzt der
Autor den Wert des Erfahrungswissens. Die Heilkundi-
gen Samoas, z. B., bevorzugen wirkungsvolle Pflanzen
schon aus praktischem Interesse gegenüber unwirksa-
men - nicht immer lässt sich die Wirkungslosigkeit von
Pflanzen mit Hinweis auf die Transzendenz abfangen,
dazu ist das Interesse von Erkrankten und Gemeinschaft
an der Gesundheit zu groß - vor allem, wenn es woan-
ders ein wirksames Kraut gibt. Auch die polynesische
Vorstellung des mana basiert auf Wirkfähigkeit. Mana
ist eine nicht personifizierte Kraft, die in der Transzen-
denz gründet und neben Menschen und Gegenständen
z. B. auch Pflanzen mit herausragenden Eigenschaften
(wie Heilkraft) zugeschrieben wird. Wirkungslose Pflan-
zen haben kein mana.
Der Schwerpunkt, den Simoons in seinem Buch auf
magisch-religiöse Aspekte legt, sollte folglich nicht ver-
allgemeinert werden. Und auch wenn Pythagoras selbst
vermutlich nicht an Favismus litt - möglich ist durchaus,
dass er bei anderen Menschen Krankheitserscheinun-
gen nach dem Verzehr von Fava-Bohnen beobachtete
und daraus ein Meidungsgebot ableitete - denn, wie
auch Simoons folgert und hervorhebt, galt das Interesse
derzeit nicht nur dem Selbst, sondern vor allem der
Gemeinschaft.
Der Autor eröffnet den Lesern eine ungeahnte Fülle
an religionshistorischem Wissen, das er zudem in fas-
zinierende Zusammenhänge untereinander stellt. Vieles
bleibt nur angedeutet und lässt die Vielfalt erahnen, die
sich bei einem tiefergehenden Studium eröffnen wird.
Alexandra Dittmar
Sjdrslev, Inger: Glaube und Besessenheit. Ein Be-
richt über die Candomblé-Religion in Brasilien. Gifken-
dorf: Merlin Verlag, 1999. 622 pp. ISBN 3-926112-81 -6.
(Merlins Bibliothek der geheimen Wissenschaften und
magischen Künste, 11)
Die Habilitationsschrift im Fach Ethnologie an der
Universität Kopenhagen erschien 1995 in dänischer
Sprache. Die hier vorliegende deutsche Übersetzung
hat nichts an Aktualität eingebüßt, besitzt doch der
Candomblé traditionsgemäß ein großes Beharrungsver-
mögen, so dass selbst weiter zurückliegende Ereig'
nisse - die Feldforschung erstreckt sich über einen
Zeitraum von insgesamt 2 Jahren zwischen 1979 und
1994 - auch heute noch in derselben Weise geschehen
könnten.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
313
Der “Bericht” über den Candomblé ist eher ein auto-
biographischer “Bekehrungsroman” der Autorin als eine
wissenschaftliche Abhandlung über eine moderne Reli-
gionsform mit antiken Wurzeln. Ethnographie in Form
einer biographischen Selbstdarstellung zu schreiben, ist
immer eine Gratwanderung zwischen dem Banalen,
Selbstverständlichen und manchmal auch Peinlichen und
der wissenschaftlichen Information. Die wissenschaftli-
che Information, die hier geboten wird, ist solide und
durch die Literatur belegt. Die gedankliche Verarbeitung
der Forschungsdaten ist ausgezeichnet, so dass sie zur
weiteren Reflexion über die Phänomene des Candomblé
anregt. Gut die Hälfte des Buches aber besteht aus
Schilderungen der persönlichen Eindrücke des sozialen
und geographischen Umfelds, der Schwierigkeiten, sich
in einem fremden Land und einer anderen Kultur zu-
rechtzufinden, der Höhen und Tiefen menschlicher Be-
gegnungen und Freundschaften. So ist es für einen wis-
senschaftlich interessierten Leser mühsam, sich durch
die Fülle des Erzählstoffs hindurchzuarbeiten, um unter
all dem kulturell-menschlichen Abraum die religions-
wissenschaftlichen Goldkörner zu finden. Vielleicht ist
diese Tatsache auch dafür verantwortlich, dass das Buch
einer “esoterischen” Reihe eines Verlags erschienen
ist, der keinerlei wissenschaftliche Reputation genießt.
Das “Vorwort” (7-14) präsentiert eine kurze Ge-
schichte und Erklärung des Candomblé als afrobrasilia-
uische Religion mit Wurzeln in den westafrikanischen
Kulturen der Yoruba-, Ewe- und Ashantistämme sowie
der zentralafrikanischen Bantuvölker. Das Kapitel “Die
heiligen Kammern” (15-65) schildert ausführlich den
historischen Hintergrund des Candomblé, das Problem
der Rassen in Brasilien und die Grundelemente der
afrobrasilianischen Religion. Im Kapitel “Das Glau-
hensparadoxon” (66-119) beschreibt die Autorin ein
Paradox”, das sie zwischen “Glauben” und “Magie”
sieht und auf die Menschen des Candomblé überträgt:
Meine Verwunderung beruhte erneut auf Vorstellungen,
die ich in meinem kulturellen Gepäck mitgebracht hatte”
(86). Das Problem des Paradoxen besteht allenfalls zwi-
Schen der engen, protestantischen Glaubensauffassung
der Autorin und dem in Brasilien praktizierten Synkre-
hsmus von afrikanischer Religion und Völkskatholizis-
mus. Dasselbe “Paradoxon” könnte sie auch im Herzen
Kuropas an allen Marienwallfahrtsorten feststellen. Die
Menschen in Brasilien aber kennen kein Glaubenspara-
h°x, leben in keinem Paradox, noch reflektieren sie über
dieses Problem. Für sie ist aller Glaube “magisch” struk-
türiert - ob es sich um den Candomblé, den Spiritismus,
h£n Katholizismus oder den Protestantismus handelt.
Das Kapitel “Die göttliche Parodie” (120-179) be-
treibt das Phänomen der “Caboclos”, einer brasilia-
eschen Spielart von Orixäs, die die Neue Welt der In-
t°s verkörpern. Die Caboclos repräsentieren das Wilde,
^zivilisierte und zugleich Ursprüngliche. Sie sind ein
tück Chaos und Ursprünglichkeit. Durch die Parodie
bes Männlichen zeigen die Frauen, die von Caboclos
. Jessen werden, ihre verborgene männliche Seite und
Vernehmen dadurch im rituellen Vollzug ein Stück weit
acht, die ihnen im alltäglichen Leben versagt ist. Im
Anthropos 96.2001
Kapitel “Der kosmische Schelm” (180-236) geht die
Autorin näher auf die Tricksterfigur “Exu” ein, die eine
Vermittlerrolle zwischen Mensch und Gott einnimmt.
Er ist der Bote der göttlichen Wirklichkeit, durch den
das Jenseits mit seinen Botschaften an den Menschen
erst verständlich wird. Seine groteske und übertriebene
Sexualität ist das Zeichen für die Liminalität, für den
Grenzbereich des Seins, für das Überschreiten von Ta-
bus: “Er ist der westafrikanische Götterbote; er ist der
magische Meister der Neuen Welt; er ist der literarische
Held und Deuter der schwarzen Kultur, aber er ist auch
das Symbol der Individualität” (235). Dadurch verkör-
pert er auch das Böse und Unvorhersehbare, die innere
Unordnung des Menschen und die immer vorhandene
Versuchung zum Verstoß gegen die Ordnung.
“Das Schicksal auf der Palmeninsel” (237-297) be-
schreibt den Umgang mit Behinderten im Candomblé,
der in gewisser Weise eine therapeutische Wirkung
für das Außenseitertum der Gesellschaft anbietet. “Die
Kunst des Fallens” (298-353) führt in die symbolischen
Phasen der Neugeburt durch die Initiation ein. Kernele-
ment der Initiation ist die Trance, die in der gespielten
Rolle mythischer Traditionen die Brücke zwischen Dies-
seits und Jenseits bildet. Tod und Leben bedeuten nicht
endgültige Trennung, sondern den Zustand ursprünglich
gemeinschaftlichen Seins und individueller Existenz.
Beide Seinsweisen werden durch die Trance wieder ver-
bunden und gegenwärtig gesetzt. “Die Rolle [in Trance]
als Werkzeug der Götter und die Initiation müssen im
weitesten Sinn als eine Metapher verstanden werden. Sie
sind eine Metapher des Allgemeingültigen und der Exis-
tenzbedingungen ...” (334), schreibt die Autorin. Diese
Interpretation scheint mir zu wenig. Besser am Platz
wäre hier der Begriff der sakramentalen Verbindung des
Menschen mit der Übernatur, denn durch das Sakrament
wird die gespielte Rolle oder das äußere Zeichen zu
einer effektiven, Wirksamkeit garantierenden Handlung
im Jenseits, die das Diesseits verändert.
“Der Tod und die Rückkehr” (354-402) handelt von
den Totengeistern, die die Lebenden bedrohen können,
wenn sie nicht in formal richtiger Weise “entsandt”
(despachado) wurden. Die Toten kehren in die ursprüng-
liche Einheit des Seins zurück, verlieren sozusagen ihre
Individualität. Ihre Rückkehr durch eine Wiedergeburt
ist der Laune der Götter überlassen. “Es ist ... ein
ständiger Kreislauf. Heraus aus der Materie, hinein ins
Leben, wieder zurück und dann die Wiedergeburt. Ein
Hin und Her, eine oszillierende Bewegung; das Leben
als kleine Blasen auf der Ursuppe, Blasen, die wie
Exus Urform eine Beule bilden, aber danach wieder
verschwinden” (401). In “Die Geister der Großstadt”
(403-464) begegnet der Leser einer städtischen Variante
des Candomblé in Säo Paulo, in der das Ursprüngli-
che weitgehend zivilisiert und kommerzialisiert ist. Die
Schwelle zur Scharlatanerie scheint hier überschritten.
“Das Opfer und die Kraft” (465-507) schildert den
Ablauf von Tieropfern und deutet deren Sinn. “Wenn
man opfert, gibt man den Göttern Kraft und erhält
dadurch Kraft für sich. Axé ist, Pierre Verger zufolge, die
reine, immaterielle Kraft, die durch den Orixa dargestellt
314
wird” (501). Es besteht eine enge Verbindung zwischen
dem Opfertier und dem Menschen in Trance: der Orixa
erscheint genau zu dem Zeitpunkt, an dem das Blut
fließt, um durch den Mund der in Trance Gefallenen
Blut zu trinken. Die reale Öffnung des Tierkörpers
symbolisiert die Öffnung des menschlichen Körpers, um
seinen Orixa empfangen zu können. Der Mensch ist auf
dieser symbolischen Ebene zugleich Opfer und Opferer.
Das abschließende Kapitel “Die Götter sind wir”
(508-558) beschreibt ein “Bori”, die erste Initiations-
phase mit Opferritus, das die Autorin an sich selbst voll-
ziehen ließ, um so volles Mitglied in der Candomblé-Ge-
meinde werden zu können. Die Frage, die sich hier stellt,
ist, ob es ethisch verantwortbar ist, als Außenstehender
und “Nichtgläubiger” religiöse Rituale an sich vollzie-
hen zu lassen, die für die beteiligte Candomblé-Ge-
meinde eine existenzielle Bedeutung besitzen. Es grenzt
immer an ein Sakrileg, das “Heilige” anderer für “pro-
fane” Zwecke (hier der Wissenschaft) zu benützen. Ob
ein solcher ritueller Mitvollzug wirklich eine tiefere Ein-
sicht in das Gedankengebäude des Candomblé bringen
kann, wage ich zu bezweifeln. Die Rituale sind längst
bekannt und beschrieben. Das persönliche Erleben eines
solchen Rituals ist nicht unbedingt identisch mit dem
Erleben des Rituals durch eine Afrobrasilianerin. Wo
also liegt der Erkenntniszugewinn, wenn nicht in purer
Neugier?
“Die Götter sind wir” ist ein abschließender Ver-
such, das Phänomen des Candomblé psychologisch zu
deuten. Da man von einer erwachsenen Protestantin aus
Dänemark nicht erwarten kann, dass sie sich plötzlich
mit Leib und Seele einer archaischen, magisch-rituellen
Religionspraxis Brasiliens verschreibt, stellt die Auto-
rin als Fazit fest, dass der ganze Götterhimmel der
Orixas mit ihren Tugenden und Schwächen nichts weiter
als eine Projektion der menschlichen Psyche ist. Der
Mensch selber projiziert sich und seine Welt in die
Transzendenz, um von dort die Bestätigung seiner selbst
zu erhalten. Das menschliche Ich mit seinen Höhen
und Tiefen, seinen guten und schlechten Seiten spiegelt
sich in seinem Orixa wider, von dem es wiederum
neue Lebenskraft und Heilung seiner Schwächen erfährt.
Im Grunde genommen gibt es keine Kommunikation
mit der Transzendenz, ist alles Fiktion, erklärbar aus
historischen Wurzeln afrikanischer Herkunft, sozialer
Unterdrückung und rassischer Diskriminierung. Religi-
on als ein Werkzeug zum besseren Überleben in einer
Welt der Widerwärtigkeiten.
Hier liegt der eigentliche Widerspruch dieses Buches.
Die Kapitel sind teilweise faszinierend geschrieben, vor
allem, wenn man selber das Milieu und die Menschen
kennt. Die Beobachtung ist wirklich “teilnehmend”, wie
es sich der Ethnologe nur wünschen kann. Dennoch
ereignet sich diese Teilnahme von einer anderen War-
te aus, aus einer inneren Glaubensdistanz zu diesen
Menschen des Candomblé, die nicht den Sprung in
die transzendentale Kommunikationswelt wagt. Und es
bleibt die bohrende Frage: Kann man diese Menschen
und ihre Religion wirklich verstehen, wenn man selber
nicht den Glauben an die Transzendenz besitzt?
Rezensionen
Anerkennung verdienen die sehr gute abschließende
Beschreibung der einzelnen Gottheiten des Candomblé
(“Götter und Geister”), die angefügten Fotografien aus
einigen Ritualen (wenn auch in schlechter Druckqua-
lität), das ausführliche Glossar der afrobrasilianischen
Begriffe, das nach den Kapiteln geordnete, kommentier-
te Literaturverzeichnis sowie eine umfangreiche Biblio-
graphie. Sprachliche Fehler und Ungenauigkeiten trüben
etwas das sonst positive Bild dieser Veröffentlichung. So
heißen die Heiligen “Cosme e Damiäo” im Deutschen
nicht “Cosmus und Damianus” (so 124), sondern “Kos-
mas und Damian”; ihre Verehrung ist nicht im Italien
des 14. Jhs. aufgekommen (so 225), sondern ist bereits
im 5. Jh. in Kleinasien (Kilikien und Syrien) und im 6.
Jh. in Rom belegt; viele portugiesische und afrikanische
Begriffe sind falsch oder falsch übersetzt: so gibt es
keine “egumen” (254), sondern nur “egün” (auch das
Plural “s” wird nicht für die Mehrzahl gebraucht, wie
es die Autorin allenthalben tut); es gibt keine italienische
“Sancta Lucia” (288), sondern nur eine “Santa Lucia”;
die “mäe de santo” / der “pai de Santo” ist keine
Priesterin / kein Priester (148), sondern eine Mutter-
/ Vaterfigur symbolischer Verwandtschaft. Priester ist
der “babalorixä”, Priesterin die “iyalorixa”; das weiße
Pulver heißt manchmal “pempa”, dann wieder “pem-
ba” (was richtig ist); einiges ist ganz verstümmelt, so
dass man den Text nur erraten kann wie beispielsweise
“despachar a port” (wahrscheinlich: despachar à porta)
(436). Schade, dass bei der Korrektur des Buches nicht
mehr Sorgfalt waltete; denn die sprachlichen Ungenau-
igkeiten könnten vermuten lassen, dass die Autorin auch
inhaltlich nicht sehr genau gearbeitet hat.
Joachim G. Piepke
Suhrbier, Birgit Mona: Die Macht der Gegen-
stände. Menschen und ihre Objekte am oberen Xingü,
Brasilien. Marburg: Curupira, 1998. 245 pp. ISBN 3-
8185-0258-7. (Reihe Curupira, 6) Preis: DM 42,00
Birgit M. Suhrbier unternimmt den theoretisch an-
spruchsvollen Versuch, zu einer wechselseitigen Erhel-
lung von ideeller, repräsentationaler Kultur und mate-
rieller Kultur vorzustoßen. Die sog. materielle Kultur
ist nicht einfach ein beiläufiger Teil des kulturellen
Gesamtgeschehens, den man der Vollständigkeit halber
nicht vernachlässigen sollte. Der essentielle Beitrag von
materieller Kultur geht daraus hervor, daß er der relativ
stabile, selbst geschaffene Teil der menschlichen Um-
welt ist. Menschen sind auf Dinge angewiesen.
Weshalb ist der materiellen Sphäre sowenig oder
besser gesagt zeitweilig soviel fehlgeleitete Aufmerk-
samkeit zuteil geworden? Eine Antwort verheißt die Kri-
tik von Ansätzen, die in der ethnologischen Theoriege-
schichte vertreten worden sind. Kulturhistorische, funk-
tionalistische, sozialpsychologische, historische und se-
miotische Sondierungen sind aufgetaucht, ohne daß die
Initialzündung zu einem eigenständigen Forschungs-
zweig erfolgt wäre.
Den Theoretikern fehlt es an der Bereitschaft, die
Welthaltigkeit der Dinge ernst zu nehmen. Wohin man
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
315
schaut, sie scheinen ihnen einzig und allein ein besonde-
res Etikett anheften zu wollen. Den einen ermöglichen
es die Objekte, die man in den Archiven einer ge-
duldigen, vergleichenden Betrachtung unterziehen kann,
weiträumige kulturelle Zusammenhänge in Raum und
Zeit zu konstruieren, die zu geographisch fixierbaren
Kulturtypen gerinnen (so das Musterbeispiel der Wiener
Schule). Andere wiederum, denen das soziale Leben
vorgeht, dem sie in der Empirie auflauern, können in
den Dingen nur Stützpunkte für den Zugriff sozialer
Funktionen erkennen - sei es, daß sie die Identität
einer Gruppe bekräftigen, sei es, daß sie im Kampf ums
soziale Prestige ihren unfehlbaren Einsatz erhalten (so in
der britischen Schule des Strukturfunktionalismus). Ge-
legentlich glückt es, näher an die Dinge heranzurücken,
sie in ihrer vielfältigen Dimensionalität von Material
und Gestaltung unter die Lupe zu nehmen, während
doch ihr Sinn auf den sozialen Gebrauch zurechtgestutzt
wird (exemplarisch die Analyse osteuropäischer Volks-
trachten in einer frühen Version von strukturalistischer
Semiotik).
Die berechtigte Erwartung, daß Dinge in den Augen
der Akteure auf mehreren Bedeutungsebenen zugleich
changieren und oszillieren könnten, wird, wie die Auto-
rin bemerkt, von den überprüften Theorien enttäuscht.
Auch wenn sie die Dinge wichtig nehmen, verhal-
ten sie sich ihnen gegenüber weitgehend reduktiv: ih-
re Aufmerksamkeit gilt einer einzigen Funktion, einer
Fedeutungsebene im Gesamthaushalt der jeweiligen
Kultur.
Die kritische Bilanz, daß Gegenstände, welcher Art
auch immer - seien sie nun profan, ästhetisch, litur-
gisch-sakral oder anders -, in der Ethnologie zu kurz
gekommen seien, leitet notwendig zu einer eigenen
Fingkonzeption über. Den Schlüssel dafür, wie die
Folie der materiellen Kultur im Ganzen der Kultur (und
damit auch des individuellen Denkens und Fühlens)
aufzufassen sei, schmiedet sich die Autorin, indem sie
zWei selbständige Ansätze - einen hermeneutischen und
einen psychologischen - miteinander verbindet. Mit
dem einen soll der Gegenstand in seiner symbolischen
Aussagekraft umkreist, mit dem anderen sein Platz in
der Innenwelt der Individuen gesichert werden. Weist
der bedeutsame Gegenstand wie selbstverständlich eine
s°ziale Existenz auf, so wird ihm darüber hinaus eine
Funktion in der individuellen Biographie zugewiesen,
ln einer Weise, daß er immer stärker mit der Genesis
des Selbst verschmilzt. Der Gegenstand unterstützt das
Individuum, das zu werden, was es als vollwertig aner-
kanntes Mitglied der Gruppe ist; er partizipiert an der
nnerlichkeit des Individuums.
Wenn die Autorin auf einer hermeneutischen Ebene
d'e theoretischen Einsichten von Susanne K. Langer ins
ymbolische bevorzugt, wählt sie eine der bewährten
'Möglichkeiten, die Rolle produzierter Objekte in ihrer
s°zialen Umwelt zu begreifen. Charakteristisch für Lan-
^er ist, daß sie das Auftreten und Wirken von Symbolen
^ber den ihnen traditionell zugewiesenen Ort in der
elt schriftlich verfaßter Literaturen hinaus erweitert.
Ur sie können Symbole ebenso selbstverständlich von
Aßthropos 96.2001
religiösen Riten wie alltäglichen Praktiken vermittelt
werden. Für sie sind Symbole überall, wo Menschen
sind, möglich und verlangen nach einer vielseitigen
Interpretation.
Ein kühnerer Schritt ist es, den kulturellen Gegen-
stand in die Entwicklung des Individuums aufgrund der
psychoanalytischen Auffassung von Ernst E. Boesch ein-
zuschreiben. In seiner Sicht reift das Individuum in einer
fortlaufenden Auseinandersetzung mit den Dingen, mit
denen es sich umgibt; auf sie richten sich Wünsche und
Projektionen. Boeschs Interesse gilt den wechselnden
psychologischen Rollen, die den Gegenständen während
der Herausbildung der individuellen Identität, vor allem
ihren kritischen Phasen, zufällt. Dem Gegenstand ist
ein unveräußerlicher Platz in der Innenwelt der Vor-
stellungen und Phantasmen garantiert; von daher ist er
Bestandteil der schöpferischen Substanz einer Kultur.
Von Konflikten herausgefordert, ist es der verinnerlichte
Gegenstand, dem sich das Individuum zuwenden kann,
der seinem Selbst Halt gewährt.
Wie lassen sich nun die beiden unverbundenen Ein-
sichten von Langer und Boesch zusammenziehen? Es ist
die Zweiseitigkeit des Objekts, seine Gegenwart sowohl
in der Interpretation wie im Erlebnis, die die Position
eines Beobachters umschreibt, der sich über die Welt der
Artefakte Rechenschaft ablegt. Nur durch die Parallel-
führung der hermeneutischen und der psychologischen
Einstellung hält sich der Gegenstand auf Dauer in einem
kulturellen Kontext. Die Tendenz von Gegenständen,
die als wesentlich erachtet werden, sich im Rahmen
von Repräsentationen und Praktiken zu artikulieren,
bewahrheitet sich auch am Alto Xingü.
Das Beispiel der Xingü-Völker Brasiliens - ihnen
neigt die Autorin zu - ist ein ergiebiges Terrain für
das Interesse an materieller Kultur. Zur Einführung
wird eine allgemeine Skizze der sozialen, kulturellen
etc. Verhältnisse gegeben, unter denen sich mehrere
Völker, z.T. versprengte Gruppen, im Xingü-Gebiet zu-
sammengefunden haben. Die spezifischen Bedingungen
einer Schutzzone, die von der brasilianischen Regie-
rung garantiert werden, sind wandelbar und schaffen
ein ausgeprägtes kulturelles Selbstbewußtsein. Die im
Alto Xingü siedelnden Gruppen wie etwa die Kamay-
urä werden als Vertreter eines einheitlichen kulturellen
Spektrums behandelt. Diese kulturelle Einheit, soweit
sie etwa trotz abweichender ökologischer oder ökono-
mischer Adaptationen besteht, verdankt sich allerdings
eher dem Zusammenleben in einem Reservat, dem
Austausch, dem wechselseitigen Besuch von Festen,
den Heiratsallianzen als einem langfristigen, historisch
verbürgten Zusammenhalt.
Die Xinguanos scheinen die Fähigkeit zu besitzen,
ein Ensemble von Artefakten - das doch ihrer Welt
Stabilität und Kontinuität verleiht (H. Arendt) - auf
einer schmalen, klimatisch ungünstigen Basis zu ba-
lancieren. Man entdeckt rasch eine Handvoll von Ar-
tefakten, die in erster Linie der männlichen Domäne
der Waffen angehören und für die uneingeschränkt gilt,
daß sie stabile und dauerhafte Anhaltspunkte bereitstel-
len.
316
Rezensionen
Die Autorin entwickelt ihr theoretisches Konzept in
einer eindringlichen und umfangreichen Darstellung von
Mythen und Riten der Xinguanos, soweit sie in einem
weiten Bedeutungsfeld auf die für sie bezeichnenden
Waffen wie eben Bogen und Pfeil eingehen. Statt der
erwarteten Feldstudie hat sie sich für die Auswertung
der monographischen Literatur entschieden. Sie geht
von einer Sichtung der Mythen aus; Ursprungserzäh-
lungen von der Herkunft, der Materialität und dem
Erscheinungsbild der Gegenstände, die Begebenheiten,
in die sich ihre ersten heldenhaften Benutzer verwickeln,
kommen zu Wort oder kehren in ihren wesentlichen
Passagen leitmotivisch wieder. Im ganzen sind es kaum
mehr als ein halbes Dutzend Mythen der Xinguanos, die
herangezogen werden, um die “stummen” Dinge “zum
Sprechen zu bringen”. Den Werdegang der Waffen, die
den Xinguanos zur Verfügung stehen, erschließt die
Autorin als die Entstehung einer Beziehung zwischen
Menschen und Dingen in ihrer kulturellen Eigenart.
Darauf wendet sich die Autorin der praktischen Di-
mension - dem symbolischen Handeln - zu. Sie über-
prüft das dank der Mythen gewonnene Bedeutungsprofil
der Dinge in der Praxis, an einem exemplarischen Ritus.
Nach der offenen Welt der oralen Tradition wird die
eher hermetische Welt der Initiation ins Erwachsenenal-
ter vorgestellt. Dabei werden die besonderen Formen,
das Wissen um die Gegenstände, ihre Materialität, ihre
Herstellung und ihren Gebrauch zu erlernen, in den
Vordergrund gestellt. Die Dinge sind darin gleichsam
die äußeren Protagonisten eines Dramas, das im Innern
der jungen Individuen abläuft. Die Jugendlichen können,
jeder für sich, die Tradition im Medium der Stofflich-
keit “erarbeiten”, indem sie eine Transformation ihrer
Persönlichkeit durchleben. Das Individuum erfährt dabei
nicht nur, wie es eine für es selbst und seine Alters-
genossen inszenierte kritische Übergangsphase bewälti-
gen kann, sondern auch, wie der erlernbare sinnvolle
Umgang mit den Gegenständen, deren Bedeutungen es
verinnerlicht hat, seiner noch ungefestigten, wankenden
Identität Halt gibt.
In der abschließenden Schilderung eines großen,
intertribalen Festes werden dann noch einmal die In-
nen- und die Außenansicht der Dinge, ihre allmähliche
Integration über ein soziales Drama, veranschaulicht und
zusammengeführt. Dem Yawari-Fest steht die öffent-
liche Bühne der versammelten Gemeinschaften bereit.
Wesentlich daran ist, daß sowohl der Konflikt der Ge-
nerationen wie die Bewältigung von sozialer Fremd-
heit einer spielerischen Auflösung zugeführt werden,
und daß dabei die aus der Initiation hervorgegangenen
Waffen in den Händen der beteiligten Gruppen (Alt
und Jung, Wir und Sie) zu lebendigen, unersetzlichen
Botschaften aufgewertet werden.
Objekte wie die Waffen der Xinguanos liegen im
Museum im Wartestand, aber im Verlauf von Bedeu-
tungsprozessen wie den Mythen, dem Initiationsritus
und dem Yawari-Fest, die die Autorin um sie herum
rekonstruiert, wächst ihnen eine konkrete kulturelle Prä-
senz zu. Ob dieser Rekonstruktion, in der sich herme-
neutische und psychologische Gesichtspunkte ergänzen,
die Gefahr einer allzu großen Statik anhaftet, könnte nur
eine Erfahrung an Ort und Stelle erweisen. Dank ihrer
Stringenz und Sorgfalt ist diese Arbeit eine nachdrück-
liche Aufforderung an alle Ethnologen, dem Konzept
einer materiellen Kultur einen solideren Inhalt zu geben.
Hans Voges
Thornton, Russell (ed.): Studying Native America.
Problems and Prospects. Madison: The University of
Wisconsin Press, 1998. 443 pp. ISBN 0-299-16064-5.
Price: $27.95
Diese Anthologie beschäftigt sich in 14 Beiträgen
mit “Native American Studies”, einer Studienrichtung,
die inzwischen an zahlreichen Hochschulen der USA
und Kanadas gelehrt wird. “Native American Studies”
setzen sich aus einer ganzen Reihe von Einzeldisziplinen
zusammen, sind jedoch, wie Thornton (ein Cherokee)
in seiner Einleitung betont, mehr als die Summe dieser
einzelnen Fächer. Als Zielsetzung von “Native Amer-
ican Studies” hat der Herausgeber folgende Punkte
formuliert: “to understand Native Americans, America,
and the world from the Native American indigenous
perspective and by that understanding to broaden the
knowledge and education of both Native Americans
and non-Native Americans. ... Native American studies
must also contain an understanding of America and the
wider world as Native Americans and Native Ameri-
can tribes understand both. Therefore, Native American
studies - the study of Native America - differ from
the traditional study of Native Americans in the various
academic disciplines” (5). Wie Thornton weiter betont,
sind interdisziplinäre, multidisziplinäre und vergleichen-
de Ansätze besonders wichtig, vor allem der Vergleich
mit den Erfahrungen anderer indigener Völker.
’’Native American Studies” entstanden in den USA
zur Zeit der Protestbewegung, als sowohl Schwarze
wie auch Indianer ihre Bürgerrechte einforderten und
sich die Hochschulen durch besondere Programme den
ethnischen Minderheiten öffneten. Vor allem die Er-
kenntnis, daß Indianer Nordamerikas an den Universi-
täten als Relikte einer längst vergangenen Zeit behan-
delt wurden, ohne dabei einen Bezug zur indianischen
Gegenwart herzustellen, ließ die Forderung nach einer
Disziplin, in der die aktuellen Fragen und Probleme
der Indianer behandelt werden, immer lauter erschallen-
Auch wenn “Native American Studies” schließlich in
das Lehrprogramm einiger Universitäten (vor allem in
Kalifornien) aufgenommen wurden, so führten sie dort
ein marginales Dasein und waren stets unterfinanziert
und unterbesetzt. Trotzdem konnten sie bisher drei
Jahrzehnte überleben, müssen allerdings permanent um
ihre Anerkennung ringen. Noch immer werden sie von
romantischen und stereotypen Vorstellungen überlagert,
die darauf zurückzuführen sind, daß den indianischen
Kulturen in der amerikanischen Gesellschaft bis heute
die ihnen gebührende Anerkennung und der Respekt
versagt bleiben.
Die wichtigsten der daraus resultierenden Forderun-
gen lauten: Einrichtung einer überregionalen Organisa-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
317
tion indianischer Professoren, ein nationales Förderpro-
gramm zur Unterstützung von wissenschaftlichen Stu-
dien indianischer Studenten und von Forschungsarbeiten
im Rahmen der “Native American Studies”. Die India-
ner Nordamerikas sind aufgefordert, eine ihrem Bevöl-
kerungsanteil entsprechende Zahl von Wissenschaftlern
zu stellen, die in der Forschungsarbeit ihr Bestes geben.
Die Beiträge der einzelnen Autoren (etwa die Hälfte
davon sind Native Americans) beschäftigen sich mit
der demographischen Entwicklung der Indianer Nord-
amerikas während der Kolonialzeit, Fragen der Identität
und dem “Trauma der Geschichte”. Weitere Artikel
sind einzelnen Disziplinen wie Literatur, Linguistik,
Ethnohistorie und Geschichte gewidmet, andere den
Themen Souveränität, Selbstverwaltung und Indianerge-
setzgebung, Erkenntnistheorie, Verwandtschaftssysteme,
Wissenschaft und Technologie. Im letzten Kapitel stellt
der Herausgeber, von dem insgesamt drei der Beiträge
stammen, die Frage: “Wem gehört unsere Vergangen-
heit?” Er behandelt darin das Problem der Rückgabe von
menschlichen Überresten und von Objekten indianischer
Kulturen. In einer abschließenden Betrachtung erfolgt
ein Rückblick auf die Entwicklung von “Native Ameri-
can Studies” und ein Ausblick auf zukünftige Aufgaben
und Probleme.
Die von Thomton und seinen indianischen und nicht-
•ndianischen Kollegen verfaßten Beiträge bilden eine
Fundgrube an Themen, die im heutigen Amerika noch
mimer von politischer oder wissenschaftlicher Brisanz
Slnd. Daher ist zu wünschen, daß dieser Band die
Eiskussion um “Native American Studies” vorantreibt
und dieser Disziplin zu der notwendigen Anerkennung
Wrhilft. Peter Bolz
Vajda, Läszlö: Ethnologica. Ausgewählte Aufsätze.
Krsg. von X. Götzfried, T. O. Höllmann und C. Müller.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1999. 572 pp. ISBN
3-447-04209-5. Preis: DM 248,00
Eie anzuzeigende Publikation stellt eine Auswahl
v°n 22 Aufsätzen aus dem Werk des Münchner Ethnolo-
gen Läszlö Vajda dar, herausgegeben von drei Kollegen,
mspektive Schülern, zu dessen 75. Geburtstag. Soviel
^Um Anlass. Dies erfährt man aus dem lakonischen
^schwort (553) der Herausgeber, die “auf eine abschlie-
ende Würdigung des Werkes und seines Verfassers ...
cwußt verzichte[n]”. Das ist bedauerlich! Verbietet sich
rrilthin auch eine Rezension, da man in einer solchen
j)lcht umhin kommt, eine kritische Würdigung der vor-
•egenden Schrift zu unternehmen? Dazu erscheint dem
czensenten der Band dann doch zu wichtig und Be-
ndlichkeiten des Verfassers gegenüber “Würdigungen”,
^!e sich in “spöttische[m] Lächeln” (553) äußern, seien
lnLangestellt. Einer eigentlich notwendigen Einordnung
per wissenschaftlichen Biographie des Autors und seiner
°rschungsleistungen in den Verlauf der ethnologischen
d kulturwissenschaftlichen Wissenschaftsgeschichte
r letzten 50 Jahre, in denen die ausgewählten Aufsätze
^ standen, entgeht dieser ohnehin nicht, zumal wenn
eine solche Auswahl von Texten vorlegt. Das wurde
•Ran
^ath
r°pos 96.2001
schon in einer 1988 erschienenen Festschrift vermieden
(Münchner Beiträge zur Völkerkunde, 1), was auch
nicht gerade zu einer wenigstens zeitlich verzögerten
Aufmerksamkeit für Vajdas Hauptwerk, den Hirtenkul-
turen von 1968 (546) beigetragen hat, die, abgesehen
von vielen anderen Gesichtspunkten, heute etwa unter
Aspekten der Nachhaltigkeitsdebatte gesehen, manchen
Illusionen über indigene Ressourcennutzungskonzepte
gegensteuern würde. Aber dieses Versäumnis auszuglei-
chen, kann nicht in einer Rezension geleistet werden.
Dabei hätte sich eine ausführliche Version des ebenfalls
lakonischen, aber immerhin fast zwei von 572 Seiten
umfassenden Vorworts, das die Herausgeber dem Autor
offenbar abgepresst haben, bestens dazu geeignet, un-
abhängig vom Anlass, die Relevanz der vorliegenden
Schrift für manche, den weiteren Fortgang der ver-
gleichenden Kulturwissenschaften und insbesondere der
Ethnologie entscheidenden aktuellen Debatten offen-
sichtlich zu machen. Und diese ist nicht von der Hand
zu weisen. Nur fördert die hier kritisierte Zurückhaltung
gerade dann, wenn es darum geht, Position zu beziehen,
nicht gerade die erwünschte kritische und für das Fach
notwendige, intensivere Rezeption von Vajdas Schriften.
Etliche der behandelten Fragestellungen erweisen
sich als geradezu ernüchternd aktuell, als sei man in den
letzten Jahrzehnten bei manchen Themen nicht sonder-
lich weiter gekommen, bzw. habe sie zugunsten anderer
ungeklärt in den Hintergrund treten lassen. Das lässt sich
nicht einfach mit Schlagworten wie “Paradigmenwech-
sel” erklären. Dieser Bezug zu aktuellen Themen wie
etwa der Migrationsforschung, der Ritenananlyse oder
generell der ethnologischen Typologienbildung, wird
durch zum Teil erhebliche Differenz zur herrschenden
Terminologie nur verschleiert, und zeigt auf der an-
deren Seite deutlich, dass nur ein Changieren in der
Begrifflichkeit keinen Fortschritt in der ethnologischen
Kategorienbildung bedeutet.
Das Vorwort enthält des Autors Bekenntnis zur kom-
parativen historischen Methode der ethnologischen For-
schung. Darin - in der Methodik und in der Konzeption
des Historischen - liegt das die in Raum, Zeit und
Thematik höchst vielschichtigen Beiträge verbindende
Element. Was damit heuristisch und im Rahmen welcher
konkreten Fragestellungen erreicht wurde, muss sich der
Leser im Folgenden selbst erarbeiten. In der Problema-
tisierung etablierter ethnologischer Begriffskategorien,
der Erarbeitung von Typologien und der Komparation
im historischen Prozess liegen die unverkennbaren Stär-
ken. Gesellschaften und Kulturen lassen sich nach Vajda
ohnehin nur als historische Phänomene darstellen und
verstehen. Das Postulat, alle (!) zur Verfügung stehenden
Quellen und Methoden in den Dienst dieser Hermeneu-
tik zu stellen, das in einem spürbaren Spannungsver-
hältnis zum ersten Postulat der Historizität von Kultur-
phänomenen steht, zwingt Vajda zu transdisziplinärer
Arbeits- und Argumentationsweise. Das ist aber nicht
das Einzige, was den Autor unbequem macht. Was die
tour de force durch 50 Jahre Ethnologiegeschichte aus
der Feder eines einzigen Wissenschaftlers nicht gerade
erleichtert, ist der Umstand, dass der Autor keineswegs
318
Rezensionen
alle seine im Laufe der Jahre geäußerten wissenschaftli-
chen Ansichten heute so noch stehen lassen würde (x).
Darauf hinzuweisen ist wissenschaftliche Aufrichtigkeit.
Leider lässt er den Leser über diesen Wandel im kon-
kreten Fall dann aber im Unklaren. Es lassen sich in der
Tat Modifizierungen und Entwicklungen in manchen der
geäußerten Grundüberzeugungen erkennen, zu denen
man sich eine argumentative Stellungnahme des Autors,
nicht eine Rechtfertigung, gewünscht hätte.
Das Themenspektrum reicht von Ostafrika bis Si-
birien, von der Prähistorie bis in die Gegenwart und
von der Religionsethnologie über die Erzählforschung
bis zur Forschungsgeschichte. Die nach Erscheinungs-
datum chronologisch geordnete Sammlung beginnt mit
einem fundierten Einspruch gegen Grundannahmen der
Wiener Schule und Pater Wilhelm Schmidts Doktrin
von Urkultur und Urmonotheismus am Beispiel des
Kultes, den der zentrale Mittelpfosten eines Hauses in
etlichen Teilen der Welt erfährt (1-17). Was heute als
selbstverständlich in der Religionsethnologie gilt, mus-
ste seinerzeit methodisch sauber gegen das deduktive
Postulat herausgearbeitet werden.
In dem den nungu, den so genannten Fluchtöpfen
bzw. den Fluchpuppen der Djagga, gewidmeten Aufsatz
stehen die rechtsethnologisch relevanten Aspekte nicht
im Vordergrund (19-56). Versucht wird die Klärung der
religiösen Vorstellungen und Konzeptionen von überna-
türlichen Kräften, die mit dem nungu verbunden und die
im Rechtskontext relevant werden. Es geht darum, die
vergleichsweise jungen Manifestationen dieser Kräfte
in ihrer historischen Entwicklung zu verfolgen. Vajda
begibt sich damit, ohne es konkret zu thematisieren, in
die bis in der heutigen Rechtsethnologie unbestimmte
Grauzone von Recht und Religion, die gerade jetzt
wieder in der Rechtspluralismusdebatte zu einem For-
schungsschwerpunkt wird.
”Obo-Haufen in Afrika” ist eine Kurzversion der
Dissertation des Autors (57-88). Mit dem Begriff
Obo-Haufen belegt Vajda in diesem Beitrag zur Riten-
analyse die meist an markanten Stellen außerhalb des
sozial markierten Raumes befindlichen und sehr oft
aus Steinen bestehenden Haufen, die durch sukzessive
Häufung, durch das stete Hinzufügen von Steinen als
vorgeschriebene rituelle Handlung für alle, die die Stelle
passieren, entstanden sind. Unverkennbar ist hier der
Einfluss des ungarischen Religionswissenschaftlers und
Folkloristen Märot auf den noch sehr jungen Autor, zu
dessen Verdiensten es sicherlich zählt, zur Verbreitung
der Ideen seines “im Westen” nicht sonderlich bekannten
Vorbilds beigetragen zu haben. Es würde die Mühe
lohnen, den vorgelegten Erklärungsversuch dieses Ritus
und der multiplen Funktion dieser “landmarks” einer
detaillierten Analyse zu unterziehen.
Rangzeichen und Statussymbole exponierter Mitglie-
der von Gesellschaften und deren Relation zu Kom-
plexionsgrad und Elaboriertheit sozialer Differenzierung
untersucht Vajda sowohl unter prähistorischen als auch
unter historischen und rezenten Verhältnissen (89-112).
Die verschiedenen Manifestationen von Rangzugehörig-
keit werden vorsichtig systematisiert.
In seinem Beitrag zur Agrargeschichte und -ent-
wicklung in Ostafrika setzte sich Vajda 1957 kritisch
mit den seinerzeit gültigen Entwicklungskonzeptionen
auseinander und stellte diesen einen konkreten Gegen-
entwurf gegenüber (113-143). Die Annahme einer um-
weltangepassten Ressourcennutzung in Ostafrika führt
ihn zu einer neuen Typologie der Agrargerätschaft,
die die historische Entwicklung von drei Grundtypen,
Bananen- oder Urwaldkultur, Sorghumkultur und Eleu-
sinenkultur erkennen lässt, die mit unterschiedlichen
kulturellen Straten korrespondieren. Deren wesentliche
Charakteristika seien in den im Laufe der Entwicklung
entstandenen Mischformen der Agrarnutzung weiterhin
erkennbar. Dieses Konzept, das weitreichende Konse-
quenzen für die historische Interpretation der kulturellen
Dynamik Afrikas implizierte, scheint aufgrund seiner
Komplexität weder sonderlich rezipiert, noch wirklich
in Frage gestellt worden zu sein. Auch wenn heute
einige der seinerzeit zugrunde gelegten Eckdaten teil-
weise revidiert worden sind, steht hiermit ein Beitrag
zur historischen Dimension von Ressourcennutzung und
Umweltanpassung in der afrikanischen Agrarwirtschaft
zur Verfügung.
Vajdas wohl bekanntester Aufsatz von 1959 ist der
phaseologischen Stellung des Schamanismus gewidmet
(145-171). Er erscheint hier zum dritten Mal und gilt
als Klassiker der Religionsethnologie, so dass es sich
erübrigt, genauer darauf einzugehen. Weniger bekannt
wurde ein Nachtrag zum Thema von 1993, der sich
der Detailfrage der Rolle von Ekstase und Enstase im
Schamanismus stellt und einige der früher geäußerten
Ansichten modifiziert (455-456).
Der in der Jensen-Festschrift 1964 erschienene Auf-
satz über traditionelle Konzepte und Realität in der
Ethnologie fand dagegen weniger Beachtung als die
Schamanismusstudie oder genauer, er wirkte sich auf die
wissenschaftliche ethnologische Kategorienbildung eher
dahingehend aus, dass man den Ergebnissen durchaus
zustimmte, aber nur sehr verhalten Konsequenzen fest-
stellbar wurden (173-205). So gilt für das vorgestellte
Instrumentarium der historischen quellenkritischen Ana-
lyse von vorwissenschaftlichen Traditionen bis zu den
Haupttypen der ethnologischen Irrtümer das, was im
letzten Abschnitt der Studie über die Zeitimmanenz wis-
senschaftlicher Erkenntnis und das Problem der wissen-
schaftlichen Kontinuität schon vorausschauend geäußert
wurde.
Auch der Beitrag zur Paria-Debatte in den 60er
Jahren, in dem sich Vajda kritisch mit dem Paria-Be-
griff und der Kategorisierung von gesellschaftlichen
Randgruppen auseinandersetzt, enthält wieder einige
grundsätzliche Erörterungen zur Typologie (207-226)-
Vajda gibt eine klare Stellungnahme zum Widerspruch
von Typenbildung und Historizität ab, der für ihn nur
scheinbar existiert. Das Problem scheint indes doch
komplexer, als dass es in wenigen Zeilen überzeugend
entschärft werden könnte.
Drei Beiträge sind Forscherpersönlichkeiten und de-
ren Lebenswerken gewidmet, Leo Frobenius (227-240),
Wilhelm Staude (355-364) und, mit Fokus auf seinen
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
319
Beitrag zum “Wesen des Festes”, Käroly Kereryi (485-
494), der hier zum ersten Mal publiziert ist. Die weiteren
Beiträge sind vornehmlich religionsethnologischen und
spezifischen historischen Fragestellungen sowie Themen
der Erzählforschung gewidmet. Hervorgehoben sei vor
allem die Studie über die offensichtlich bis heute un-
ausrottbare Kettenreaktionstheorie zur Erklärung von
Migrationsbewegungen (263-313). Wohl um nicht we-
sentliche Komponenten der herrschenden Migrations-
theorien und die Geschichte der Migrationsbewegungen
revidieren zu müssen, wurde diese höchst unbequeme
Stellungnahme zum Thema so gut es eben ging ignoriert.
Auch in einem seiner jüngsten Beiträge über die Instru-
mentalisierung von ethnographischen Stereotypen im
vorindustriellen Fernhandel zeigt Vajda die Stärken der
historisch-komparativen Analyse (467-483). In Raum
und Zeit nachweisbare Strategien des Handelsschutzes
bestimmten zu einem nicht zu vernachlässigenden Anteil
den jeweiligen Kenntnisstand einer Gesellschaft über die
Fremde. Welche Interessen und Ideologien dominieren
heute den Fluss der Information über das kulturelle
Inventar der Menschheit?
Fazit: Als roter Faden zieht sich durch alle Publika-
tionen des Autors eine nicht explizit in den Vordergrund
gerückte Konzeption, ein “ethnologisches Weltbild”,
das zu erschließen dem Leser überlassen bleibt. Die
konstitutiven Elemente dieser Konzeption bilden den
eigentlichen Gegenstand von Vajdas Untersuchungen,
dessen Entwicklung in konkreten historischen Prozessen
er verfolgt und vergleicht.
Alle Beiträge, vor allem die aus Vajdas “deutscher
Phase” nach 1956, sind in hervorragendem und klarem
Stil verfasst. Das Buch ist ein höchst individueller
Feitrag zur deutschsprachigen historischen Ethnologie
der letzten 50 Jahre, kann nicht als repräsentativ gelten,
^vas alles andere als einen Makel darstellt. Eine frühere
Rezeption hätte das unbefangene Tradieren manches
wissenschaftlichen Topos und mancher theoretischen
Eintagsfliege erschwert. Unabhängig von der theore-
fisch-methodischen Ausrichtung birgt der Band eine
Fülle von Ideen und Anregungen zu Themenkomple-
Xen, die nach wie vor im Zentrum des ethnologischen
Interesses stehen. Was gibt es Wichtigeres zu sagen
uber das Werk eines Wissenschaftlers, der vorgibt,
1In Fach “nicht tonangebend” zu sein und sich vor
aUem durch Jahrzehnte der Lehre verwirklicht hat?
^ajda ist facettenreich, aber auch sperrig und unbequem
§eblieben. Und so entgeht er auch einer simplen Klas-
Slfizierung und Schabionisierung seines Werkes, die er
offensichtlich fürchtet. Bleibt den Herausgebern Aner-
kennung dafür auszusprechen, mit der Vorlage dieses
Landes einen Impuls für die historische Ethnologie
§egeben zu haben.
Der Band ist mit englischen abstracts der Aufsät-
Schriftenverzeichnis des Autors, Index und einem
eserfreundlichen Satz ausgestattet; manchen Aufsätzen
ein mehr oder weniger eingehendes Postskriptum.
le Zahl der Druckfehler hält sich mit über 50 an der
oberen Grenze dessen, was man bei einem Buchpreis
v°n 248 DM erwarten darf. Bertram Turner
^nth
ropos 96.2001
Willis, Roy: Some Spirits Heal, Others Only Dance.
A Journey into Human Selfhood in an African Village.
Oxford: Berg, 1999. 220 pp. ISBN 1-85973-288-7.
Price: £ 14.99
Willis begins this book by telling some of his para-
normal experiences as a recipient of messages in strange
tongues, as a practitioner of “alternative” medicine, and
as a “divine king” of Lower Egypt (his quotation marks).
Although he indicates that he no longer entertains any
particular “beliefes” or ideological constructs concern-
ing these experiences, they motivated him to explore in
East Africa “the metamorphoses of the self in interaction
with a world of wondrous and alien powers” (8, my
quotation marks).
In 1996, Willis hoped to test the idea that the
human sense of selfhood has an inherent tendency to
“go beyond” established knowledge and experience to
embrace the “alien” and “other.” He gives an attractive
and unusually intimate account, with frequent extracts
from his diary, of the trials and satisfactions of field-
work, at least of a certain kind of fieldwork: bwana
anthropologist’s problematic relations with natives vari-
ously insightful, recalcitrant, cooperative, dishonest, and
supportive. Daily life in Ulungu is introduced in a chatty
account of certain aspects of family life, as revealed in
daily interactions.
The next chapter reverts to a “top-down” kind of
ethnography that the author regards as modernist. In
1990, Willis’s work was authorized by the senior elders
of Ulungu; he was able to transcribe its official ide-
ologies, not only the dynastic version of tradition and
ritual, which emphasized serial time and the progressive
introduction of hierarchy, but also that of the priests
of the territorial cult, in which time was cyclical and
the social structure a matter of complementary balance.
Unfortunately, his interpretation of this interesting ma-
terial is conventional, literalist, and naive. The rhetorical
function of this chapter is to represent official, normal,
and structured life, in which the human spirit is confined
and limited.
In 1996, Willis was concerned with popular healing
cults marked by states of possession or trance. This
“ground-level” work he believes to be more congenial
to the postmodern sensibility. Once again, the narrative
is attractively readable, and could well be useful in
introductory courses. Whereas traditional field-workers,
he says, sit around waiting for culturally significant
events to happen (79), Willis and his assistants decided
to commission a series of performances of the secretive
ngulu possession cult, which are, as one would expect,
both similar to and different from other African pro-
ceedings usually labeled cults of affliction. In two of
the sessions, Willis had the sensation of being lifted
out of normal reality into a condition of pleasurably
heigtened awareness which he calls mild ecstasy or
convivial harmony (116, 123); it sounds like the sort
of experience one has at any reasonably good party.
The following chapter recounts various experiences of
“sorcery,” uloozi, which eludes analytical closure, de-
spite the vain rationalizations of modernist anthropology
320
Rezensionen
(145). A chapter on the dreams and spirit revelations of
healers shows that they are aware of movement from
the ordinary into the extraordinary, often precipitated
by a traumatic experience and leading to “a sense of
expanded but also internally differentiated selfhood”
(173).
A brief concluding chapter reviews some of the rel-
evant literature on selfhood and alternative experiences,
including works by A. P. Cohen, J. Favret-Saada, Edith
Turner, and S.M. Friedson. Recognizing that Victor
Turner’s contraposition of societas and communitas does
not really escape from the confines of the social, Willis
takes him to task for excluding the infrasocial world
of aliens, beasts, and cosmic spirits. Turner’s subse-
quent reliance on the neurophysiology of trance states
reduces rather than accounts for intersubjective reality,
according to Willis, who refers to Heidegger on the
nature of being before calling for a new beginning and
a new language in ethnographic research, adapted to the
decentered selves of the premodem and the postmodern.
Willis is strongly opposed to dualities, boundaries,
and contrapositions; he looks forward to “an epochal
transformation in the Western sense of individual identi-
ty, moving it from the isolation and fixity of its Cartesian
epiphany towards a fluidity, spontaneity, multiplicity,
and expansiveness ... surprisingly cognate with the
nature of spirit being as apprehended in ancient text
and ‘primitive’ culture” (195). Unfortunately, this whole
argument is grounded upon the dualistic and reifying
assumption that the normal, the structured, the social, is
given and known. We are offered in opposition to it the
vast, residual, and negative category of “para-social and
para-human otherness” (191). The result is Postmodern,
New Age, and Old Hat. Wyatt MacGaffey
Wilmsen, Edwin N.: Journeys with Flies. Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 1999. 160 pp. ISBN
0-226-90018-5. Price: $ 22.00
The Kalahari Bushmen are among the most studied
human groups in the world, and they are also among the
most romanticized and misrepresented in the Western
media. Both popular media (such as the blockbuster
movie “The Gods Must Be Crazy”) and more “ed-
ucational” media continually portray the Bushmen as
isolated and “pristine” foraging peoples, despite the fact
that the majority of the approximately 100,000 people
counted as Bushmen (also Ju/’hoansi, !Kung, or San) in
southern Africa are engaged in various forms of waged
labour - either as farmworkers and domestic servants
on White and African owned farms, or even as soldiers.
Many others have been dispossessed of their land and
crowded into marginal reserve or game reserve areas
where they continue to face land encroachment and the
threat of forcible relocation.
For some years now, Edwin Wilmsen has offered
a very different perspective, one highlighting the so-
cioeconomic and political situation of the San group
he studied (the Zhu or Ju/’hoansi). Wilmsen’s work
addresses the damage done by colonial and neocolonial
discourse on “primitives” generally and on “Bushmen”
in particular - a discourse he maps out and decontructs
effectively in his groundbreaking book “Eand Filled
with Flies” (1989). In this “complementary” work, he
focuses on how his own life history intersects with the
collective history of the Zhu to create an intersubjective
encounter in the field. “Journeys with Flies” is a memoir,
rather than an ethnography, and so the primary subject
matter is Wilmsen himself; his relationships with the
Zhu are secondary, and the Zhu themselves are a faint
third.
Wilmsen outlines three motives for this book: 1) to
foreground his own experiences; 2) to “concentrate on
the common”; and 3) “to eliminate the exotic other,”
both in the Kalahari and in America (xi-xii). The first
motive is grounded in the very reasonable conviction
that “it is individuals, not cultures, who meet and
represent their contexts to each other” (xii). The second
motive is based on a point of view refreshingly at odds
with conventional postmodern wisdom, which tends
to assume incommensurability. The second motive is
meant to facilitate the third, which is itself based on the
belief that “there are no alien cultures, only alienating
ways of categorizing diversity” (xiv).
Two key theoretical presuppositions govern the form
and content of “Journeys.” The first is the postmodern
belief that “ethnographies construct alien cultures” (xi).
Wilmsen’s answer to this problem is to treat himself as
much as an object of ethnographic concern as the Zhu.
The second is the idea that the production of knowledge
is an arbitrary process: “And for anthropologists, as
for others, the partitioning of reality is frequently no
more than fiat, the endproduct of a process that too
often compartmentalizes knowledge into objects there-
by reducing subjective experience to a mere objective
appendage” (xiii). This arbitrary compartmentalizing
and partitioning of knowledge and reality results in
the objectification of Others, such as the Zhu (that is,
conventional ethnographies are “alienating ways of cate-
gorizing diversity”). Wilmsen’s answer to this problem
is to “write simultaneity,” to render experience more
accurately in text. Thus, the two key theoretical goals of
“Journeys” are: 1) to collapse the subject/object distinc-
tion, and 2) to reconcile the tension between observation
(experience) and presentation (ethnography).
By way of achieving the first goal, Wilmsen insists
that ethnographic understanding involves a continual,
dialectical interaction and transformation of subject and
object: “There are no beautiful days. The quality of a
day, of a life, of a dream lies in our encounter with
it, not in itself. Similarly, our understanding of another
people lies not in themselves or in anything that they d°
but in our encounter with them” (8).
However, Wilmsen assumes that this interactive, dia-
lectical knowledge is primarily subjective, which results
in an ethnographic memoir so introspective that it runs
the risk of being self-absorbed. Rather than collapsing
the subject/object distinction, Wilmsen instead reduces
too much to the subjective. But if objectification exot-
icizes and alienates “others,” then overemphasis on the
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
321
subjectivity of the ethnographer threatens to disempower
the Zhu (and other “others”), by implying that the
Zhu have less impact on what he has to say about
them than do the subjective associations he draws from
his experiences elsewhere. Wilmsen repeats a common
fallacy: he moves from a recognition that the perceiver
inevitably contributes a perspective on what is found in
the field, to the view that the perceiver constructs and
thereby assumes the responsibility for what is found.
Somewhere between the objectification of others and
introspection we need to find a more responsible middle
ground.
Wilmsen’s second theoretical goal - reconciling the
tension between observation (experience) and presenta-
tion (ethnography) — is meant to address the arbitrary,
linear ordering and partitioning of reality. Selectivity,
Particularly ideologically-driven selectivity, is divisive
and destructive: “Selected, collectively compacted, the
Past supplies support of divisive ideologies ... We know
many collective celebrants of such selective, ethnopoet-
tcized segments of shared history who solemnize that
selection as their exclusive cultural property. Absurd”
(49). Wilmsen’s rejection of selectivity and compart-
mentalization is problematic in a number of ways.
If we take seriously the idea that knowledge invokes
selection and compartmentalization, then the alternatives
to a selectivity that is driven by a divisive ideology
are either to accept ignorance, or to struggle toward
an ideology that is less divisive and less destructive.
At times, Wilmsen seems to prefer the first alternative:
better to back off with Beckett: “where I am, I don’t
know, I’ll never know, in the silence You don’t know
•••” (50).
To eliminate the tension between subject and object,
and to resist the arbitrary partitioning of reality, Wilmsen
adopts an evocative, nonlinear “anti-narrative” style,
and so “Journeys” is written as much in poetry as
m regular prose: “I tried only to translate the texture
experience without claiming it to be mine alone,
to capture chords in words. I wanted to render my
experience in ways that could resonate with those of
my readers” (xiv). Wilmsen’s style is meant to convey
•mrnediate, “raw,” experience in the field - he attempts
to “present” experience without “processing” it. His
efforts to resist the “partitioning of reality” result in an
arficulation of experience free from the constraints of
^arrative convention. However, by adopting his poetic
^nti-narrative” style, Wilmsen is not giving us the
raw,” uncooked experience; he is merely processing
exPerience differently, and in terms of a very private
a§enda. Very often, his presentations are overcooked to
jke point of being indigestible, as when he writes: “At
Awama, Eiffel-rust rain etched across chalcedony-green
afterlight sucked out of the mid-Atlantic where the
rainbow arc of the sunken sun is gliding toward North
America” (18).
Observations in the field are presented as snapshots
lnterwoven with the memories that they trigger. He
c°nstantly moves freely through space and time (“you
Can t be in only one place at one time” [18 f.]), taking
Anth
the reader from the Kalahari setting of Cae Cae in
the 1970s, to the Texas of his childhood, to Boston
and his experiences as an architecture student, to the
arctic, and to places Wilmsen may have only visited in
his imagination. Many of the connections between his
points of reference are made by free association. This
is meant to do two things: 1) to present the simulta-
neity of observation and memory in “raw” experience;
and 2) to present more honestly the subjectivity and
mental operations of the ethnographer. Wilmsen, and
many contemporary anthropologists, believe that it is
important to understand the subjectivity of the ethnog-
rapher in order to appreciate why the ethnographer
presents her/his experiences as they do. However, a
clear explication and defense of the philosophical and
theoretical presuppositions that matter would have been
just as (if not more) revealing of his subjectivity than
his roaming prose poems. Wilmsen himself seems to
have noticed the problem: “Tedious introspection; if
indulged too long I don’t see anything anymore, least
of all myself’ (93).
The implication of Wilmsen’s style is that simple,
familiar prose cannot provide an honest presentation of
experience. However, his presentation of “experience”
- free association and the collapsing of observation and
memory - discloses less about himself and his field
situation than would a straightforward story.
“Journeys with Flies” is a brave experiment in cap-
turing the immediacy of experience and the simulta-
neity of observation and memory. For brief moments,
it can be moving and insightful, especially in those
places where he describes the class and sexual politics
inherent to his relationships with the Zhu. However,
the experiment fails more often than it succeeds. The
books’s more superficial problems are associated with
often incoherent attempts at ethnographic honesty and an
overabundance of minutia presented as “concentrating
on the common.” As an experiment in postmodern,
polyvocal, multiperspectival, confessional ethnography,
“Journeys” contributes a number of important insights
into human relationships in the field. As a lucid and
convincing example of the benefits of this genre (wheth-
er it is ethnography or memoir), it has some serious
shortcomings. Nonetheless, “Journeys” can (and should)
be read for its occasionally successful evocations of
the encounter between a genuinely humane sensibility
and the Zhu, whose humanity has long been tragically
neglected. Renée Sylvain
Wolcott, Harry F.: Ethnography. A Way of Seeing.
Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 1999. 333 pp. ISBN 0-
7619-9091-7.
Amit, Vered (ed.): Constructing the Field. Ethno-
graphic Fieldwork in the Contemporary World. London:
Routledge, 2000. 199 pp. ISBN 0-415-19830-5. Price:
£ 15.99
Wie gelangen Anthropologinnen und Anthropologen
eigentlich zu ihren Daten, wie sieht ihr Alltag bei der
Datenbeschaffung aus, welche Verfahren sind für die
lropos 96.2001
322
Rezensionen
Gewinnung von Daten relevant und schließlich wie ent-
steht aus der rohen Datenmasse eine, wissenschaftlichen
Kriterien genügende, Studie? Dies fragen sich nicht nur
die Anfänger im Fache Anthropologie sondern auch die
sogenannten “Profis” immer wieder aufs Neue. Sie alle
verspüren von Zeit zu Zeit das dringende Bedürfnis,
sich ihrer Methoden, Anschauungen, Erfahrungen und
Überzeugungen zu vergewissern. Dies wappnet sie ei-
nerseits gegen allzu esoterische Einflüsse und bindet sie
andererseits an eine gemeinsam geteilte Ethik, die wenn
schon nicht normativen so doch wenigstens sozial ver-
bindlichen Charakter innerhalb der anthropologischen
Community hat. Begonnen hat die intensivere Reflexion
über die Methoden der Anthropologie spätestens mit
Malinowskis Definition der Ethnographie: Durch sie
kann der Standpunkt des Untersuchten/Beobachteten
verstanden und seine Sicht von seiner Welt erfasst
werden. Als kritischer Punkt erwies sich allerdings im
weiteren Verlauf die Unterscheidung zwischen dem, was
vermittels direkter Beobachtung über das Verhalten der
Untersuchten, ihrer Berichte und Interpretationen be-
kannt wurde, und den Schlussfolgerungen des Forschers.
An diesem bis heute neuralgischen Punkt der Anthro-
pologie entfaltet Wolcott seine Vorstellungen zur Ethno-
graphie. Neben praktischem Handwerkszeug, wie z. B.
einer Anleitung zum Aufbau eines ethnographischen
Berichts oder der optimalen Dauer einer Feldforschung,
geht es Wolcott nochmals darum, anhand seiner lebens-
langen Tätigkeit als Ethnograph das Besondere dieser
Methode herauszuarbeiten. Ethnographische Forschung
kann sich nicht im Akten- und Archivstudium erschöp-
fen, sondern bedarf der Anwesenheit des Forschers vor
Ort und seiner Teilnahme an den sozialen Prozessen.
Inwieweit dies dazu beiträgt, dass seine gewonnenen
Daten zu subjektiv werden, um entsprechend wissen-
schaftlichen Verfahrenskritierien noch vergleichbar zu
sein, ist ein anhaltender Streitpunkt zwischen den An-
gehörigen der verschiedenen geistes- und sozialwissen-
schaftlichen Disziplinen. Anthropologinnen und Anthro-
pologen sehen sich aufgrund des umstrittenen Status ih-
rer empirischen Arbeit im Kanon der wissenschaftlichen
Methodik bis heute dazu herausgefordert, ihre Methodik
zu legitimieren. Zumal sie ihren Untersuchungsgegen-
stand, die kollektiven Äußerungsformen der geistigen
Tätigkeit von Menschen, mithin ihre Kultur, nicht un-
mittelbar beobachten, sondern mittels eines besonderen
Verfahrens, der Feldforschung, nur intuitiv verstehen
können. Insofern Kultur verstanden wird als ein Sys-
tem von zu interpretierenden Zeichen, Botschaften und
Texten, mit denen und durch die Menschen miteinander
und über die Welt kommunizieren, kann sie nur über
die ethnographische Erfahrung erschlossen werden. Sie
ermöglicht es den Ethnographinnen und Ethnographen,
mit den Menschen, die sie beobachten, eine Raum-
und Zeitgemeinschaft herzustellen und sich mit ihnen
in einer gemeinsamen sozialen Umwelt zu bewegen. In
dieser sozialen Umwelt gehen sie eine wechselseitige
Beziehung mit ihnen ein und vergleichen deren Sicht-
weise von Erlebnissen mit ihrer Sichtweise der Erleb-
nisse. Das daraus erwachsende gegenseitige Verstehen
ist nichts anderes als ein intersubjektiver und damit
sozialer Prozess, der alle Beteiligten in ein Netz von
vielfältigen Beziehungen hüllt, das ihnen die Gewinnung
von Distanz erschwert.
Die besondere Qualität der Ethnographie, das direkte
Erleben bzw. die teilnehmende Beobachtung, ist die
Ultima Ratio des anthropologischen/ethnologischen Ge-
schäfts. Selbst die postmoderne Kritik, die den Prozess
der Transformation von Erfahrung in wissenschaftliche
Texte thematisiert und die ethnographische Methode
als vermeintlich literarisches Verfahren enttarnt, das
Konstruiertes mit Konstruiertem verbindet und dies als
Realität/Objektivität inszeniert, muss anerkennen, dass
die Ethnographie keine Erklärung sein will und kann,
sondern ein Prozess der Interpretation. Sie zielt dar-
auf ab, einen Kommunikationsakt zwischen Angehö-
rigen verschiedener Kulturen, idealtypisch als Dialog
bezeichnet, verständlich zu machen. Eigentlich sind alle
Menschen beständig in solche interpretatorische und
kommunikative Prozesse einbezogen, und die Frage ist
sicherlich berechtigt, was denn die Ethnographie so
Außergewöhnliches oder Besonderes hat, dass sie als
eine eigenständige wissenschaftlichen Methode ins Feld
geführt werden kann.
Für Wolcott, der jahrelang im Nordwesten der USA
und Kanadas bei den Kwakiutl geforscht und an den
reservatseigenen Highschools als Lehrkraft tätig gewe-
sen ist, besteht die Besonderheit der ethnographischen
Methode gerade darin, dass der Ethnograph trotz seiner
direkten Erfahrungen im täglichen Zusammenleben sich
der oft auch schmerzlichen Erfahrung unterzieht, zu
seinen eigenen Erfahrungen eine Distanz aufzubauen,
die es ihm ermöglicht, über sich selbst zu reflektie-
ren und seine Erfahrungen in einem anderen Kontext,
z. B. dem anderer Ethnographen und Anthropologen, zu
präsentieren und einzubringen. Er wechselt quasi die
Perspektive. Dies animiert ihn immer wieder aufs Neue,
sich seiner Arbeit bewusst zu werden und sie in einen
Legitimationsrahmen einzubinden, der ihn einerseits den
Gesellschaften oder Gruppen verpflichtet, mit denen er
eine Zeit lang zusammen verbracht hat, und andererseits
an die eigene, ihn sozialisierende Gesellschaft. Der
springende Punkt, durch den die Verbindung zwischen
den verschiedenen Milieus klappen kann, ist für Wolcott
die Kultur. Sie ist keineswegs eine Erklärung für Verhal-
ten und kann auch nicht Gegenstand der Ethnographie
sein, vielmehr offeriert sie eine Perspektive, um soziales
Verhalten zu untersuchen. Sie ist, hierin ganz ähnlich
der Ethnographie, eine Art oder ein Weg der Betrach-
tung, um das eigene Verhalten und das der anderen
zu beschreiben. Kultur ist in ihrer Abstraktheit für
Wolcott eine Perspektive für das Studium menschlichen
Verhaltens, das einzelne Aspekte sozialen Verhaltens
hervorhebt und damit letztlich Verhaltensmuster erkenn-
bar werden lässt. Ethnographie ist damit ein kulturelles
Verfahren, das entwickelt wurde, um alltägliches Ver-
halten einer klar umrissenen sozialen Gruppe in einer
definierten Umgebung zu studieren, und gleichzeitig ein
interpretativer Rahmen, um dieses Verhalten zu verste-
hen und in eine kohärente Gesamtheit einzubinden. Dies
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
323
kann nicht einfach nur eine Technik sein, sondern prägt
aufgrund ihrer Dimension der persönlich-körperlichen
Erfahrung die gesamte soziale Identität der Ethnogra-
phinnen und Ethnographen. Ethnographie ist eine Art
zu leben, ein Weg des Hinsehens und ein Weg der
Betrachtung.
Auf einer konkreten Ebene heißt das, dass es kei-
nen Königsweg für die Abfassung einer Ethnographie
gibt. Niemand ist letztlich in der Lage zu beurteilen,
wie angemessen die Beschreibung des Verhaltens der
beobachteten Menschen ist, ob das Verständnis den tat-
sächlich geäußerten und beobachteten Auffassungen ent-
spricht, welchem Wahrheitsgehalt die daraus abgeleitete
Interpretation entspricht und ob die Rahmenbedingun-
gen umfassend dargestellt sind. Ganz in der Tradition
der amerikanischen Kulturologie verankert, beleuchtet
Wolcott eher pragmatisch als programmatisch das wis-
senschaftliche und persönliche Umfeld, in dem sich
Ethnographen und Ethnographinnen im Verlauf ihrer
Tätigkeit bewegen. Gerade diese Unaufgeregtheit und
Sicherheit in dem, was die ethnographische Tätigkeit
auszeichnet, gewährt während des Lesens die nötige
Zuversicht, sich den Strapazen der Feldarbeit anheim
Zu geben.
Doch im Einlassen auf die Mühen des Feldes drängen
Slch die ersten Fragen auf: Welcher Ort ist der rich-
tlge für das jeweilige Forschungsvorhaben, oder sollte
bies dem Zufall überlassen bleiben und die Ortswahl
danach entschieden werden, wo sich die ethnographi-
schen Fragen ergeben? Die traditionelle Ethnographie
bevorzugte einen Ort außerhalb der eigenen kulturel-
le11 Hemisphäre um die größtmögliche Differenz zum
Eigenen zu gewährleisten. Heute hat sich dies ange-
Slchts der dynamischen Globalisierungsprozesse zuguns-
ten der Identifizierung einer Forschungsproblematik ver-
Schoben. Beides hat seine Berechtigung, und Wolcott
ernPfiehlt den Aspiranten der Ethnographie, sich ih-
jEn Interessen entsprechend zu verhalten. Allerdings
ann die Entscheidung für Ort oder Problematik un-
terschiedliche Forschungsdynamiken nach sich ziehen.
pltle Forschungsproblematik zum Aufhänger für die
°rschung zu nehmen, verführt dazu, die Ethnographie
11111 ihren verschiedenen methodischen Zugängen als
flnen Prozess zu begreifen, um zu einem Ergebnis zu
0rnmen. Dies bewirkt häufig, dass für das Sammeln
Daten ethnographische Methoden wie teilnehmen-
e Beobachtung, qualitative Interviews, Archivstudium,
V eHenkritik, statistische Erhebungen usw. eingesetzt
rden. Wie und wann sie eingesetzt werden sollten,
2u gibt Wolcott eine Reihe von Hinweisen. Allerdings
nu lb! ^le ethnographische Tätigkeit in diesem Verfahren
r ein Weg, um zu einem Ergebnis zu kommen, sie ist
lnjWss und kein Produkt in sich selbst.
ur Vered Amit und die von ihm zusammengetra-
^ en Beiträge jüngerer Ethnographinnen und Ethno-
*|aPhen sind die Überlegungen von Wolcott in diesem
eth Slcherlich zu puristisch. Sie müssen sich mit ihren
..^graphischen Studien im akademischen Feld noch
erfi.auPten un<^ durchsetzen. Da ist es ausgesprochen
r’schend, dass sie dies keineswegs verschweigen,
^nth
sondern die Schwierigkeiten, die sie mit den Gremien
zur Überprüfung des wissenschaftlichen Gehalts ihrer
Arbeit und den Funds zur Finanzierung derselben haben,
darlegen und in die Reflexion über die Bedingungen
und Möglichkeiten ethnographischen Arbeitens in der
Gegenwart einbeziehen. Aufgrund ihrer Erfahrungen mit
den fortschreitenden Globalisierungsprozessen positio-
nieren sie sich bei der Frage, ob die Ethnographie
Prozess oder Produkt sein soll, genau dazwischen: Es
sind die Umstände und Bedingungen, die die Methoden
bestimmen, und nicht umgekehrt. In der gegenwärtigen
Situation können die alten Feldforschungspostulate von
der exotischen Ferne, der längern Abwesenheit von den
Orten des Vertrauten nicht mehr in dem Maße Gültigkeit
beanspruchen wie noch zur Zeit eines Malinowskis
oder Evans-Pritchards. Heutzutage erschließt sich das
Feld der Forschung nicht mehr automatisch durch ei-
nen Ortswechsel, etwa in Form einer Reise, sondern
es muss immer wieder neu konstruiert und konzipiert
werden. Die Vorstellung, dass das Feld, gedacht als
unabhängiges Bündel von Beziehungen und Aktivitä-
ten, seiner Entdeckung durch den Feldforscher harrt,
ist obsolet. Die sozialen Vernetzungen über Kontinente
hinweg sind mittlerweile soweit fortgeschritten, dass
die Ethnographinnen und Ethnographen das Feld ihrer
Forschung als autarke Einheit selbst bestimmen müssen.
Die fremden Anderen leben vor der eigenen Haustür, in
der Nachbarschaft, im Freundeskreis, im beruflichen und
persönlichen Alltag. Diese Vermischung erschwert die
Aufrechterhaltung einer dogmatischen Beobachterrolle.
Stattdessen wechseln die Anthropologinnen und Anthro-
pologen zwischen den verschiedenen aus unterschiedli-
chen Beziehungsnetzen bestehenden Realitäten. Die ge-
naue Beschreibung dieser Realitäten und den in und zwi-
schen ihnen stattfindenden Bewegungen und Handlun-
gen ist die Aufgabe der gegenwärtigen ethnographischen
Tätigkeit. Allerdings wird es immer schwieriger, eine
exakte Unterscheidung zwischen Forschungsobjekt und
-Subjekt vorzunehmen, so dass Anthropologie zu einer
Erzählung dieser Bewegungen wird. Einer Bewegung, in
der die Menschen als Gestalter ihres Lebens erscheinen,
wobei die Anthropologinnen und Anthropologen ein
aktiver Bestandteil des Gestaltungsprozesses sind. Die
Aufsatzsammlung “Constructing the Field”, die sich
ausführlich mit den Fragen nach der Wahl des Un-
tersuchungsortes, den anthropologischen Ansprüchen an
den Untersuchungsgegenstand und den Auswirkungen
der globalen Prozesse auf das ethnographische Setting
befasst, dokumentiert dies in vielfältiger und informati-
ver Weise. Roland Drubig
Wood, John Colman: When Men Are Women. Man-
hood among Gabra Nomads of East Africa. Madison:
The University of Wisconsin Press, 1999. 240 pp. ISBN
0-299-16594-9. Price: $ 19.95
The author spent 22 months conducting fieldwork
among the Gabra of northwestern Kenya (1991, 1993—
95). The Gabra are patrilineal, camel-herding pastoral-
ists who number about 35,000 and are closely related
lr°pos 96.2001
324
Rezensionen
to other Oromo peoples of the Kenya-Ethiopian border-
lands such as the Rendille and Boran. Such fieldwork
is difficult, even dangerous, and Wood has provided a
valuable ethnography of an interesting society. Aneesa
Kassam has also conducted important study of the Gabra
but Wood makes no useful comparison with her work.
This monograph is divided into a brief preface, an
even briefer epilogue, and 5 chapters. Ch. 1 presents
the author’s main analytical aims and tries to show
how these relate to social theory. Ch. 2 describes the
general pattern of Gabra pastoralism as an interplay of
opposites between stable camps composed of women,
children, and old men and unstable satellite camps of
herding groups dominated by young and middle-aged
men. Ch. 3 contrasts the lives of two Gabra men, a
highly traditional and respected ritual elder of age 82 and
a peripheral, educated, alcoholic, unmarried youth of 28
who is pictured as a failure and misfit. Ch. 4 describes
Gabra weddings as unions of outside, peripheral persons
and activities (men and herding), and inside, central
persons and activities (women and households), provid-
ing considerable description of the songs, rituals, and
ceremonies accompanying weddings. Ch. 5 describes
d’abella, Gabra ritual-elder men.
Wood organizes his monograph around the task of
explaining why Gabra “regard their most prestigious
men - the d’abella, who are ritual experts - as women’’
(5). He tries to link this characterization of male elders
to the fact that Gabra men “place women at the center
of the problem of social aggregation and dispersion,
of making and moving camps, of coming and going
with animals” (7). He claims that his central problem is
“to identify cultural models of manhood” which Gabra
envision as structuralists because Gabra “talk about the
world in terms binary and dualistic,” a feature which
actually characterizes all societies though it plays a par-
ticular prominent part in rituals and forms of expression
among many age-generation societies of East Africa
such as the Maasai, Samburu, Turkana, Rendille, Gabra,
Jie, Galla, and others.
This ethnography provides a sensitive and detailed
description of the areas it aims to cover. Wood provides
a clear account of how Gabra households and camps
are laid out and how this reflects Gabra moral concepts
associated with male and female, herding, camp and set-
tlement, and centripetal and centrifugal social processes.
Wood describes how important Gabra ceremonies and
rituals often invert the uses and meanings of symbols
so that masculine becomes feminine, inner becomes
outer, and aggressive becomes passive, and vice versa.
He sees these symbolic alternations as ways by which
Gabra attempt ritually to resolve or at least temporarily
allay the “paradoxical conflicts experienced by people in
ordinary life” (14). As he proceeds through what seems,
as far as it goes, to be a persuasive exposition of the
forms and significances of Gabra rites and ceremonies,
he adapts an increasingly Durkheimean interpretation.
This is one that he himself repeatedly terms a revised
form of structuralist analysis. Thus, at the highest levels
of d’abella ceremonies, these ritual leaders employ
symbolic inversions that span the oppositions of sym-
bolic categories, space, and groups in order to subsume
and unite countervailing social (moral) categories and
values. In short, Wood has rediscovered that systems of
opposed or complementary social/ideological categories
are unified through medial figures and concepts. For
Gabra this makes particularly forceful use of features
of sex, age, and settlement and land (space). This
is Durkheimian in considering cultural categories as
both deriving from and creating supposedly “natural”
categories, a somewhat pantheistic notion dating back at
least to Durkheim’s “Elementary Forms of the Religious
Life” and Mauss’s famous essay on the Eskimo (neither
work is ever cited or properly discussed in the text),
Wood’s analyses also, unfortunately, are Durkheimean
in the sense that some beliefs and rituals are repeatedly
seen as ultimately invented in order to resolve and
dispell conflict which is never portrayed as itself being
a feature of social life that might have constructive or
useful purposes.
Wood’s exposition of Gabra beliefs and values un-
folds in a convincing manner though Wood’s theoretical
statements about the analytical or theoretical signifi-
cances of his valuable account are far from clear. For ex-
ample, Wood argues that “Gabra concepts of ‘masculine’
and ‘feminine’ are detached from and independent of
the biological sexes in much the same way that ‘inside’
and ‘outside’ are detached from and independent of the
material landscape” (186). This is both muddled and
misleading; the metaphoric power of symbols works be-
cause symbols continue to relate to the strong expressive
force of physical objects and sensations even as symbols
allow these powerful effectual forces to be extended
into domains not immediately or obviously connected
to them. This connective yet extensive process is the
literal meaning of the Greek concept of metaphor. It is
the double processes of both connection and extension
that make symbols work, not some process by which
they are cut entirely adrift from the feelings and things to
which they ultimately are anchored and owe their power.
Furthermore, Wood is unconvincing in asserting that
pastoral societies produce particularly strong tensions
in patriarchal authority (159); many ethnographies from
Africa and elsewhere reveal intense conflicts of this sort
in sedentary societies.
Wood briefly refers to gender and aging (the life
cycle) with few useful comparisons to other Africanists
works. Far more serious, his account is restricted almost
entirely to the point of view of men. Wood claims
that Gabra men envy women’s household and camp
centrality and sexual reproductive powers and conse-
quently men supplant these by their own ritual powers.
For example, he implies that ritual elders’ powers to
dominate cultural reproduction through monopoly of
esoteric knowledge, control of calendrical and wedding
rituals, and control of male initiation trump women’s
biological reproductive powers (196). We have only
Wood’s assertion for this but no firm evidence that
one mode of power actually trumps another. We do not
have any idea what Gabra women make of this social
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
325
system or even whether the goals and values of Gabra
women correspond closely to those of men although it
seems likely that they sometimes do not. We do find
that the many Gabra women’s wedding songs (provided
by Wood) criticize and even seem to scorn some male
values and conduct. Perhaps more material from and
about Gabra women would present a more complex and
less homogeneous picture of how Gabra interpret their
beliefs, values, and activities. Furthermore, case studies
might reveal the details of how Gabra assert power,
how they achieve social aims, and most important of all
how normative aims and values and social categories are
repeatedly manipulated and contested in different ways
and at different times and places by old and young,
men and women, not only in rituals and ceremonies but
m everyday social relations which are at the root of
ritual. Finally, we lack a clear and sustained account
°f how Gabra regard the human body itself. Yet such
information is essential for an account of a cosmology
where notions about sexuality, gender, reproduction, and
age appear central to the belief and value system.
Despite these criticism, I consider Wood’s mono-
graph a valuable contribution to East African ethnog-
raphy, a book that I strongly recommend and that I
enjoyed reading. Wood is clearly an able and sensitive
fieldworker and a thoughtful man. Had Wood received
better academic training and better editorial advice,
he might have been encouraged to make more use
°f African ethnography and classical anthropological
and sociological thought (rather than his unprofitable
reliance on trendy contemporary literary analyses). Then
he might have produced a book that incorporated a
clearer view of just how symbols work and how cultural
beliefs and social groups relate to social action for
Women as well as men. T. O. Beidelman
Zahn, Heinrich: Mission and Music. Jabem Tradi-
h°nal Music and the Development of Lutheran Hymno-
hy. Ed. by Don Niles. Boroko: Institute of Papua New
Quinea Studies, 1996. 492 pp. ISBN 9980-68-032-6.
(Studies in Papua New Guinea Musics, 4) Price: K 12.00
A member of the Lutheran Mission Society of
Jeuendettelsau, Zahn worked in New Guinea from
y02 until 1932. Outside mission circles he will be
Known best by publications such as his ethnography
hhe Jabim” (in: R. Neuhauss, Deutsch Neu-Guinea, vol.
’ PP- 289-394. Berlin 1911) and his Jabem dictionary
• F- Streicher, Jabem-English; Reproduction of the
abern-Deutsch Wörterbuch Compiled by Rev. H. Zahn
G Logaweng-Neuguinea. Canberra 1982).
Zahn finished writing “Mission und Musik” after he
ad worked among the Jabem speakers (Huon Peninsu-
^a) for 18 years. Niles suggests (xix) that the text, which
edited as a translation, might not be the complete
°riginal work. For instance, Zahn has not included
, this text any direct reference to the 1917 “Jabem
ytrtnal” with only traditional melodies, and the editor
ds it inconceivable that he would have omitted from
s discussion of hymnals especially this hymnal which
Anth
would have been the closest of all to his vision of a
hymnal in the mission field. Further, it is likely that
Zahn had intended the text to be accompanied by the
collection of traditional songs which he had assembled
when searching for suitable material for hymn composi-
tion. However, these music notations could not be traced
in the 1990s although they had been available for a
doctoral thesis at Hamburg University in the late 1940s.
Zahn had made the manuscript known only within
a small circle rather than by publication, thus it was
not widely known and only seldom referred to in
anthropological works. Of the two copies which exist
Niles chose for publication the “Hamburg” rather than
the “Neuendettelsau/Berlin” copy, because it contains
numerous handwritten annotations (most likely by Zahn)
and some music notations which are not included in the
latter copy; the textual differences of the two copies are
covered with footnotes.
Zahn begins his text on a personal note: he sets the
scene by tendering his own appreciation for music. His
concern, however, is that of the missionary, i. e., for the
hymn as an essential part of Lutheran worship service.
His appraisal of the five Jabem hymnals between 1892
and 1911 requires any reader’s expertise in Jabem to
follow Zahn’s opinion that the textual expressions of
missionary hymn writings improved over the period of
time since he offers no translations or detailed com-
ments for assistance. In a different context, however, he
includes translations of selected hymn phrases and entire
texts when he rates as good quality hymn writing that
which presents thoughts and images in the indigenous
language suitable for the Christian message.
German chorale melodies, as used by the mission-
aries in early hymn composition, were something he
thought alien to Papua New Guineans who should be
encouraged to write hymns to their traditional melodies.
He recollects that this preference of his developed rather
early in his working life in New Guinea. Essential
encouragement came finally from C. KeyBer, the innova-
tive Kate missionary of the time, and from K. Steck, the
Neuendettelsau Mission inspector when he was on his
official visit in New Guinea in 1914/15. This sparked his
intensive study of indigenous music, texts and melodies
alike - the 1917 hymnal is the apparent return of this
endeavour. Zahn was then the teacher of the Jabem
teachers seminary. He collected and analysed more than
700 songs, mostly from the Jabem but some from the
Bukawac, Tami, Siassi, and others. During this period
he completed also his Jabem dictionary.
The chapter on traditional songs and dances is of
particular interest to the anthropologist. Classified as
songs and dance songs, the song texts are arranged
according to the occasions they depict. Rather than
giving full translations, Zahn provides specific details
of the occasions and sets key phrases of the songs into
context and thus explains the associations of thought and
intrinsic symbolism. One of the striking examples is the
presentation of the dance songs of the male cult which
climaxed in the initiation ceremonies (we balomr/a. Not
performed in the Jabem and Tami region since the
lr°pos 96.2001
326
Rezensionen
1890s, early missionary descriptions remain the most
substantial sources on them (with the exception of the
earliest report by Schellong, a physician, who resided
in Finschhafen in the 1880s). Zahn’s discussion of the
songs and dances within the phases of the ceremonies
are valuable additions to the existing literature. Songs
for other occasions, whether laments for a death or songs
accompanying war dances, etc., are all edited with a
comparable thoroughness.
Zahn raises issues of the Lutheran missionaries’
policy to dancing which he regards as discouraging the
pursuit of it by persuasion rather than prohibition. Most
probably this statement reflects his personal inclination
as the prohibition of dancing was not yet made official
policy. However, within the Lutheran mission field of
that time, with its varying influence on the population,
the style of individual missionaries varied as it can be
traced, for instance, through their official correspon-
dence.
The book carries a dedication by Bishop Getake
S. Gam of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Papua
New Guinea with his appreciation of Zahn’s text and its
presentation in “Mission and Music.” The text is indeed
edited with circumspection and set into context by ex-
tensive annotation, more than 70 pages of introduction,
several appendices, a glossary, and a bibliography, all
reflecting a good measure of research. The contextua-
lization reaches into the ethnography and the mission
history of the region and, foremost, its ethnomusicology.
Niles states (xx) that he has made “few assumptions ...
about the readers,” which is most notable in the variety
of information in the footnotes and the glossary; the data
contain names of individuals and places, comments on
and additions to Zahn’s ethnographic data.
But the various strands of edition combined qualify
Niles’ efforts. Niles is the director of the Music De-
partment of the Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies
and his focus is, understandably, on the musicological
themes. In his introduction he considers the Lutheran
hymnody from 1892 to the present, which he advances
under several aspects in appendices, and in one chapter
he presents a synopsis of the hymnody of other missions
and churches in Papua New Guinea for comparison. The
life story of Heinrich Zahn centres on his achievements
in New Guinea, particularly on the field of music; his
special cipher notation, the establishment of conchshell
bands, and the phonographic cylinder recordings are
outstanding examples.
All in all this is a scholarly edition of an historical
text. Friedegard Tomasetti
Anthropos 96.2001
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Bierwert, Crisca: Brushed by Cedar, Living by the
River. Coast Salish Figures of Power. Tucson: The
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0-8165-1919-6.
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na). Münster: Lit Verlag, 2000. 297 pp. ISBN 3-
8258-4437-4. (Forschungen zu Sprachen und Kul-
turen Afrikas, 6)
Boal, Barbara M.: The Kondhs. Human Sacrifice and
Religious Change. New Delhi: Inter-India Publica-
tions, 1997. 440 pp. ISBN 81-210-0362-8. (Tribal
Studies of India Series, T 180)
Bögemann-Hagedorn, Christiane: Hinter Opuntien-
hecken. Kulturwandel und ethnische Identität in
einem Otomi-Dorf des Valle del Mezquital, Mexi-
ko. Hamburg: Lit Verlag, 1998. 284 pp. ISBN
3-8258-2650-3. (Ethnologische Studien, 29)
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eine soziale Frage für die Kirche? Die Katholi-
sche Kirche und das Ende der Sklaverei in der
Kaffeeprovinz Säo Paulo, 1871-1888. Stuttgart:
Verlag Hans-Dieter Heinz, 1999. 366 pp. ISBN
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Boxler, Horst, und Idris Bozkurz-Mevrik: Vom
Schwarzmeer zum Hochrhein. Lazen im Landkreis
Waldshut. Ihre Geschichte und Gebräuche. Walds-
hut: Geschichtsverein Hochrhein, 2000. 109 pp-
(Land zwischen Hochrhein und Südschwarzwald,
Beiträge zur Geschichte des Landkreises Waldshut,
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Camara, Brahima: Jägerliteratur in Manden. Gattungs-
und Übersetzungsprobleme afrikanischer Orallite-
ratur am Beispiel von Baala Jinba Jakites Epos
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und Stellmacher, 1998. 285 pp. ISBN 3-930638-
18-5.
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suicidaires et meurtrières. Beauport: Publications
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ton: Princeton University Press, 2000. 301 pp-
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Chun, Allen: Unstructuring Chinese Society. The
Fictions of Colonial Practice and the Changing
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Anthropos 96.2001
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6.
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omy and Society in Oaxaca. Austin: University of
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po. Mitos y leyendas de la tradición oral mixteca.
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2.
Culture and Religion. An Interdisciplinary Journal.
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0143-8301. (Culture and Religion 1/1)
Daeng, Hans J.: Manusia, kebudayaan dan lingkungan.
Tinjauan antropologis. Yogyakarta: Pustaka Pelajar,
2000. 341 pp. ISBN 979-9289-45-9.
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187 pp. ISBN 1-85109-293-5. (World Bibliographi-
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Deo, Shantaram Bhalchandra: Indian Beads. A Cul-
tural and Technological Study. Pune: Deccan Col-
lege Post-Graduate and Research Institute, 2000.
205 pp.
De Smet, Peter A. G. M.: Herbs, Health, and Healers.
Africa as Ethnopharmacological Treasury. Berg en
Dal: Afrika Museum, 1999. 180 pp., photos. ISBN
90-71611-09-4.
De Soto, Hermine G., and Nora Dudwick (eds.): Field-
work Dilemmas. Anthropologists in Postsocial-
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^illehay, Thomas D.: The Settlement of the Americas.
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371 pp. ISBN 0-465-07668-8.
Dobberstein, Marcel: Musik und Mensch. Grund-
legung einer Anthropologie der Musik. Berlin:
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496-02491-7. (Historische Anthropologie, 31)
Dohrmann, Alke, und Claus Deimel: Kunstwerke
der Indianer Nordamerikas. Arktische Region und
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desmuseum, 2000. 79 pp. ISBN 3-929444-21-
Anthropos 96.2001
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kunde, 2)
Drechsel, Paul, et al: Kultur im Zeitalter der Globa-
lisierung. Von Identität zu Differenzen. Frankfurt:
IKO - Verlag für Interkulturelle Kommunikation,
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Driessen, Henk, and Ton Otto (eds.): Perplexities of
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7288-818-0.
Drolc, Uschi, et al. (eds.): A Linguistic Bibliography
of Uganda. Köln: Rüdiger Koppe Verlag, 1999.
114 pp. ISBN 3-89645-180-4. (African Linguistic
Bibliography, 7)
Dundes, Alan: Holy Writ as Oral Lit. The Bible as
Folklore. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publish-
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Eckhardt, Robert B.: Human Paleobiology. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. 350
pp. ISBN 0-521-45160-4. (Cambridge Studies in
Biological and Evolutionary Anthropology, 26)
Edgerton, Robert B.: Warrior Women. The Amazons
of Dahomey and the Nature of War. Boulder: West-
view Press, 2000. 196 pp. ISBN 0-8133-3711-9.
Edit, Tari: Pest Megye Közepkori Templomai - Me-
dieval Churches in Pest County. Szentendre: Pest
Megyei Müzeumok Igazgatösäga, 2000. 371 pp.
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Eibl-Eibesfeldt, Irenäus, and Frank Kemp Salter
(eds.): Indoctrinability, Ideology, and Warfare.
Evolutionary Perspectives. New York: Berghahn
Books, 1998. 490 pp. ISBN 1-57181-923-1.
Eller, Jack David: From Culture to Ethnicity to Con-
flict. An Anthropological Perspective on Interna-
tional Ethnic Conflict. Ann Arbor: The University
of Michigan Press, 1999. 368 pp. ISBN 0-472-
08538-7.
Ellis, Stephen: The Mask of Anarchy. The Destruction
of Liberia and the Religious Dimension of an
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Erb, Maribeth: The Manggaraians. A Guide to Tradi-
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Erny, Pierre: Enfants du del et de la terre. Essais
d’anthropologie religieuse. Paris: Editions L’Har-
mattan, 2000. 345 pp. ISBN 2-7384-9596-6.
Esposito, Rubens: Yanomami. Um povo amea^ado de
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85-7303-091-7.
Evans, Grant (ed.): Laos. Culture and Society. Chiang
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87090-4-3.
Ewers, John C.: Plains Indian History and Culture.
Essays on Continuity and Change. Norman: Uni-
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Fabian, Johannes: Out of Our Minds. Reason and Mad-
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330
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University of California Press, 2000. 320 pp. ISBN
0-520-22123-0.
Fagetti, Antonelia: Tentzonhuehue. El simbolismo del
cuerpo y la naturaleza. México: Plaza y Valdés Edi-
tores; Puebla: Benemérita Universidad Autónoma
de Puebla, 1998. 271 pp. ISBN 968-863-235-X;
ISBN 968-856-614-4.
Fausone, Alfonso M. et al: Poetik des Sakralen. Luis
Alberto Hernández - Poética de lo sagrado. Luis
Alberto Hernández. Sankt Augustin: Haus Völker
und Kulturen, 2000. 60 pp., Fotos.
Fenton, Steve: Ethnicity. Racism, Class, and Culture.
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260 pp. ISBN 0-8476-9529-8.
Ferguson, R. Brian, and Neil L. Whitehead (eds.):
War in the Tribal Zone. Expanding States and
Indigenous Warfare. 2nd ed. Santa Fe: School
of American Research Press; Oxford: James Cur-
rey, 2000. 303 pp. ISBN 0-933452-80-2; ISBN
0-85255-913-5.
Finkler, Kaja: Experiencing the New Genetics. Family
and Kinship on the Medical Frontier. Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. 277 pp.
ISBN 0-8122-1720-9.
Finn, Janet L.: Tracing the Veins. Of Copper, Cul-
ture, and Community from Butte to Chuquicamata.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. 309
pp. ISBN 0-520-21137-5.
Fischer, Hans: Wörter und Wandel. Ethnographische
Zugänge über die Sprache. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer
Verlag, 2000. 313 pp. ISBN 3-496-02693-6. (Mate-
rialien zur Kultur der Wampar, Papua New Guinea,
7)
Florentino, Manolo, y José Roberto Góes: A paz
das senzalas. Familias escravas e tráfico atlántico,
Rio de Janeiro, c.1790 - c.1850. Rio de Janeiro:
Civiliza§ao Brasileira, 1997. 251 pp. ISBN 85-200-
0458-X.
Fortescue, Michael: Language Relations across Bering
Strait. Reappraising the Archaeological and Lin-
guistic Evidence. London: Cassell, 1998. 307 pp.
ISBN 0-304-70330-3.
Fox, Robin: The Passionate Mind. Sources of Destruc-
tion and Creativity. New Brunswick: Transaction
Publishers, 2000. 332 pp. ISBN 0-7658-0632-0.
Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim: Reise zu Gott. Sufis und
Derwische im Islam. München: Verlag C. H. Beck,
2000. 219 pp. ISBN 3-406-45920-X. (Beck’sehe
Reihe, 1380)
Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim, und Hans Werner Mohm:
Lebensbaum und Kalaschnikow. Krieg und Frieden
im Spiegel afghanischer Bildteppiche. Blieskastel:
Gollenstein Verlag, 2000. 151 pp., Fotos. ISBN
3-933389-31-3.
Fritz, Miguel: “Nos han salvado.” Misión - ¿Destruc-
ción o salvación? Comienzo de una misión entre
etnocentrismo e inculturación. Quito: Abya-Yala
Editing, 1997. 404 pp. ISBN 9978-04-322-5.
García, Enrique Fernández: Perú Cristiano. Primitiva
evangelización de Iberoamérica y Filipinas, 1492-
1600, e historia de la Iglesia en el Perú, 1532-1900.
Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú,
2000. 450 pp. ISBN 9972-42-154-0.
García, Silvia P., y Diana S. Rolandi: Cuentos de
las tres abuelas. Narrativa de Antofagasta de la
Sierra. Buenos Aires: UNESCO, 2000. 238 pp.
ISBN 987-98034-0-X.
García Ayluardo, Clara, y Manuel Ramos Medina
(coord.): Manifestaciones religiosas en el mundo
colonial americano. 2a ed. México: Universidad
Iberoamericana, 1997. 360 pp. ISBN 968-859-305-
2.
Gardi, Bernhard: Boubou - c’est chic. Gewänder
aus Mali und anderen Ländern Westafrikas. Basel:
Christoph Merian Verlag, 2000. 207 pp., Fotos.
ISBN 3-85616-120-1.
Gill, Lesley: Teetering on the Rim. Global Restruc-
turing, Daily Life, and the Armed Retreat of the
Bolivian State. New York: Columbia University
Press, 2000. 222 pp. ISBN 0-231-11805-8.
Gimbutas, Marija: The Living Goddesses. Ed. and
suppl. by Miriam Robbins Dexter. Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1999. 286 pp. ISBN
0-520-21393-9.
Godelier, Maurice: The Engima of the Gift. Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 1999. 256 pp.
ISBN 0-226-30044-7.
Godelier, Maurice, et Michel Panoff (éds.): Le corps
humain. Supplicié, possédé, cannibalisé. Amster-
dam: Editions des archives contemporaines, 1998.
197 pp. ISBN 90-5709-003-1.
--- La production du corps. Approches anthropolo-
giques et historiques. Amsterdam: Editions des
archives contemporaines, 1998. 374 pp. ISBN 90-
5709-002-3.
Godenzzi Alegre, Juan Carlos (ed.): Tradición oral
andina y amazónica. Métodos de análisis e inter-
pretación de textos. Cusco: CBC, 1999. 385 pp-
ISBN 9972-691-17-9. (Biblioteca de la tradición
oral andina, 19)
Goody, Jack: The Power of the Written Tradition.
Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000.
192 pp. ISBN 1-56098-962-9.
Göttner-Abendroth, Heide: Das Matriarchat; Bd. 2.
Teil 2: Stammesgesellschaften in Amerika, Indien,
Afrika. Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 2000.
300 pp. ISBN 3-17-010568-X.
Gottschalk, Burkhard: Bei den Wahrsagern im Land
der Lobi. Die Kunst, Verborgenes zu entdecken.
Düsseldorf: Verlag U. Gottschalk, 1999. 203 pp.
Gould, Sydney H.: A New System for the Formal
Analysis of Kinship. Ed., annotated, and with an
introduction by D. B. Kronenfeld. Lanham: Uni-
versity Press of America, 2000. 426 pp. ISBN
0-7618-1622-4.
Gowdy, John M. (ed.): Limited Wants, Unlimited
Means. A Reader on Hunter-Gatherer Economics
and the Environment. Washington: Island Press,
1998. 342 pp. ISBN 1-55963-555-X.
Goytisolo, Juan: Kibla. Reisen in die Welt des Islam-
Anthropos 96.2001
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Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2000. 237 pp. ISBN
3-518-12145-6. (edition suhrkamp, 2145)
Greenwood, Susan: Magic, Witchcraft, and the Other-
world. An Anthropology. Oxford: Berg, 2000. 236
pp. ISBN 1-85973-450-2.
Grimes, Ronald L.: Deeply into the Bone. Re-Inventing
Rites of Passage. Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2000. 384 pp. ISBN 0-520-21533-8. (Life
Passages, 1)
Hagberg, Sten, and Alexis B. Tengan (eds.): Bonds
and Boundaries in Northern Ghana and Southern
Burkina Faso. Uppsala: Uppsala University, 2000.
197 pp. ISBN 91-554-4770-8. (Uppsala Studies in
Cultural Anthropology, 30)
Hagmann, Jürgen: Learning Together for Change.
Facilitating Innovation in Natural Resource Man-
agement through Learning Process Approaches
in Rural Livelihoods in Zimbabwe. Weikersheim:
Margraf Verlag, 1999. 310 pp. ISBN 3-8236-1314-
6. (Kommunikation und Beratung, Sozialwissen-
schaftliche Schriften zur Landnutzung und länd-
lichen Entwicklung, 29)
Hall, John A. (ed.): The State of the Nation. Ernest
Gellner and the Theory of Nationalism. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998. 317 pp. ISBN
0-521-63366-4.
Hansen, Holger Bernt, and Michael Twaddle (eds.):
Uganda Now. Between Decay and Development.
4th ed. London: James Currey; Athens: Ohio Uni-
versity Press, 1995. 376 pp. ISBN 0-85255-316-1;
ISBN 0-8214-0897-6.
"— Developing Uganda. Oxford: James Currey; Athens:
Ohio University Press, 1998. 293 pp. ISBN 0-
85255-395-1; ISBN 0-8214-1209-4.
Hansen, Karen Tranberg: Salaula. The World of
Secondhand Clothing and Zambia. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 2000. 298 pp. ISBN
0-226-31581-9.
Hansen, Thomas Blom: The Saffron Wave. Democracy
and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1999. 293 pp. ISBN
0-691-00670-9.
Harbottle, Lynn: Food for Health, Food for Wealth.
The Performance of Ethnic and Gender Identities
by Iranian Settlers in Britain. New York: Berghahn
Books, 2000. 184 pp. ISBN 1-57181-740-9. (The
Anthropology of Food and Nutrition, 3)
Garmon, Alexandra: Indians in the Making. Ethnic Re-
lations and Indian Identities around Puget Sound.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. 393
pp. ISBN 0-520-21176-6. (American Crossroads,
3)
Heath, Dwight B.: Drinking Occasions. Comparative
Perspectives on Alcohol and Culture. Philadelphia:
Brunner/Mazel, 2000. 240 pp. ISBN 1-58391-047-
6.
Heller, Erdmute, und Hassouna Mosbahi (Hrsg.):
Islam. Demokratie, Moderne. Aktuelle Antworten
arabischer Denker. München: Verlag C. H. Beck,
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Anthropos 96.2001
Hen, Ferdinand J. de: Aspecten van muziek en dans
in Swaziland. Bruxelles: Académie Royale des
Sciences d’Outre Mer, 1999. 127 pp. ISBN 90-
75652-21-6. (Mémoire in-8°, nouvelle série, 52/5)
Hengartner, Thomas: Forschungsfeld Stadt. Zur Ge-
schichte der volkskundlichen Erforschung städti-
scher Lebensformen. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Ver-
lag, 1999. 379 pp. ISBN 3-496-02655-3. (Lebens-
formen, 11)
Hine, Christine: Virtual Ethnography. London: Sage
Publications, 2000. 179 pp. ISBN 0-7619-5896-7.
Holland, Japan, and De Liefde. Tentoonstelling ter her-
denking van 400 jaar Japans-Nederlandse betrek-
kingen, 16 Juni - 17 September 2000. Leiden:
Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, 2000. 104 pp.,
Fotos. ISBN 90-71310-80-9.
Holtzman, John D.: Nuer Journeys, Nuer Lives. Su-
danese Refugees in Minnesota. Boston: Allyn and
Bacon, 2000. 141 pp. ISBN 0-205-29679-3.
Hoops, Johannes: Reallexikon der germanischen Alter-
tumskunde. 2., völlig neu bearb. u. stark erw. Aufl.,
hrsg. von Heinrich Beck et al.\ Bd. 16: Jadwingen
- Kleindichtung. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000.
668 pp. ISBN 3-11-016782-4.
Hörmann, Karl (Hrsg.): Jahrbuch für transkulturel-
le Medizin und Psychotherapie 1996/97 - Year-
book of Cross-Cultural Medicine and Psychothera-
py 1996/97; Themenband: Tanztherapie, Transkul-
turelle Perspektiven - Theme Issue: Dance Ther-
apy, Cross-Cultural Perspectives. Berlin: VWB -
Verlag für Wissenschaft und Bildung, 2000. 304 pp.
ISBN 3-927408-94-8. (Jahrbuch für transkulturelle
Medizin und Psychotherapie, 7)
Hummel, Siegbert: On Zhang-zhung. Dharamsala: Li-
brary of Tibetan Works and Archives, 2000. 166
pp. ISBN 81-86470-24-7
Im Land der Königin von Saba. Kunstschätze aus
dem antiken Jemen. Germering: I. P. Verlagsgesell-
schaft, 1999. 328 pp., Fotos.
Inglis, Fred: Clifford Geertz. Culture, Custom, and
Ethics. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000. 207 pp.
ISBN 0-7456-2158-9.
Ingold, Tim: The Perception of the Environment. Es-
says in Livelihood, Dwelling, and Skill. London:
Routledge, 2000. 465 pp. ISBN 0-415-22832-8.
Jaarsma, Sjoerd R., and Marta A. Rohatynskyj (eds ):
Ethnographic Artifacts. Challenges to a Reflexive
Anthropology. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i
Press, 2000. 255 pp. ISBN 0-8248-2302-8.
Jacobsen, Michael, and Ole Bruun (eds.): Human
Rights and Asian Values. Contesting National Iden-
tities and Cultural Representations in Asia. Rich-
mond: Curzon Press, 2000. 330 pp. ISBN 0-7007-
1213-5.
Jansen, Maarten, y Gabina Aurora Pérez Jiménez:
La dinastía de Añute. Historia, literatura e ide-
ología de un reino mixteco. Leiden: Research
School CNWS, 2000. 291 pp. ISBN 90-5789-039-
9. (CNWS Publications, 87)
Jensen, Tim, and Mikael Rothstein (eds.): Secular
332
Neue Publikationen
Theories on Religion. Current Perspectives. Copen-
hagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2000. 279 pp.
ISBN 87-7289-572-1.
Joyce, Rosemary A., and Susan D. Gillespie (eds.):
Beyond Kinship. Social and Material Reproduction
in House Societies. Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2000. 269 pp. ISBN 0-8122-
1723-3.
Julien, Catherine: Reading Inca History. Iowa Ciy:
University of Iowa Press, 2000. 338 pp. ISBN
0-87745-725-5.
Kahn, Audrey: Rebellion to Integration. West Sumatra
and the Indonesian Polity 1926-1998. Amsterdam:
Amsterdam University Press, 1999. 368 pp. ISBN
90-5356-395-4.
Karlsson, B. G.: Contested Belonging. An Indigenous
People’s Struggle for Forest and Identity in Sub-
Himalayan Bengal. Lund: Lund University, 1997.
318 pp. ISBN 91-89078-04-7. (Lund Monographs
in Social Anthropology, 4)
--- Contested Belonging. An Indigenous People’s
Struggle for Forest and Identity in Sub-Himalayan
Bengal. Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000. 310 pp.
ISBN 0-7007-1179-1.
Kecskesi, Maria: Kunst aus Afrika. Museum für
Völkerkunde München. München: Prestel Verlag,
1999. 238 pp., Fotos. ISBN 3-7913-2290-7.
Kehl, Robert: Was ist der Mensch? Ein hohes Geistwe-
sen...? Oder ein (macht- und profitgieriges) Säuge-
tier...? Oder...? Zürich: ERP-Verlag, 2000. 201 pp.
ISBN 3-905552-04-3.
Khare, R. S. (ed.): Perspectives on Islamic Law, Jus-
tice, and Society. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield
Publishers, 1999. 207 pp. ISBN 0-8476-9404-6.
King, Barbara J. (ed.): The Origins of Language.
What Nonhuman Primats Can Tell Us. Santa Fe:
School of American Research Press; Oxford: James
Currey, 1999. 442 pp. ISBN 0-933452-60-8; ISBN
0-85255-904-6.
King, Kenneth: Jua Kali Kenya. Change and De-
velopment in an Informal Economy 1970-1995.
London: James Currey; Athens: Ohio University
Press, 1996. 236 pp. ISBN 0-85255-239-4; ISBN
0-8214-1157-8.
Kirch, Patrick Vinton: On the Road of the Winds. An
Archaeological History of the Pacific Islands before
European Contact. Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Press, 2000. 425 pp. ISBN 0-520-22347-0.
Kjekshus, Helge: Ecology Control and Economic De-
velopment in East African History. The Case of
Tanganyika 1850-1950. 2nd, rev. ed. London:
James Currey; Athens: Ohio University Press,
1996. 222 pp. ISBN 0-85255-728-0; ISBN 0-8214-
1132-2.
Klass, Morton, and Maxine Weisgrau (eds.): Across
the Boundaries of Belief. Contemporary Issues in
the Anthropology of Religion. Boulder: Westview
Press, 1999. 416 pp. ISBN 0-8133-2695-8.
Klein, Richard G.: The Human Career. Human Bio-
logical and Cultural Origins. 2nd ed. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1999. 810 pp. ISBN
0-226-43963-1.
Koch, Gerd: Ein besseres Leben. Eine Suche im Süd-
Pazifik. Leipzig: edition failima, 2000. 141 pp.,
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Konrad, Gunter, und Ursula Konrad (Hrsg.): Asmat.
Mythen und Rituale. Inspiration der Kunst. Vene-
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88-7077-035-4.
Kraus, Michael, und Mark Münzel (Hrsg.): Zur Be-
ziehung zwischen Universität und Museum in der
Ethnologie. Marburg: Förderverein “Völkerkunde
in Marburg” e. V., 2000. 172 pp. ISBN 3-8165-
0317-6. (Curupira Workshop, 5)
Kroskrity, Paul V. (ed.): Regimes of Language. Ide-
ologies, Polities, and Identities. Santa Fe: School
of American Research Press; Oxford: James Cur-
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Kuckenburg, Martin: Vom Steinzeitlager zur Kelten-
stadt. Siedlungen der Vorgeschichte in Deutsch-
land. Stuttgart: Konrad Theiss Verlag, 2000. 216
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Laburthe-Tolra, Philippe: Vers la lumière? ou le désir
d’Ariel. A propos des Beti du Cameroun. Sociolo-
gie de la conversion. Paris: Editions Karthala, 1999.
648 pp. ISBN 2-86537-916-7.
Larson, Warren Fredrick: Islamic Ideology and Fun-
damentalism in Pakistan. Climate for Conversion to
Christianity? Lanham: University Press of Amer-
ica, 1998. 281 pp. ISBN 0-7618-1094-3.
Lasker, Gabriel Ward: Happenings and Hearsay. Ex-
periences of a Biological Anthropologist. Detroit:
Savoyard Books, 1999. 223 pp. ISBN 0-8143-
2840-7.
Leeming, David Adams, and Marion Sader (eds ):
Storytelling Encyclopedia. Historical, Cultural, and
Multiethnic Approaches to Oral Traditions around
the World. Phoenix: Oryx Press, 1997. 545 pp-
ISBN 1-57356-025-1.
Le Moal, Guy: Les Bobo. Nature et fonction des
masques. Tervuren: Musée royal de l’Afrique cen-
trale, 1999. 356 pp. ISBN 90-75894-11-2. (Annales
sciences humaines, 161)
Lerch, Wolfgang Günther: Muhammads Erben. Die
unbekannte Vielfalt des Islam. Düsseldorf: Patmos
Verlag, 1999. 200 pp. ISBN 3-491-72410-4.
Le Roy, Etienne, et al. (éds.): Un passeur entre les
mondes. Le livre des anthropologues du droit,
disciples et amis du recteur Michel Alliot. Paris:
Publications de la Sorbonne, 2000. 359 pp. ISBN
2-85944-395-9.
Lévesque, Rodrigue (ed.): History of Micronesia. A
Collection of Source Documents; vol. 3: First Re-
al Contact, 1596-1637; Québec: Lévesque Publi-
cations, 1993. 704 pp. ISBN 0-920201-03-2.
--- History of Micronesia. A Collection of Source
Documents; vol. 10: Exploration of the Caroline Is-
lands, 1696-1709. Québec: Lévesque Publications,
1997. 704 pp. ISBN 0-920201-10-5.
Anthropos 96.2001
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Lévi-Strauss, Claude: The Way of the Masks. Seattle:
University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC
Press, 1999. 249 pp. ISBN 0-295-96636-X; ISBN
0-7748-0761-X.
Levtzion, Nehemia, and Randall L. Pouwels (eds.):
The History of Islam in Africa. Athens: Ohio Uni-
versity Press; Oxford: James Currey; Cape Town:
David Philip, 2000. 591 pp. ISBN 0-8214-1297-3;
ISBN 0-85255-781-7; ISBN 0-86486-454-X.
Lindfors, Bernth (ed.): Africans on Stage. Studies in
Ethnological Business. Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
versity Press, 1999. 302 pp. ISBN 0-253-33468-3.
Lindisfarne, Nancy: Dancing in Damascus. Stories.
Albany: SUNY Press, 2000. 168 pp. ISBN 0-7914-
4636-0.
Lindquist, Galina: Shamanic Performances on the Ur-
ban Scene. Neo-Shamanism in Contemporary Swe-
den. Stockholm: Stockholm University, 1997. 315
pp. ISBN 91-7153-691-4. (Stockholm Studies in
Social Anthropology, 39)
Liu, Xin: In One’s Shadow. An Ethnographic Account
of the Condition of Postreform Rural China. Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 2000. 245 pp.
ISBN 0-520-21994-5.
Lock, Margaret, et al. (eds.): Living and Working with
the New Medical Technologies. Intersections of
Inquiry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000. 295 pp. ISBN 0-521-65568-4. (Cambridge
Studies in Medical Anthropology, 8)
Lockhart, James: Of Things of the Indies. Essays
Old and New in Early Latin American History.
Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. 398 pp.
ISBN 0-8047-3810-6.
Lopez Pulido, Alberto: The Sacred World of the Pen-
itentes. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press,
2000. 108 pp. ISBN 1-56098-974-2.
Ludden, David: The New Cambridge History of India;
IV/4: An Agrarian History of South Asia. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. 261 pp.
ISBN 0-521-36424-8.
Luykx, Aurolyn: The Citizen Factory. Schooling and
Cultural Production in Bolivia. Albany: SUNY
Press, 1999. 399 pp. ISBN 0-7914-4038-9.
McArthur, A. Margaret. The Curbing of Anarchy in
Kunimaipa Society. Ed. by Douglas Oliver. Syd-
ney: University of Sydney, 2000. 232 pp. ISBN
1-86451-358-6. (Oceania Monograph, 49)
McCarthy, Scott: People of the Circle. People of the
Four Directions. Nevada City: Blue Dolphin Pub-
lishing, 1999. 686 pp. ISBN 1-57733-013-7.
^acClancy, Jeremy (ed.): Sport, Identity, and Ethnic-
ity. Oxford: Berg, 1996. 203 pp. ISBN 1-85973-
145-7. ■
McDonald, John: The Arctic Sky. Inuit Astronomy,
Star Lore, and Legend. 2nd ed. Toronto: Royal On-
tario Museum; Iqaluit: Nunavut Research Institute,
2000. 313 pp., photos. ISBN 0-88854-427-8.
v*acGaffey, Janet, and Rémy Bazenguissa-Ganga:
Transnational Traders on the Margins of the Law.
Oxford: James Currey; Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
Anthropos 96.2001
versity Press, 2000. 190 pp. ISBN 0-85255-260-2;
ISBN 0-253-21402-5.
McIntosh, Ian S.: Aboriginal Reconciliation and the
Dreaming. Warramiri Yolngu and the Quest for
Equality. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 2000. 148 pp.
ISBN 0-205-29793-5.
McLean, Ian: White Aborigines. Identity Politics in
Australian Art. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1998. 204 pp. ISBN 0-521-58416-7.
Mager, Anne Kelk: Gender and the Making of a South
African Bantustan. A Social History of the Cis-
kei, 1945-1959. Portsmouth: Heinemann; Oxford:
James Currey, 1999. 248 pp. ISBN 0-325-00110-3;
ISBN 0-85255-635-7.
Mansilla, Lucio V.: A Visit to the Ranquel Indians.
Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. 453
pp. ISBN 0-8032-8235-4.
Marshall, Lorna J.: Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs and
Rites. Cambridge: Peabody Museum of Archaeol-
ogy and Ethnology, Harvard University, 1999. 361
pp. ISBN 0-87365-908-2.
Martin, Calvin Luther: The Way of the Human Being.
New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999. 235 pp.
ISBN 0-300-08552-4.
Mataré, Herbert F.: Conscientious Evolution. Reprint.
Washington: Scott-Townsend Publishers, 2000. 313
pp. ISBN 1-878465-36-8.
Maud, Ralph: Transmission Difficulties. Franz Boas
and Tsimshian Mythology. Burnaby: Talonbooks,
2000. 174 pp. ISBN 0-88922-430-7.
Mead, Margaret (ed.): And Keep Your Powder Dry.
An Anthropologist Looks at America. New York:
Berghahn Books, 2000. 214 pp. ISBN 1-57181-
218-0. (Margaret Mead, The Study of Contempo-
rary Western Culture, 2)
Mead, Margaret, and Rhoda Métraux (eds.); The
Study of Culture at a Distance. New York: Berg-
hahn Books, 2000. 541 pp. ISBN 1-57181-216-4.
(Margaret Mead, The Study of Contemporary West-
ern Cultures, 1)
Meentzen, Angela: Weiblichkeit, Macht und Ge-
schlechterverhältnisse im Wandel. Die soziale Ord-
nung der ländlichen Aymara Perus aus weiblicher
Sicht. Frankfurt: Vervuert Verlag, 2000. 325 pp.
ISBN 3-89354-161-6. (Berliner Lateinamerika-
Forschungen, 11)
Mensen, Bernhard (Hrsg): Weltreligionen der Zukunft
- Tendenzen und Entwürfe. Nettetal: Steyler Ver-
lag, 2000. 116 pp. ISBN 3-8050-0449-4. (Vor-
tragsreihe Akademie Völker und Kulturen, 23)
Meyer, Birgit, and Peter Geschiere (eds.): Globaliza-
tion and Identity. Dialectics of Flow and Closure.
Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999. 338 pp. ISBN
0-631-21238-8.
Miller, Daniel, and Don Slater: The Internet. An Eth-
nographic Approach. Oxford: Berg, 2000. 217 pp.
ISBN 1-58973-389-1.
Miller, Elmer S. (ed.): Peoples of the Gran Chaco.
Westport: Bergin & Garvey, 1999. 166 pp. ISBN
0-89789-532-0.
334
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Millet, José, y Alejandro Garcia (eds.): El espiritismo.
Variantes cubanas. Santiago de Cuba: Editorial
Oriente, 1996. 68 pp. ISBN 959-11-0143-0.
Millones, Luis, et al.: Folklore. Sobre dioses, ritos,
y saberes andinos. Huancayo: Sociedad Científica
Andina de Folklore, 1998. 140 pp. (Hatun Mayu,
1)
Mode, Erwin (Hrsg.): Spiritualität der Weltkulturen.
Graz: Verlag Styria, 2000. 343 pp. ISBN 3-222-
12798-0.
Mohen, Jean-Pierre: Megaliths. Stones of Memory.
New York: Harry N. Abrams Publishers, 1999. 175
pp., photos. ISBN 0-8109-2861-2.
Morris, Rosalind C.: In the Place of Origins. Modernity
and Its Mediums in Northern Thailand. Durham:
Duke University Press, 2000. 381 pp. ISBN 0-
8223-2517-9.
Murray, Stephen O.: Homosexualities. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 2000. 507 pp. ISBN
0-226-55194-6.
Nawrot, Piotr (ed.): Segundo Festival de Música Re-
nacentista y Barroca Americana. Misiones de Chi-
quitos; 2 vols. Vol. 1: El viejo mundo. La España
del siglo XVI; vol. 2: La nueva España en el siglo
XVII. Santa Cruz: APAC, 1998. CD-ROM.
---- Indígenas y cultura musical de las reducciones
Jesuíticas; 5 vols. Vol. 1: Guaraníes, Chiquitos,
Moxos; vol. 2: Cantos Chiquitanos; vol. 3: San
Francisco Xavier. Drama Musical (Opera Edifi-
cante); vol. 4: Requiem Chiquitano. Missa mo una-
ma coñoca; vol. 5: Cantos Guaraníes y Moxeños.
Cochabamba: Editorial Verbo Divino, 2000. 153
pp.; 174 pp.; 157 pp.; 86 pp.; 143 pp. ISBN
99905-43-74-7.
Newman, Paul (ed.): Hausa and the Chadic Language
Family. A Bibliography. Köln: Rüdiger Koppe Ver-
lag, 1996. 152 pp. ISBN 3-927620-36-X. (African
Linguistic Bibliographies, 6)
Newman, William M., and Peter L. Halvorson: Atlas
of American Religion. The Denominational Era,
1776-1990. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2000.
176 pp. ISBN 0-7425-0345-3.
Niles, John D.: Homo Narrans. The Poetics and Anthro-
pology of Oral Literature. Philadelphia: University
of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. 280 pp. ISBN 0-8122-
3504-5.
Nuyts, Jan, and Eric Pederson (eds.): Language and
Conceptualization. Reprint. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1998. 281 pp. ISBN 0-521-
55303-2.
Oakes, Jill, and Rick Riewe: Spirit of Siberia. Tradi-
tional Native Life, Clothing, and Footwear. Wash-
ington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1998. 215
pp., photos. ISBN 1-56098-801-0.
Obrecht, Andreas J.: Die Welt der Geistheiler. Die
Renaissance magischer Weltbilder. Wien: Böhlau
Verlag, 1999. 288 pp. ISBN 3-205-99039-0.
Oloroso, Bernadette (ed.): Katutubo. Glimpses of Phil-
ippine Indigenous Culture. CD-ROM.
Oosten, Jarich, and Cornelius Remie (eds.): Arctic
Identities. Continuity and Change in Inuit and
Saami Societies. Leiden: Research School CNWS,
1999. 220 pp. ISBN 90-5789-020-8. (CNWS Pub-
lications, 74)
Österreich, Shelley Anne (ed.): Native North American
Shamanism. An Annotated Bibliography. Westport:
Greenwood Press, 1998. Ill pp. ISBN 0-3IS-
SO 168-9. (Bibliographies and Indexes in American
History, 38)
Panter-Brick, Catherine, and Malcolm T. Smith
(eds.): Abandoned Children. Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2000. 231 pp. ISBN 0-
521-77555-8.
Parker, Richard, et al. (eds.): Framing the Sexual
Subject. The Politics of Gender, Sexuality, and
Power. Berkeley: University of California Press,
2000. 271 pp. ISBN 0-520-21838-8.
Peatrik, Anne-Marie: La vie à pas contés. Génération,
âge et société dans les hautes terres du Kénya
(Meru Tigania-Igembe). Nanterre: Société d’ethno-
logie, 1999. 571 pp. ISBN 2-901161-59-6. (So-
ciétés africaines, 10)
Pels, Peter, and Oscar Salemink (eds.): Colonial Sub-
jects. Essays on the Practical History of Anthropol-
ogy. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press,
1999. 364 pp. ISBN 0-472-11017-9.
Pertierra, Raul: Explorations in Social Theory and
Philippine Ethnography. Quezon City: University
of the Philippines Press, 1997. 262 pp. ISBN 971 -
542-134-2.
Peterson, Richard B.: Conversations in the Rainforest.
Culture, Values, and the Environment in Central
Africa. Boulder: Westview Press, 2000. 320 pp.
ISBN 0-8133-3709-7.
Petit, Pierre: Les sauniers de la savane orientale. Ap-
proche ethnographique de l’industrie du sel chez les
Luba, Bemba et populations apparentées (Congo,
Zambie). Bruxelles: Académie Royale des Sciences
d’Outre-Mer, 2000. 141 pp. ISBN 90-75652-18-6.
(Mémoire in-8°, nouvelle série, 52/4)
Petrarca, Valerio: Messia nero. Stregoneria, cristiane-
simo e religioni tradizionali in Costa d’Avorio.
Roma: Viella Libreria editrice, 2000. 270 pp. ISBN
88-8334-013-2. (sacro / santo, 3)
---- Pagani e cristiani nell’Africa nera. Palermo: Sel-
lerio editore, 2000. 216 pp. ISBN 88-389-1571-7.
(Nuovo Prisma, 21)
Pickering, W. S. F. (ed.): Durkheim and Representa-
tions. London: Routledge, 2000. 182 pp. ISBN
0-415-19090-8. (Routledge Studies in Social and
Political Thought, 22)
Pillinger, Steve, and Letiwa Galboran: A Rendili
Dictionary. Including a Grammatical Outline and
an English-Rendille Index. Köln: Rüdiger Köppe
Verlag, 1999. 416 pp. ISBN 3-89645-061-1. (Ku-
schitische Sprachstudien, 14)
Pina-Cabral, Joäo de, and Antonia Pedroso de Lima
(eds.): Elites. Choice, Leadership, and Succession.
Oxford: Berg, 2000. 253 pp. ISBN 1-85973-399-9-
Polia Meconi, Mario: La cosmovisión religiosa andina
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en los documentos inéditos del Archivo Romano
de la Compañia de Jesús (1581-1752). Lima: Pon-
tificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 1999. 627 pp.
ISBN 9972-42-170-8.
Prinz, Ulrike: “Das Jacaré und die streitbaren Weiber.”
Poesie und Geschlechterkampf im östlichen Tief-
land Südamerikas. Marburg: Curupira, 1999. 384
pp. ISBN 3-8185-0276-5. (Curupira, 7)
Quack, Anton: Spiritualität der Stammesreligionen.
Sep.: Spiritualität der Weltkulturen (Graz) 2000: 159—
186.
Rapport, Nigel, and Joanna Overing: Social and Cul-
tural Anthropology. The Key Concepts. London:
Routledge, 2000. 464 pp. ISBN 0-415-18156-9.
Reddy, Thiven: Hegemony and Resistance. Contesting
Identities in South Africa. Aldershot: Ashgate Pub-
lishing, 2000. 256 pp. ISBN 0-7546-1205-8.
Revel, Nicole, et Mäsinu Intaräy: La quête en épouse.
Mämiminbin, une épopée palawan chantée par
Mäsinu - The Quest for a Wife. Mämiminbin,
a Palawan Epic Sung by Mäsinu. Trilingue Pa-
lawan-Français-Anglais. Paris: Langues et Mon-
des/L’Asiatèque; Editions UNESCO, 2000. 428 pp.
ISBN 2-911053-57-5; ISBN 92-3-003732-X.
Revesz, Bruno, et ai: Piura. Región y sociedad. Der-
rotero bibliográfico para el desarrollo. Cusco: CBC,
1997. 773 pp. ISBN 84-8387-033-9. (Archivos de
Historia Andina, 22)
Rice, Patricia C., and David W. McCurdy (eds.):
Strategies in Teaching Anthropology. Upper Saddle
River: Prentice-Hall, 2000. 181 pp. ISBN 0-13-
025683-8.
Rivinius, Karl Josef: Schmidt, Wilhelm SVD. Sep.:
Biographisch-bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon,
Bd. 17 (Herzberg) 2000: 1231-1246.
Robben, Antonius C. G. M., and Marcelo M. Suárez-
Orozco (eds.): Cultures under Siege. Collective
Violence and Trauma. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 2000. 285 pp. ISBN 0-521-78435-2.
Roesler, Ulrike (Hrsg.): Aspekte des Weiblichen in
der indischen Kultur. Swisttal-Odendorf: Indica et
Tibetica Verlag, 2000. 192 pp. ISBN 3-923776-39-
X. (Indica et Tibetica, 39; Arbeitsmaterialien zur
Religionsgeschichte, 15)
Ross, Fiona G.: The Printed Bengali Character and Its
Evolution. Richmond: Curzon Press, 1999. 244 pp.
ISBN 0-7007-1135-X.
Rózsa, Köpöczi: A Grafikus Szönyi. Rajzok, Vázlatok,
Tanulmányok. Szentendre: Pest Megyei Múzeumok
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7215-54-9.
Rubinstein, Raechelle: Beyond the Realm of the Sen-
ses. The Balinese Ritual of kekawin Composition.
Leiden: KITLV Press, 2000. 293 pp. ISBN 90-
6718-133-1. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk
Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 181)
aU Antonio, Francisco de, O. F. M.: Vocabulario Ta-
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971-8936-03-3.
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Sánchez-Parga, José: Antropo-lógicas andinas. Quito:
Abya-Yala, 1997. 262 pp. ISBN 9978-04-251-2.
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Sand, Erik Reenberg, and Jürgen Podemann Süren-
sen (eds.): Comparative Studies in History of Re-
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ISBN 87-7289-533-0.
Scheff, Thomas J.: Emotions, the Social Bond, and
Human Reality. Part/Whole Analysis. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press; Paris: Editions de la
Maison des Sciences de L’Homme, 1997. 249 pp.
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Schneebaum, Tobias: Secret Places. My Life in New
York and New Guinea. Madison: The University
of Wisconsin Press, 2000. 158 pp. ISBN 0-299-
16990-1.
Schrauwers, Albert: Colonial “Reformation” in the
Highlands of Central Sulawesi, Indonesia, 1892—
1995. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000.
279 pp. ISBN 0-8020-8303-X. (Anthropological
Horizons, 14)
Schröter, Susanne: Die Austreibung des Bösen. Ein
Beitrag zur Religion und Sozialstruktur der Sa-
ra Langa in Ostindonesien. Stuttgart: Verlag W.
Kohlhammer, 2000. 296 pp. ISBN 3-17-016441-4.
(Religionsethnologische Studien des Frobenius-In-
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Schweitzer, Peter P., et al. (eds.): Hunters and Gath-
erers in the Modem World. Conflict, Resistance,
and Self-Determination. New York: Berghahn
Books, 2000. 498 pp. ISBN 1-57181-101-X.
Scott, G. Richard, and Christy G. Turner II: The
Anthropology of Modern Human Teeth. Dental
Morphology and Its Variation in Recent Human
Populations. Pbk. ed. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 2000. 382 pp. ISBN 0-521-78453-0.
(Cambridge Studies in Biological and Evolutionary
Anthropology, 20)
Seibert, Gerhard: Comrades, Clients, and Cousins.
Colonialism, Socialism, and Democratization in
Säo Tomé and Príncipe. Leiden: Research School
CNWS, 1999. 455 pp. ISBN 90-5789-017-8.
(CNWS Publications, 73)
Seneviratne, H. L.: The Work of Kings. The New
Buddhism in Sri Lanka. Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press, 1999. 358 pp. ISBN 0-226-74866-9.
Sharma, Suresh K., and Usha Sharma (eds.): Society,
Economy, and Culture of Kashmir; vol. 3: Kashmir
through the Ages. New Delhi: Deep and Deep
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Sibeth, Achim: Batak. Kunst aus Sumatra. Frankfurt:
Museum für Völkerkunde, 2000. 189 pp., Fotos.
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Sieber, Roy, und Frank Herreman (eds.): Hair in
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2000. 192 pp., photos. ISBN 3-7913-2291-5.
Sigal, Pete: From Moon Goddesses to Virgins. The
Colonization of Yucatecan Maya Sexual Desire.
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336
Neue Publikationen
Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000. 320 pp.
ISBN 0-292-77753-1.
Sindiga, Isaac: Tourism and African Development.
Change and Challenge of Tourism in Kenya. Al-
dershot: Ashgate Publishing, 1999. 214 pp. ISBN
0-7546-1274-0. (Research Series of the African
Studies Centre, 14)
Smith, Linda Tühiwai: Decolonizing Methodologies.
Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed
Books; Dunedin: University of Otago Press, 1999.
208 pp. ISBN 1-85649-623-6; ISBN 1-877133-67-
1.
Soares, André Luis R.: Guarani. Organizaçào social e
arqueologia. Porto Alegre: EDIPUCRS, 1997. 256
pp. (Coleçao Arqueologia, 4)
Strathern, Andrew, and Pamela J. Stewart: Arrow
Talk. Transaction, Transition, and Contradiction in
New Guinea Highlands History. Kent: The Kent
State University Press, 2000. 216 pp. ISBN 0-
87338-661-2.
---- The Python’s Back. Pathways of Comparison be-
tween Indonesia and Melanesia. Westport: Bergin
& Garvey, 2000. 174 pp. ISBN 0-89789-707-2.
Strathern, Marilyn (ed.): Audit Cultures. Anthropo-
logical Studies in Accountability, Ethics, and the
Academy. London: Routledge, 2000. 310 pp. ISBN
0-415-23327-5.
Streck, Bernhard (Hrsg.): Wörterbuch der Ethnologie.
2. und erw. Aufl. Wuppertal: Edition Trickster
im Peter Hammer Verlag, 2000. 431 pp. ISBN
3-87294-857-1.
Sunbeams in the Dark. Pune: Raja Dinkar Kelkar Mu-
seum, 1986. 58 pp., photos.
Sundkler, Bengt, and Christopher Steed: A History of
the Church in Africa. Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 2000. 1232 pp. ISBN 0-521-58342-X.
Sutton, Susan Buck (ed.): Contingent Countryside. Set-
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Argolid since 1700. Stanford: Stanford University
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Suwandi, Raharjo: A Quest for Justice. The Millena-
ry Aspirations of a Contemporary Javanese Wali.
Leiden: KITLV Press, 2000. 229 pp. ISBN 90-
6718-134-X. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk
Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 182)
Suzman, James: “Things from the Bush.” A Contem-
porary History of the Omaheke Bushmen. Basel:
P. Schlettwein Publishing, 1999. 191 pp. ISBN
3-908193-06-0. (Basel Namibia Studies Series, 5)
Tai, Robert H., and Mary L. Kenyatta (eds.): Critical
Ethnicity. Countering the Waves of Identity Pol-
itics. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers,
1999. 213 pp. ISBN 0-8476-9114-4.
Taylor, Christopher S.: In the Vicinity of the Righ-
teous. Ziyära and the Veneration of Muslim Saints
in Late Medieval Egypt. Leiden: Koninklijke Brill,
1999. 264 pp. ISBN 90-04-11046-1. (Islamic His-
tory and Civilization, Studies and Texts, 22)
Thomas, Linda Elaine: Under the Canopy. Ritual Pro-
cess and Spiritual Resilience in South Africa. Co-
lumbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1999.
174 pp. ISBN 1-57003-311-0.
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lropos 96.2001
338
Miszellen
Vom Schwarzmeer zum Hochrhein. Lazen im Land-
kreis Waldshut - ihre Geschichte und Gebräuche
(Horst Boxler und Idris Bozkurt-Mevrik) - Unter den in
den 60er und 70er Jahren in den Landkreis Waldshut zu-
gewanderten ausländischen Arbeitskräften befindet sich
eine relativ geschlossene lazische Bevölkerungsgruppe
von der Südostküstenregion des Schwarzen Meeres. Die
Autoren unternehmen es, “ihre Geschichte, soweit sie
sich aus den schriftlichen Quellen rekonstruieren läßt,
auch ihre bis heute tradierten Sitten aufzuzeichnen,
um sie in einer sich immer rascher wandelnden und
Assimilierungsdruck ausübenden Umgebung nicht in
Vergessenheit geraten zu lassen” (4L).
Der erste Teil (6-78; von H. Boxler) behandelt die
Geschichte der Lazen. Sie werden dem Leser als eine
der loyalsten Volksgruppen in der Türkei des Sultans
Murad IV. vorgestellt. Im 6. Jh. wurden sie Christen und
bildeten ein vom Byzanz der Kaiser Justin und Justinian
unterstütztes Klientelkönigreich, um die Ostgrenzen des
Reiches zu schützen. Nach der Übernahme des Islam im
16./17. Jh. hingen sie einem orthodoxen sunnitischen
Glauben mit sektiererischem Einschlag an. Durch die
geographische Isolation des Lazengebietes wurden auch
pantheistische und christliche Elemente konserviert und
in den neuen Glauben integriert. Später, zu Beginn des
18. Jhs., sieht der Autor den Begriff “Lazen” erweitert:
im Bereich der Kaukasusregion und der Pontischen Ge-
birgskette subsummierten sich unter dieser Bezeichnung
außer den autochthonen Lazen auch Turkmenen, Adja-
ren und griechischsprachige Muslime der Region um Of.
Gerade sie, an Grenzübergriffe gewöhnt, leisteten den
heftigsten Widerstand gegen das Bestreben der Zaren,
jenseits des Kaukasusgebirges ein ausreichend großes
Glacis zu erobern.
Der kürzere, zweite Teil, “Bräuche und Überlie-
ferungen bei den Lazen” (79-96), stammt von Idris
Bozkurt-Mevrik, einem betagten Informanten und selbst
ein Laze. Er erzählt von den Clans, von Politik, von
der Hungersnot der 40er Jahre, den Kriegsfolgen. Wei-
tere Themen: Heiratsbräuche, Frauen, Kinder, Männer,
Jugendliche, Bildung und Ausbildung, Spiele, Witze,
Musik, Auswanderung, Überlieferungen am Beispiel
eines Clan-Stammbaumes.
In dem Werk wird ein für alle Regionen Europas,
ja der Welt, bedeutsamer Vorgang klar: die Integration
fremder Stämme und Sprachen. Auch wenn sie mit
“Sprachverlust” durch die Anpassung schon in der zwei-
ten Generation verbunden ist - vielleicht verbleiben in
der Familiensprache nur noch “Trümmer”. Nachhaltiger
wirkt sich, wie der zweite Teil des Werkes zeigt, das
Bewußtsein der Eigenart aus, einer Wesensart, bedingt
durch eine jeweils eigene soziale Struktur und oft
weit zurückreichende Stammesgeschichte, und dieses
Bewußtsein sollte bewahrt bleiben. Für eine weltweit
forschende Linguistik wäre da jede Spur einer früheren
Muttersprache ebenso wichtig wie für die Ethnologie
die hier in diesem Werk gesammelten Volksbräuche.
- ([Land zwischen Hochrhein und Südschwarzwald,
Beiträge zur Geschichte des Landkreises Waldshut, 4]
Waldshut: Geschichtsverein Hochrhein, 2000. 109 pp.
DM 24,80)
Johann Knobloch
Mahamba. The Transforming Arts of Spirit Pos-
session among the Luvale-Speaking People of the
Upper Zambezi (Boris Wastiau). - This book explores
symbolic practice in the spirit possession rituals known
as mahamba in the upper Zambezi region, specifically
among the Luvale-speaking people of North-Western
Zambia. In it, rituals of possession are analysed as
transformational practices that evoke changes in the
subjects undertaking them. Furthermore, these rituals of
possession are seen as phenomena that transform along
time in specific historical and sociocultural contexts.
The mahamba are numerous in kind, in turn address-
ing serious illness, infertility, madness, failure, social
distress, and other ills.
Alternatively displaying the features of ad hoc
therapeutic rituals or those of overtly religious cults and
calling membership of men as well as women, mahamba
can lead to initiation to a religious sodality, to admission
in a professional cast, or simply to the restoration of
regular health and social status.
What is specific about the transformations affecting
the people and the rituals themselves? Are they related,
and what are the cultural and/or sociological factors
determining them? How is symbolism produced and
what is the role of shrines and artworks? A historical
perspective and the analysis of two sets of contemporary
rituals are combined to advance elements to produce
answers.
The main hypothesis is that a process of poiesis, the
generation of symbolic fields, is due to the existence of
a core processual structure that endures in possession
rituals, whatever the sociological function is that they
fulfill. It is contended that the mahamba are instruments
for structuring history that people constantly reprocess
in order to face their predicament. - ([Studia Institu-
ti Anthropos, 48] Freiburg: University Press Fribourg
Switzerland, 2000. 358 pp., photos. ISBN 3-7278-1293-
1. sfr 75.00)
Anthropos 96.2001
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Terminology: Problems of Development and Usage in
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2000/61
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traiter le sida en Afrique? (91-104). - Fassin, D.,
Une crise épidémiologique dans les sociétés de post-
apartheid: La sida en Afrique du Sud et en Namibie
(105-115). - Desgrées du Loû, A., P. Vimard, La
santé de la reproduction: Nouvelle approche globale en
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de, A. Moumouni, A. Souley, “L’accouchement c’est la
guerre.” Accoucher en milieu rural nigérien (136-154).
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et santé de l’Etat en Afrique subsaharienne (175-190).
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santé dans les faits en Afrique de l’Ouest francophone
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tures confessionnelles privées dans la réorganisation
d’un système de santé: Le cas du Cameroun (204-
209). - Tonda, J., M.-E.. Gruénais, Les “médecines
africaines” et le syndrome du prophète. L’exemple du
Congo (273-282).
American Anthropologist (Washington)
102. 2000/2
Murray, D. A. B., Between a Rock and a Hard Place:
The Power and Powerlessness of Transnational Narra-
tives among Gay Martinican Men (261-270). - Keat-
ing, E., Moments of Hierarchy: Constructing Social
Stratification by Means of Language, Food, Space, and
the Body in Pohnpei, Micronesia (303-320).
American Ethnologist (Washington)
27. 2000/1
Duany, J., Nation on the Move: The Construction of
Cultural Identities in Puerto Rico and the Diaspora (5-
30). - Oliven, R. G., “The Largest Popular Culture
Movement in the Western World:” Intellectuals and
Gaucho Traditionalism in Brazil (128-146). - Nabo-
kov, I., Deadly Power: A Funeral to Counter Sorcery in
South India (147-168).
Annales Aequatoria (Mbandaka)
21. 2000
Kamanda, R. K., A propos de la “bantouisation” cultu-
relle en R. D. du Congo (9-18).
L’Année Sociologique (Paris)
50. 2000/1
Deliège, R., Les hindous croient-ils en la réincarnation?
(217-234). - Orfali, B., Les représentations sociales:
Un concept essentiel et une théorie fondamentale en
sciences humaines et sociales (235-254).
Anthropological Quarterly (Washington)
73. 2000/1
Gat, A., The Human Motivational Complex: Evolution-
ary Theory and the Causes of Hunter-Gatherer Fighting-
Part 1. Primary Somatic and Reproductive Causes (20-
34). - Hutson, S. R., The Rave: Spiritual Healing in
Modem Western Subcultures (35-49).
73. 2000/2
Galbraith, M., On the Road to Czçstochowa: Rhetoric
and Experience on a Polish Pilgrimage (61 -73). - Gat,
A., The Human Motivational Complex: Evolutionary
Theory and the Causes of Hunter-Gatherer Fighting-
Part II. Proximate, Subordinate, and Derivative Causes
(74-88). - Garcia, M. E., Ethnographic Responsibility
and the Anthropological Endeavor: Beyond Identity
Discourse (89-101).
Anthropologie et Sociétés (Québec)
24. 2000/2
Massé, R., Les limites d’une approche essentialiste des
ethnoéthiques. Pour un relativisme éthique critique (13"
33). - Marshall P. A., B. A. Koenig, Bioéthique et
anthropologie. Situer le “bien” dans la pratique médicale
(35-55). - Hours, B., M. Selim, Pratiques et axiologieS
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127). - Bibeau, G., Vers une éthique créole (129-148).
Anthropology Today (London)
16. 2000/4
Bowen, J. R., Universal “Indigenous Peoples’ Rights?”
(12-16).
16. 2000/5
McIntosh, I. S., When Will We Know We Are Recon-
ciled? (3-11).
Archives de sciences sociales des religions
(Paris)
45. 2000/110
hialmy, A., L’Islamisme marocain: Entre révolution et
intégration (5-27).
Arctic Anthropology (Madison)
37. 2000/1
Holly, D. H. Jr., The Beothuk on the Eve of Their
Extinction (79-95).
54. 2000/2
Altenburger, R., Jianxia zhuan (Tales of Knights at
Arms): On the Formation and Tradition of the Classical
Anthology of Knight-Errantry Stories (303-348).
Australian Aboriginal Studies (Canberra)
1999/2
Smith. L., The Last Archaeologist? Material Culture
and Contested Identities (25-34). - Ivanitz, M., Cul-
ture, Ethics, and Participatory Methodology in Cross-
Cultural Research (46-58),
The Australian Journal of Anthropology
(Sydney)
11. 2000/2
Borthwick, F., Olfaction and Taste: Invasive Odours
and Disappearing Objects (127-140). - Cohen, P., A
Buddha Kingdom in the Golden Triangle: Buddhist
Revivalism and the Charismatic Monk Khruba Bun-
chum (141-154). - Kapferer, B., Star Wars: About
Anthropology, Culture, and Globalisation (174-198). -
Newland, L., Under the Banner of Islam. Mobilising
Religious Identities in Indonesia (199-222).
Asian Folklore Studies (Nagoya)
58. 1999/2
filler, A. L., A Stinger in the Tale: “The Sudden
^Wakening” Ending in East Asian Folktales (321-351).
" Flitsch, M., Papercut Stories of the Manchu Woman
Artist Hou Yumei (353-375). - Heyne, F.G., The
Social Significance of the Shaman among the Chinese
Eeindeer-Evenki (377-395). - Dentan, R. K., Spotted
Hoves at War: The Praak Sangkiil (397-434).
S9- 2000/1
V T. Y., Toothless Ancestors, Felicitous Descendants:
^he Rite of Secondary Burial in South Taiwan (1-22).
" Metevelis, P., The Lapidary Sky over Japan (79-88).
~~ Thinh, N. D., Traditional Law of the Ede (89-107).
Asiatische Studien (Bern)
2000/1
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laJe, W., Wie man sein Schicksal [daiva] meistert. Der
'doksopäya über Wesen und Wirksamkeit menschlicher
Aktivität [paurusa] (63-101). - Bodewitz, H. W., Dis-
tance and Death’ in the Veda (103-117). - Eichinger
erro-Luzzi, G., The Eternal Feminine in the Works of
a Modern Tamil Writer (191-207). - Hayakawa, A.,
ihree Steps to Heaven (209-247).
Anth;
ropos 96.2001
Autrepart (Bondy)
13. 2000
Sindzingre, A., La dépendance vis-à-vis de l’aide en
Afrique subsaharienne: Eléments d’économie politique
(51-69). - Gaillard, J., R. Waast, L’ aide à la recherche
en Afrique subsaharienne: Comment sortir de la dépen-
dance? (71-89). - Naudet, J.-D., Le dilemme entre
solidarité et dépendance (173-193).
14. 2000
Jolivet, M.-J., P. Léna, Des territoires aux identités (5 -
16). - Mary, A., Anges de Dieu et esprits territoriaux:
Une religion africaine à l’épreuve de la transnationali-
sation (71-89).
15. 2000
Suremain, C.-E. de, Dynamiques de l’alimentation et
socialisation du jeune enfant à Brazzaville [Congo]
(73-91). - Serre, A., Belém do Para et ses quar-
tiers: Contrastes et témoignages d’une espace dit urbain
[Brésil] (93-115). - Castelli, B., La dynamique du
marché d’habitation haut de gamme à Quito [Equateur]
(117-129). - Mohamed-Abdi, M., Les bouleverse-
ments induits de la guerre civile en Somalie: Castes
marginales et minorités (131-147). - Abbink, J., La
violence, l’Etat et l’ethnicité dans la corne de l’Afrique
(149-166).
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Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en
Volkenkunde (Dordrecht)
156. 2000/1
Kozok, U., On Writing the Not-To-Be-Read Literature
and Literacy in a Pre-Colonial “Tribal” Society (33-55).
- Termorshuizen-Arts, M., Een Indonesisch Juridisch
“Woordenboek” (57-82). - Wadley, R. L., Reconsider-
ing an Ethnic Label in Borneo. The “Maloh” of West
Kalimantan, Indonesia (83-101).
156. 2000/2
Dentan, R. K., Ceremonies of Innocence and the Lin-
eaments of Ungratified Desire. An Analysis of a Syn-
cretic Southeast Asian Taboo Complex (193-232). -
Strathern, A., P. J. Stewart, Accident, Agency, and
Liability in New Guinea Highlands Compensation Prac-
tices (275-295).
Boletín Americanista (Barcelona)
49. 1999
Amodio, E., Los canibales mutantes. Etapas de la trans-
formación étnica de los caribes durante la época colonial
(9-29). - Laviña J., Afromexicanos, curanderos hétéro-
doxes y brujos (197-210). - Peguero Guzmán, L. A.,
¿Vudú Dominicano o vudú en Santo Domingo? (211 —
231).
Boletín de Arqueología (Medellin)
13. 1998/3
Legast, A., La fauna muisca y sus símbolos (5-103).
14. 1999/2
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logía en Colombia (5-23). - Politis, G., La estructura
del debate sobre el poblamiento de América (25-51). -
Lleras Pérez, R., El arqueólogo y los museos: Retos y
dificultades en la perspectiva contemporánea (83-94).
Bulletin de l’Ecole française
d’Extrême-Orient (Paris)
86. 1999
Guy, J., A Boat Model and State Ritual in Eastern India
(105-126). - Khin, S., La khmérisation de l’enseigne-
ment et l’indépendance culturelle au Cambodge (293-
319).
Bulletin des Séances (Bruxelles)
45. 1999/2
Coupez, A., Iconical Redundancy in Bantu (123-135).
- Willemen, C., New Ideas about Buddhist Sarvastivada
Scholasticism (137-147).
Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines (Paris)
40. 2000/2
Droz, Y., Circoncision féminine et masculine en pays
kikuyu: Rite d’institution, division sociale et droits de
l’homme (215-240). - Vinel, V., Etre et devenir 57-
koomse. Identités et initiation en pays moaaga [Burkina
Faso] (257-279). - Cahen, M., L’Etat Nouveau et la
diversification religieuse au Mozambique, 1930-1974.
Part 1: Le résistible essor de la portugalisation catho-
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40. 2000/3
Ugochukwu, F., Les missions catholiques françaises et
le développement des études igbo dans l’est du Nige-
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Obedient Servants: The Politics of Language in German
Colonial Togo (489-524). - Lentz, C., Chieftancy Has
Come to Stay: La chefferie dans les sociétés acéphales
du Nord-Ouest Ghana (593-613).
Canadian Journal of African Studies
(Toronto)
33. 1999/2-3
Jewsiewicki, B., L’Afrique centrale francophone entre
au XXIe siècle. Citoyens et Etats, nations, régions face
au monde (221-230). - Ndarishikanye, B., Burundi.
Des identités ethnico-politiques forgées dans la violence
(231-291). - Newbury, C., D. Newbury, A Catholic
Mass in Kigali: Contested Views of the Genocide and
Ethnicity in Rwanda (292-328). - Bazenguissa-Ganga,
R., Les Ninja, les Cobra et les Zoulou crèvent l’écran
à Brazzaville. Le rôle des médias et la construction des
identités de violence politique (329-361). - Ndaywel è
Nziem, L, Du Zaïre au Congo. La Vierge du Désarme-
ment et la guerre de libération (500-529). - Vellut,
J.-L., Quelle profondeur historique pour l’image de la
Vierge Marie au Congo? (530-547).
34. 2000/1
Crush, J., D. A. McDonald, Transnationalism, African
Immigration, and New Migrant Spaces in South Africa:
An Introduction (1-19). - Peberdy, S., C. Rogerson,
Transnationalism and Non-South African Entrepreneurs
in South Africa’s Small, Medium, and Micro-Enterprise
(SMME) Economy (10-40). - Lubkemann, S. C., The
Transformation of Transnationality among Mozambi-
can Migrants in South Africa (41-63). - Ulicki, T.>
J. Crush, Gender, Farmwork, and Women’s Migration
from Lesotho to the New South Africa (64-79). "
Reitzes, M., S. Bam, Citizenship, Immigration, and
Identity in Winterveld, South Africa (80-100). - McDo-
nald, D. A., We Have Contact: Foreign Migration and
Civic Participation in Marconi Beam, Cape Town (101"
123). - Dodson, В., C. Oeloise, Shades of Xenopho-
bia: In-Migrants and Immigrants in Mizamoyethu, Cape
Town (124-148). - Maharaj, В., V. Moodley, Ne^
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Canberra Anthropology (Canberra)
22. 1999/2
Marcus, G. E., What Is at Stake - and Is Not - in
the Idea and Practice of Multi-Sited Ethnography (6-
14). - Taylor, P., The Shifting Heart: Encountering
the Modernities of Post-War Southern Vietnam (15-
25). - Cannon, J., No-Place to Go: Methodological
Considerations for an Anthropology of Transnational In-
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Holism: Field Site or Field of Sociality? (51-61). -
Hay, W., Forgive Us Our Trépassés: Finding Space
for Aboriginal Fringe Dwellers in Darwin (62-69). -
Weiner, J. F., Afterword: The Project of Wholeness in
Contemporary Anthropology (70-78).
Comparative Studies in Society and
History (Cambridge)
42. 2000/1
Stoler, A., K. Strassler, Castings for the Colonial:
Memory Work in “New Order” Java (4-48). - Salzman,
P- C., Hierarchical Image and Reality: The Construction
°f a Tribal Chiefship (49-66). - Niezen, R., Recogniz-
lng Indigenism: Canadian Unity and the International
Movement of Indigenous Peoples (119-148). - Li,
T. M., Constituting Tribal Space: Indigenous Identity
and Resource Politics in Indonesia (149-179).
42. 2000/2
Masuzawa, T., Troubles with Materiality: The Ghost
°f Fetishism in the Nineteenth Century (242-267). -
Haciola, N., Mystics, Demoniacs, and the Physiology
°f Spirit Possession in Medieval Europe (268-306).
Ismail, S., The Popular Movement Dimensions of
Contemporary Militant Islamism: Socio-Spatial Deter-
minants in the Cairo Urban Setting (363-393). - Hout-
Zager, P. P., M. J. Kurtz, The Institutional Roots of
Popular Mobilization: State Transformation and Rural
politics in Brazil and Chile, 1960-1995 (394-424). -
pibe-Uran, V.M., The Birth of a Public Sphere in
Catin America during the Age of Revolution (425-457).
S' 2000/3
Werth, P. W., From “Pagan” Muslims to “Baptized”
Communists: Religious Conversion and Ethnic Par-
ticularity in Russia’s Eastern Provinces (497-523). -
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I,1) ^eventeenth-Century Peru (524-546). - Deringil, S.,
*here Is No Compulsion in Religion:” On Conversion
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47-575) - Helg, A., Black Men. Racial Stereotyping
and Violence in the U.S. South and Cuba at the Turn of
he Century (576-604).
Congo-Afrique (Kinshasa)
2000/343
Promotion des droits de l’homme en République
emocratique du Congo (131-132). - Kaumba, L.,
Propos 96.2001
Pour une justice soucieuse des droits de l’homme (133-
144). - Yoka, L. M., Les sectes à Kinshasa: Culte de la
personnalité et volonté de puissance (145-150).
40. 2000/346
Bongo-Pasi, W. M. S., J. Ayissi Nkoumu, L’Afrique
refuse-t-elle toujours le développement? (326-338). -
Marc, G., Accroissement de la population mondiale.
La fracture Nord-Sud (339-348). - Kikassa, F. M.,
La population mondiale d’ici l’an 2050. Quelques con-
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Kabongo, La perception des identités et des responsa-
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40. 2000/348
Matadiwamba, M. K. M., La mondialisation, bonne ou
mauvaise? (452-458). - Lokengo, A. N., L’avenir de
l’Etat en Afrique (459-466). - Djimoguinan, P., La
“Démocratie africaine” entre le délire et la raison (467 -
482).
Contributions to Indian Sociology
(New Delhi)
34. 2000/1
Heredia, R. C., Subaltern Alternatives on Caste, Class,
and Ethnicity (37-62). - Habib, S. I., Reconciling
Science with Islam in 19th Century India (63-92). -
Deshpande, S., M. N. Srinivas on Sociology and Social
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Curare (Wiesbaden)
22. 1999/1
Nuhawan, M., Perspektiven einer Ethnographie des
sozial erlittenen Leidens (21-33). - Khot, A., P. Deos-
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Profession in Responding to Violence (35-37).
Current Anthropology (Chicago)
41. 2000/3
Lamber, M., The Anthropology of Religion and the
Quarrel between Poetry and Philosophy (309-320). -
Houston, S., J. Robertson, D. Stuart, The Language of
Classic Maya Inscriptions (321-356). - MacEachern,
S., Genes, Tribes, and African History (357-384). -
Kirkpatrick, R. C., The Evolution of Human Homo-
sexual Behavior (385-413).
41. 2000/4
Yang, M.M.-H., Putting Global Capitalism in Its Place:
Economic Hybridity, Bataille, and Ritual Expenditure
(477-510).
344
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Eco Andino (Oruro)
4. 1999/7-8
López, U. R., Niños, cargos y yatiris en carangas. Una
aproximación al caminar andino (7-33).
Eranos (Zürich)
67. 1997-1998/2
Bichler, L., From Shamans to Chroniclers: Remember-
ing the Chinese Revolution (17-37). - Bosnak, R.,
Probing the Deep: On Dream Incubation (39-49). -
Miyuki, M., The Ego, I, and Jibun (71-90).
Erdkunde (Bonn)
54. 2000/3
Wehrhan, R., Zur Peripherie postmoderner Metropolen:
Periurbanisierung, Fragmentierung und Polarisierung,
untersucht am Beispiel Madrid (221-237). - Gans, P.,
Approaches Explaining Regional Differences in Fertility
Decline in India (238-249). - HeigI, A., J. Schwarz,
Transmigration - Eine Mobilitàtsstudie in einer Her-
kunftsregion (250-262).
Ethnic and Racial Studies
(Henley-on-Thames)
22. 1999/3
Wilson, W. J., When Work Disappears: New Implica-
tions for Race and Urban Poverty in the Global Econ-
omy (479-499). - Juska, A., Ethno-Political Transfor-
mation in the States of the Former USSR (524-553).
22.1999/4
Joppke, C., How Immigration Is Changing Citizenship:
A Comparative View (629-652). - Waetjen, T., The
“Home” in Homeland: Gender, National Space, and
Inkatha’s Politics of Ethnicity (653-678). - Ram, M.,
Managing Professional Service Firms in a Multi-Ethnic
Context: An Ethnographic Study (679-701). - Makabe,
T., Ethnic Hegemony: The Japanese Brazilians in Agri-
culture, 1908-1968 (702-723). - Soule, S. A., N. Van
Dyke, Black Church Arson in the United States, 1989—
1996 (724-742).
22. 1999/5
Hennink, M., I. Diamond, P. Cooper, Young Asian
Women and Relationships: Traditional or Transitional
(867-891).
22. 1999/6
Içduygu, A., D. Romano, I. Sirkeci, The Ethnic Ques-
tion in an Environment of Insecurity: The Kurds in
Turkey (991-1010). - Shulman, S., The Cultural Foun-
dations of Ukrainian National Identity (1011-1036).
- Tronvoll, K., Borders of Violence - Boundaries of
Identity: Demarcating the Eritrean Nation-State (1037 —
1060).
23. 2000/1
Bax, M., Warlords, Priests, and the Politics of Ethnic-
Cleansing: A Case-Study from Rural Bosnia Hercego-
vina (16-36). - Naber, N., Ambiguous Insiders: An
Investigation of Arab American Invisibility (37-61).
23. 2000/2
Faist, T., Transnationalization in International Migra-
tion: Implications for the Study of Citizenship and
Culture (189-222). - Regev, M., To Have a Culture
of Our Own: On Israeliness and Its Variants (223-
247). - Bashford, A., “Is White Australia Possible?”
Race, Colonialism, and Tropical Medicine (248-271).
- Nave, A., Marriage and the Maintenance of Ethnic
Group Boundaries: The Case of Mauritius (329-352).
23. 2000/3
Mukta, P., The Public Face of Hindu Nationalism
(442-466). - Searle-Chatterjee, M., “World Reli-
gions” and “Ethnic Groups:” Do These Paradigms Lend
Themselves to the Cause of Hindu Nationalism? (497-
515).
23. 2000/4
Tishkow, V. A., Forget the “Nation:” Post-Nationalist
Understanding of Nationalism (625-656). - Hutchin-
son, J., Ethnicity and Modern Nations (651-669).
23. 2000/5
Afshar, H., M. Maynard, Introduction: Gender and
Ethnicity at the Millennium: From Margin to Centre
(805-819). - Chua, P., K.-K. Bhavnani, J. Foran,
Women, Culture, Development: A New Paradigm for
Development Studies? (820-841). - Westwood, S., “A
Real Romance:” Gender, Ethnicity, Trust, and Risk in
the Indian Diamond Trade (857-870). - Afshar, H.>
Age, Gender, and Slavery In and Out of the Persian
Harem: A Different Story (905-916). - Franks,
Crossing the Borders of Whiteness? White Muslim
Women Who Wear the hi jab in Britain Today (917—
929).
Ethnography (London)
1. 2000/1
Bourdieu, P., Making the Economic Habitus. Algerian
Workers Revisited (17-41). - Burawoy, M., P. Kro-
tov, T. Lytkina, Involution and Destitution in Capitalist
Russia (43-65). - Salzinger, L., Manufacturing Sexual
Subjects: “Harassment,” Desire, and Discipline on a
Maquiladora Shopfloor (67-92).
Ethnohistory (Durham)
47. 2000/2
Oudijk, M., M. Jansen, Changing History in the Lien-
zos de Guevea and Santo Domingo Petapa (281-331)’
- Balée, W., Antiquity of Traditional Ethnobiological
Knowledge in Amazonia: The Tupi-Guarani Family and
Time (399-422).
Anthropos 96.2001
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345
Ethnologia Europaea (Göttingen)
30. 2000/1
Welz, G., Multiple Modernities and Reflexive Traditio-
nalisation (5-13). - Fejós, Z., Coca-Cola and the Chain
Bridge of Budapest (15-30). - Bax, M., Holy Mary and
Medjugorje’s Rocketeers (45-58).
Ethnology (Pittsburgh)
39. 2000/1
Rasmussen, S. J., Alms, Elders, and Ancestors: The
Spirit of the Gift among the Tuareg (15-38). - Nutini,
H. G., Native Evangelism in Central Mexico (39-54). -
Tsuda, T., Acting Brazilian in Japan: Ethnic Resistance
among Return Migrants (55-71).
39. 2000/2
Nakano, L. Y., Volunteering as a Lifestyle Choice: Ne-
gotiating Self-Identities in Japan (93-107). - Nash, J.,
Global Integration and the Commodification of Culture
(129-131).
Ethnomusicology (Bloomington)
44. 2000/2
Browner, T., Making and Singing Pow-Wow Songs:
Text, Form, and the Significance of Culture-Based
Analysis (214-233). - Naroditskaya, I., Azerbaijanian
Female Musicians: Women’s Voices Defying and De-
fining the Culture (234-256). - Solomon, T., Dueling
Landscapes: Singing Places and Identities in Highland
Bolivia (257-280). - Racy, A. J., The Many Faces of
Iniprovisation: The Arab Taqasim. as a Musical Symbol
(302-320).
Ethnos (Stockholm)
6S- 2000/1
tapferer, B., Sexuality and the Art of Seduction in
Sinhalese Exorcism (5-32). - Goldstein-Gidoni, O.,
*ne Production of Tradition and Culture in the Japa-
nese Wedding Enterprice (33-55). - Jonsson, H., Yao
Minority Identity and the Location of Difference in
fi*e South China Borderlands (56-82). - Vilaça, A.,
Rations between Funerary Cannibalism and Warfare
annibalism: The Question of Predation (83-106). -
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tes: The History of Ethnicity in Northwestern Ghana
(107-136).
2000/2
ahl, r. Stade, Anthropology, Museums, and
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57-171), - Bouquet, M., Thinking and Doing Other-
tSe: Anthropological Theory in Exhibitionary Practice
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Ethos (Washington)
27.1999/4
Desjarlais, R., The Makings of Personhood in a Shelter
for People Considered Homeless and Mentally Ill (466-
489).
28.2000/1
Beyer Broch, H., Yellow Crocodiles and Bush Spirits:
Timpaus Islanders’ Conceptualization of Ethereal Phe-
nomena (3-19). - Collier, G. A., P. J. Farias Camp-
ero, J. E. Perez, V. P. White, Socio-Economic Change
and Emotional Illness among the Highland Maya of
Chiapas, Mexico (20-53). - Miles, A., Poor Adolescent
Girls and Social Transformations in Cuenca, Ecuador
(54-74). - Lohmann, R. I., The Role of Dreams in
Religious Enculturation among the Asabano of Papua
New Guinea (75-102). - Bourguignon, E., Relativism
and Ambivalence in the Work of M. J. Herskovits (103 —
114).
28. 2000/2.
Stephen, M., Reparation and the Gift (119-146). -
Schattschneider, E., My Mother’s Garden: Transitional
Phenomena on a Japanese Sacred Mountain (147-173).
- Breslau, J., Globalizing Disaster Trauma: Psychiatry,
Science, and Culture after the Kobe Earthquake (147-
173). - Lee, S.S.-J., Dys-Appearing Tongues and Bodi-
ly Memories: The Aging of First-Generation Resident
Koreans in Japan (174-197). - Shimizu, H., Japanese
Cultural Psychology and Empathic Understanding: Im-
plications for Academic and Cultural Psychology (224-
247). - Hirsch, J. L., Culture, Gender, and Work in
Japan: A Case Study of a Woman in Management (248-
269).
Etnofoor (Amsterdam)
13. 2000/1
Kwon, H., To Hunt the Black Shaman: The Great Purge
in East Siberia (33-50). - Spronk, R., The Disease of
Immorality. Narrating Aids as “Sign of the Times” in
Middle-Class Nairobi (67-86).
Folk (Kopenhagen)
41. 1999
Okely, J., Writing Anthropology in Europe: An Exam-
ple from Gypsy Research (55-75).
Geo (Hamburg)
2000/9
Maître, P., M. Stührenberg, Südsee-Reise, Teil 2: Eine
Insel wie aus Kinderträumen (72-100).
2000/10
Maître, P., M. Stührenberg, Südsee-Reise, Teil 3: Re-
bellion nach Drehbuch (162-194).
lropos 96.2001
346
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2000/11
Sartorius, P., G. Steinmetz, Südsee. Archipel der 1000
Widersprüche (166-206).
History of Religions (Chicago)
39. 2000/4
Graulich, M., Aztec Human Sacrifice as Expiation
(352-371).
40. 2000/1
Cohen, R. S., Kinsmen of the Son: Säkyabhiksus and
the Institutionalization of the Bodhisattva Ideal (1-31).
- Kinnard, J. N., The Polyvalent Padas of Visnu and
the Buddha (32-57). - Miller, A. L., Spiritual Accomp-
lishment by Misdirection: Some Upäya Folktales from
East Asia (82-108).
International Journal of Comparative
Sociology (Leiden)
41. 2000/1
Ihonvbere, J. O., Politics of Constitutional Reforms
and Democratization in Africa (9-25). - Ginsburg,
M., D. Adams, T. Clayton, M. Mantilla, J. Sylvester,
Y. Wang, The Politics of Linking Educational Research,
Policy, and Practice: The Case of Improving Educa-
tional Quality in Ghana, Guatemala, and Mali (27-47).
- Assie-Lumumba, N. T., Educational and Economic
Reforms, Gender Equity, and Access to Schooling in
Africa (89-120). - Schou, A., Democratic Local Gov-
ernment and Responsiveness: Lessons from Zimbabwe
and Tanzania (121-143).
41. 2000/2
Wallace, W. L., A Darwinian Theory of Ethnicity,
“Race,” and Nationality (147-201). - Hassan, R.,
Faithlines: Institutional Configurations and Trust in Re-
ligious Institutions in Muslim Societies (203-223). -
Kick, E., B. Davis, M. Lehtinen, L. Wang, Family and
Economic Growth: A World-System Approach and a
Cross-National Analysis (225-244).
Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations
(Birmingham)
11. 2000/2
Waardenburg, J., Muslims and Christians: Changing
Identities (149-162). - Prince El Hassan Bin Talal,
The Future of Muslim-Christian Relations: A Personal
View (163-166). - Taji-Farouki, S., Muslim-Christian
Cooperation in the Twenty-First Century: Some Global
Challenges and Strategic Responses (167-193). - God-
dard, H., Christian-Muslim Relations: A Look Back-
wards and a Look Forwards (195-212). - Nasr, S. H.,
Islamic-Christian Dialogue: Problems and Obstacles to
Be Pondered and Overcome (213-227). - Shah, N. H.,
Law and Religion (243-247). - Nazir-Ali, M., Law and
Religion: A Friend Responds to Dr. Nasim Hasan Shah
(249-251).
The Islamic Quarterly (London)
44. 2000/1
Rahim, R. A. A., Islamic Law in Malaysia: The Impact
of British Colonial Policy (335-342). - Mohamed, A.,
A Critique of the Shia’s Doctrine of the Infallibility
(ma’sum) of the Imamate (343-357). - Farooqi, J., Ed-
ucation and the Muslim Situation (359-374). - Haque,
M., Genocide in Chechnya and the World Community
(375-385). - Jameelah, M., Book Review: The Hajj:
A Negation of the Modern Nation-State (387-388).
44. 2000/2
Mohamed, I., Concept of Predestination in Islam and
Christianity: Special Reference to Averroes and Aquinas
(393-413). - Khan, J. U., Reading Literature: A Broad
Overview (415-427). - Noor, A., Outlining Social
Justice from an Islamic Perspective: An Exploration
(435-450). - Farooqi, J., Education and the Muslim
Situation. Part 2 (451-468).
Islamochristiana (Roma)
25.1999
Jacob, X., Nouvelles voix pour le dialogue interred-
gieux en Turquie (139-158).
Journal of African Languages and
Linguistics (Berlin)
21. 2000/1
Hellwig, B., J. A. McIntyre, Hausa Plural Systems: A
Diachronic Presentation (1-43).
Journal of American Folklore (Washington)
113. 2000/448
Mullen, P. B., Belief and the American Folk (119-143)-
- Meyer, R. S., Fluid Subjectivities: Intertextuality and
Women’s Narrative Performance in North India (144—
163).
113. 2000/449
Largey, M., Politics on the Pavement: Haitian Ra-
ra as a Traditionalizing Process (239-254). - Keyes,
C. L., Empowering Self, Making Choices, Creating
Spaces: Black Female Identity via Rap Music Perfor-
mance (255-269). - Park, C., “Authentic Audience” in
P’anson, a Korean Storytelling Tradition (270-286). "
Sturm, B. W., The “Storylistening” Trance Experience
(287-304).
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
347
Journal of Asian and African Studies
(Leiden)
35. 2000/2
Peng, D., Ethnic Chinese Business Networks and the
Asia Pacific Economic Integration (229-250).
Almond, P. C., Druids, Patriarchs, and the Primordial
Religion (379-394). - Blain, J., R. J. Wallis, The
“Ergi” Seidman: Contestations of Gender, Shamanism,
and Sexuality in Northern Religion Past and Present
(395-411).
The Journal of Asian Studies (Ann Arbor)
58. 1999/4
Xu, J., Body, Discourse, and the Cultural Politics of
Contemporary Chinese Qigong (961-991). - Ockey,
J. S., God Mothers, Good Mothers, Good Lovers, God-
mothers: Gender Images in Thailand (1033-1058).
59. 2000/1
Varshney, A., Is India Becoming More Democratic?
(3-25). - Chandra, K., The Transformation of Ethnic
Politics in India: The Decline of Congress and the Rise
of the Bahujan Samaj Party in Hoshiarpur (26-61). -
Corbridge, S., Competing Inequalities: The Scheduled
Tribes and the Reservations System in India’s Jhark-
hand (62-85). - Jaffrelot, C., The Rise of the Other
Backward Classes in the Hindi Belt (86-108).
59. 2000/2
Tamanoi, M. A., Knowledge, Power, and Racial Classi-
fications: The “Japanese” in “Manchuria” (248-276). -
Hsu, M. Y., Migration and Native Place: Qiaokan and
file Imagined Community of Taishan County, Guang-
dong, 1893-1993 (307-331). - Frühstück, S., Manag-
ing the Truth of Sex in Imperial Japan (332-358).
The Journal of Pacific History (Canberra)
35 2000/1
Petersen, G., Indigenous Island Empires: Yap and Ton-
ga Considered (5-27). - Rountree, K., Re-Making the
Maori Female Body: Marianne Williams’s Mission in
the Bay of Islands (49-66).
35. 2000/2
Underwood, G., Mormonism, the Maori, and Cultural
Authenticity (133-146). - Burns, M. E., Of Tongues
and Temporalities: Notes Towards an Understanding of
the Recent Chinese Past in French Polynesia (181 -193).
Journal of Religion in Africa (Leiden)
30. 2000/2
Brenner, L., Histories of Religion in Africa (143-167).
- Loimeier, R., L’lslam ne se vend plus: The Islamic
Reform Movement and the State in Senegal (168-190).
- Ryan, P. J., The Mystical Theology of TijanI Sufism
and Its Social Significance in West Africa (208-224). -
Hoven, E. van, The Nation Turbaned? The Construction
of Nationalist Muslim Identities in Senegal (225-248).
Journal of Contemporary Religion
(London)
15.2000/2
Lollontai, P., Contemporary Thinking on the Role and
Ministry of Women in the Orthodox Church (165-179).
" Hobbelaere, K., The Rationale of Pillarization: The
Case of Minority Movements (181-199). - Tramacchi,
P*> Field Tripping: Psychedelic communitas and Ritual
in the Australian Bush (201-213). - Sutcliffe, S., A
Colony of Seekers: Findhom in the 1990s (215-231). -
Roberts, V. S., Too Much is not Enough: Paul Verhoe-
Ven, René Girard & the Femme (Fa)tale (233-245). -
Milner, N., Giving the Devil His Due Process: Exorcism
in the Church of England (247-272).
ls- 2000/3
Coleman, S., P. Collins, The “Plain” and the “Posi-
five:” Ritual, Experience, and Aesthetics in Quakerism
^nd Charismatic Christianity (317-329). - Hunt, S.,
ginning Ways:” Globalisation and the Impact of the
Health and Wealth Gospel (331-347). - Belaunde,
C- E., Epidemics, Psycho-Actives, and Evangelical Con-
version among the Airo-Pai of Amazonian Peru (349-
T^9). - Donovan, J. M., A Brazilian Challenge to
wis’s Explanation of Cult Mediumship (361-377). -
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Anth:
ropos 96.2001
The Journal of the Polynesian Society
(Auckland)
109. 2000/1
Sheppard, P., R. Walter, T. Nagaoka, The Archaeol-
ogy of Head-Hunting in Roviana Lagoon, New Geor-
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Ethnohistory of Roviana Predatory Head-Hunting (39-
70). - Dureau, C., Skulls, Mana, and Causality (71-
97). - McDougall, D., Paths of Pinauzu: Captivity and
Social Reproductions in Ranongga (99-113). - Waite,
D., An Artefact/Image Text of Head-Hunting Motifs
(115-144).
109. 2000/2
Tcherkezoff, S., The Samoan Category of Matai/
“Chief:” A Singularity in Polynesia? Historical and
Etymological Comparative Queries (151-190).
109. 2000/3
Molloy, M., “Lords of an Empty Creation:” Manus,
Americans, and the Depression (233-250). - Dwyer,
P., M. Minnegal, El Nino, Y2K and the “Short, Fat
Lady:” Drought and Agency in a Lowland Papua New
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The Journal of the Royal Anthropological
Institute (London)
6. 2000/1
Strathern, A., P. J. Stewart, Creating Difference. A
Contemporary Affiliation Drama in the Highlands of
New Guinea (1-15). - Mills, M. A., Vajra Broth-
er, vajra Sister: Renunciation, Individualism, and the
Household in Tibetan Buddhist Monasticism (17-34). -
Tilley, C., S. Hamilton, B. Bender, Art and the Re-Pre-
sentation of the Past (35-62). - Howe, L., Risks, Ritual,
and Performance (63-79). - Saunders, B., Revisiting
“Basic Color Termes” (81-99). - Rumsey, A., Agency,
Personhood, and the “I” of Discourse in the Pacific and
Beyond (101-115). - Osella, F., C. Osella, Migration,
Money, and Masculinity in Kerala (117-133).
6. 2000/2
Boyer, P., Functional Origins of Religious Concepts:
Ontological and Strategic Selection in Evolved Minds
(195-214). - Quigley, D., Scapegoats: The Killing of
Kings and Ordinary People (237-254). - Hansen, T. B.,
Predicaments of Secularism: Muslim Identities and Pol-
itics in Mumbai (255-272). - Good, T., Concealing
Divinity: Time, Worship, and Kinship in South Indian
Hinduism (273-292). - Lorrain, C., Cosmic Repro-
duction, Economics, and Politics among the Kulina of
Southwest Amazonia (293-310). - Jamieson, M., It’s
Shame that Makes Men and Women Enemies: The
Politics of Intimacy among the Miskitu of Kakabila
(311-324).
6. 2000/3.
Mosko, M., Inalienable Ethnography: Keeping-While-
Giving and the Trobriand Case (377-396). - Keen,
I., A Bundle of Sticks: The Debate over Yolngu Clans
(419-436). - Eves, R., Sorcery’s the Curse: Modernity,
Envy, and the Flow of Sociality in a Melanesian Society
(453-468). - Sanders, T., Rains Gone Bad, Women
Gone Mad: Rethinking Gender Rituals of Rebellion and
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the Wallet: Conceptualizing Akan Witchcraft at Home
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“Community:” The Role of a Tamil “Village” Festival
in the Integration of a Town (501-519).
KAS Auslandsinformationen
(Sankt Augustin)
5. 2000
Bossen, G. D., Russland nach den Präsidentschaftswah-
len - Ein neuer Anfang? (4-30). - Wittelbürger, H.,
C. Allekotte, Vier Jahre Regierung Aznar - eine Er-
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Robert, D., Algerien zwischen Wandel und Stagnation.
Ein Jahr Präsidentschaft von Abdelaziz Bouteflika (45-
61). - Hofmeister, W., Demokratieförderung in Latein-
amerika. Ziele und Instrumente angesichts veränderter
Rahmenbedingungen in der Entwicklungszusammenar-
beit einer politischen Stiftung (62-73).
6. 2000
Weck, W., Präsidentschafts- und Kongresswahlen in
Peru: Fujimori gewinnt, die Demokratie verliert (31-
57). - Seliger, B., Die Lage nach den Wahlen in
Südkorea (58-73). - Fatunde, T., Nigerias Rückkehr
zur Demokratie. Eine Bewertung (74-91).
7. 2000
Buchta, W., Die sechsten iranischen Parlaments wählen
vom Februar und Mai 2000. Etappensieg der Refor-
mer ohne politische Wende (4-31). - Aies, S., Die
deutsch-türkischen Beziehungen in der türkischen Presse
(32-61). - Spaett, G., Präsidentschaftswahlen in der
Dominikanischen Republik. Drittplatzierter verhindert
notwendige Stichwahl (62-75).
8. 2000
Jacobs, A., Leitbilder globaler Ordnung. Zur Rolle
grenzüberschreitender Institutionen im Zeitalter der Glo-
balisierung (4-15). - Boucsein, W., Machtwechsel in
Mexiko nach über 70 Jahren. Eine demokratische Zei-
tenwende (51-64). - Lerch, A. C., U. Gierczynski-Bo-
candé, Senegal nach dem Regierungswechsel (65-80).
9. 2000
Bösl, A., Parlamentswahlen in Zimbabwe (28-41). -
Lingenthal, M., Wahlen in Venezuela (42-53). - Mars,
M. T., Perspektiven der regionalen Entwicklungspro-
zesse in Afrika (54-71).
10. 2000
Thedieck, F., Dezentralisierung und kommunale Selbst-
verwaltung in der Entwicklungszusammenarbeit. Bilanz
und Perspektiven aus der Sicht der Wissenschaft. Vier
Fragen und ein Denkanstoß (63-72).
Latin American Indian Litertures Journal
(Beaver Falls)
16. 2000/1
Sexton, J. D., Environmental Determinants of Folklore
Content in Guatemala (1-12). - Messineo, C., Toba
Teachings: Analysis of Oral Genres for Pedagogical
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Lingua Posnaniensis (Poznan)
41. 1999
Bednarczuk, L., Le problème des langues pré-indo-eu-
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W. Churning, Inverse Scope in Chinese-English In-
terlanguage (39-56). - Nasalski, I., Wozu kann Iro-
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the Unconscious, Linguistics and Psychoanalysis. Some
Common Problems (101-109).
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The Mankind Quarterly (Washington)
40. 2000/3
Thornhill, P., The Origin of the Legend of King Arthur
(227-285). - Wang, P., A Further Study of the Cogni-
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325). - Mataré, H. F., Man, Evolution, and Ethics:
Teilhard de Chardin, Religion and Evolutionary Reality
(343-346).
40. 2000/4
Goodhart, C. B., The End of the Neanderthalers: A
Speculative Essay (395-400). - Sermon, R., The Celtic
Calendar and the English Year (401-420). - Cooper,
J. H., Etruscan and Lemnian as Twigs of the Pelasgian
Branch of the Indo-European Language Tree (421-433).
41. 2000/1
Hama, A., Racial Differences in Pain Perception (91-
107). - Whitney, G., Races Do Not Exist - So Study
Them! (119-127).
The Muslim World (Hartford)
90. 2000/1-2
Ahmad, K., Islam and Democracy: Some Conceptual
and Contemporary Dimensions (1-21). - Guenther,
A. M., The Image of the Prophet as Found in Missionary
Writings of the Late 19th Century (43-70). - Zebiri, K.,
Contemporary Muslim Understandings of the Miracles
°f Jesus (71-90). - Hermansen, M., Hybrid Identity
Formations in Muslim America: The Case of American
Sufi Movements (158-197).
National Geographic (Hamburg)
2000/6
Salopek, P., M. Stenzei, Spurensuche in der Sierra
Aladre (112-137). - Edwards, M., R. Olson, Die In-
duskultur (164-189).
2000/7
Höre, R., K. Garrett, G. Manchess, Leute wie wir
(122-152).
2000/8
Heston, D., S. McCurry, Die Tempel von Angkor
(114-142).
2000/9
Kellner, D., E. Valli, Nepals starke Frauen (118-135).
2000/10
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83).
2000/11
Allman, T. D., M. Steher, Nepal: Ein Königreich wird
Rodern (88-109). - Cockburn, A., Reza, Libyen -
Fade der Isolation? (112-141). - Tarpy, C., I. Block,
ückkehr in das Land der Ahnen (174-181).
Neue Zeitschrift fiir Missionswissenschaft
(Immensee)
56. 2000/2
Zalar, J. T., Catholic Theology and Intercultural Con-
tact in the Americas: A Comparison of New Spain and
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Religion in Africa Today: A Report from Mozambique
(133-140).
56. 2000/4.
Collet, G., Von der Weisheit des Volkes. Zur Entwick-
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S. P., La apertura relativa de la cultura aymara a los
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Numen (Leiden)
47. 2000/3
Kippenberg, H. G., Religious History, Displaced by
Modernity (221-243). - Krech, V., From Historicism
to Functionalism: The Rise of Scientific Approaches to
Religions around 1900 and Their Socio-Cultural Context
(244-265). - Riesebrodt, M., Fundamentalism and
the Resurgence of Religion (266-287). - Hanegraaff,
W. J., New Age Religion and Secularization (288-312).
- Baumann, M., Diaspora: Genealogies of Semantics
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Occasional AURA Publication (Melbourne)
10. 2000
Special Issue [ed. by G. K. Ward, C. Tuniz]: Advances in
Dating Australian Rock-Markings: Papers from the First
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Oceania (Sydney)
70. 2000/4
Lindstrom, L., Cargo Cult Horror (294-303). - Lea-
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71. 2000/1
Tsintjilonis, D., Death and the Sacrifice of Signs: “Mea-
suring” the Dead in Tana Toraja (1-17). - Marett, A.,
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Juillerat B., Do the Banaro Really Exist? Going Back
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Oral Tradition (Columbus)
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Feldman, W., Two Performances of the “Return of
Alpamis:” Current Performance-Practice in the Uzbek
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13. 1998/1
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Marks Dauenhauer, N., R. L. Dauenhauer, Tracking
“Yuwaan Gageets:” A Russian Fairy Tale in Tlingit
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13. 1998/3
Rasmussen, S. J., Reflections on Myth and History:
Tuareg Concepts of Truth, “Lies,” and “Children’s
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Pacific Studies (Laie)
21. 1998/1-2
Strathern, A., P. J. Stewart, The Embodiment of
Responsibility: “Confession” and “Compensation” in
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Westermark, G., History, Opposition, and Salvation in
Agarabi Adventism (51-71). - Sturma, M., Dressing,
Undressing, and Early European Contact in Australia
and Tahiti (87-104).
Paideuma (Stuttgart)
46. 2000
Miran, M., Beyond Mande Mory. Islam and Ethnicity
in Cote d’Ivoire (63-84): - LeBlanc, M. N., From Sya
to Islam. Social Change and Identity among Muslim
Youth in Bouake, Cote d’Ivoire (85-109). - Schle-
gel, A., Strangers or Friends? The Need for Adults
in the Life of Adolescents (137-148). - Kämpf, H.,
Anthropologische Implikationen der Hermeneutik und
die Frage nach dem “radikal Fremden” im Kontext
der Ethnologie (149-160). - Zinser, H., Probleme und
Grenzen der Anwendung psychoanalytischer Begriffe
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Geruch und Differenz. Kôrpergeruch als Kennzeichen
konstruierter “rassischer” Grenzen (207-230). - Kolig,
E., Of Condoms, Biculturalism, and Political Correct-
ness. The Maori Renaissance and Cultural Politics in
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Philippine Quarterly of Culture and
Society (Cebu City)
26. 1998/3-4
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Verbal Interaction and Lexical Change (273-296). -
Mojares, R. B., Reading Ranudo: The “Translation” of
Philippine Poetry (297-323). - Morelos, A. T., English
Loanwords in the Modern Cebuano Language: An In-
dex of Cultural Change (324-336). - Mojares, R. B.,
Talking Politics: The Komentaryo on Cebu Radio (337-
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Recherches amérindiennes au Québec
(Montreal)
30. 2000/1
Galinier, J., Penser hors de sol. Miroirs identitaires
en Mésoamérique (9-17). - Powers, W. K., Le cercle
sans fin. Naissance et renaissance dans le système de
croyances lakota (49-58). - Goulet, J.-G., Cérémonies,
prières et médias: Perspectives autochtones (59-70).
30. 2000/2
Hébert, M., Histoire, symbolisme et modes de résis-
tance chez les Tzeltals de la Selva Lacandona (Chiapas),
1940-1994 (3-10). - Legros, D., Vendetta et cérémo-
nie de la paix chez les Athapascans tutchones (Yukon):
Pour une critique du lien nature et violence fait par saint
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Religion and Society (Bangalore)
45. 1998/3
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Discrimination and the Christian Dalit Question (54-
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45. 1998/4
Prabhakar, M. E., Ideology of Oppression: Caste and
Untouchability (5-50). - Moses, B. C., Caste Clashes
in Tamil Nadu (51-68). - Kurian, S. G., The Christian
Dalits’ Experience: A Case Study of the Palai Diocese
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Lesson from History (81-88). - Dietrich, G., Dalit
Feminism and Environment (89-98). - Dogar, V. S. J.,
Political Status of the Christians in North-West India
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Religious Studies (Cambridge)
36. 2000/2
Studstill, R., Eliade, Phenomenology, and the Sacred
(177-194). - Williams, C., Topic Neutrality and the
Mind-Body Problem (203-207).
36. 2000/3
Wynn, M., Representing the Gods: The Role of Art and
Feeling (315-331).
Security Challenges (32-38). - Friedman, S., Do South
Africans Value Democracy? (39-43). - Agbese, P. O.,
The Politics of Stable Civil-Military Relations (44-
50). - Mbaku, J. M., Minority Rights in Plural Socie-
ties (51-59). - Mvuyekure, P.-D., From Idealism to
Genocide (60-66). - Kalu, A. C., Women in African
Literature (67-76). - Pereira, C., Feminist Knowledge
(77-85).
2000/491
Street Vendors. A Symposium on Reconciling People’s
Livelihood and Urban Governance (12-60).
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Revista Europea de Estudios
Latinoamericanos y del Caribe
(Amsterdam)
68. 2000
Sottoli, S., La política social en América Latina bajo el
signo de la economía de mercado y la democracia (3-
22). - Pansters, W., Politics, Culture, and the State:
Explaining the Mexican Regime (77-82). - Nuijten,
M., G. van der Haar, The Zapatistas of Chiapas:
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Revue de l’Histoire des Religions (Paris)
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Saeculum (Freiburg)
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tween Brute and Man. Friedrich Max Müller and the
Darwinian Debate on Language (57-89). - Trauzettel,
Sozialphilosophische Positionen in Ostasien im 20.
Jahrhundert und ihr Verhältnis zur Entwicklung einer
Modernen Rechtskultur (90-99).
Seminar (New Delhi)
2000/487
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C., Globalization, India, and East Asia (51-57). -
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Anthropos 96.2001
Shaman (Szeged)
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the Pacific Northwest Coast (31-34). - Overton, J. A.,
Neurocognitive Foundations of the Shamanic Perspec-
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Signs (Chicago)
25. 2000/3
Tripp, A. M., Rethinking Difference: Comparative Per-
spectives from Africa (649-675). - Helliwell, C., “It’s
only a Penis:” Rape, Feminism, and Difference (789-
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analysis, and Adolescence (817-839).
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Social Anthropology (Cambridge)
8. 2000/1
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Encounters in Southern Ethiopia (1-17). - McDo-
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Rochford, E. B. Jr., Demons, Karmies, and Non-Devo-
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49. 1999/2
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African Women’s Movement an Easy Rider? Interde-
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South African Journal of Ethnology
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l’Afrique contemporaine (245-256). - Milandou, A.,
Un évêque dans la tourmente, souffrance, espoirs et
engagements d’une Eglise (257-262). - Ukwuije, B.,
Penser le devenir de l’identité africaine: L’identité afri-
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avec les religions traditionnelles et l’islam en Afrique
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l’Afrique des Afro-Américains (318-322).
Ultimate Reality and Meaning (Toronto)
23. 2000/1
Grandpierre, A., The Nature of the Universe and the
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43. 1998
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Kulturwandel in Trinidad und Lidschi aus ethnohisto-
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44. 1999
Stenzei, W., Die Virgen de Guadalupe und die Religion
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124. 1999/2
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(Marburg)
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Kleine, C., Die Wissenschaft und das Wunder. Über-
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Zeitschrift für Volkskunde (Göttingen)
96. 2000/1
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Blicke auf die Normalität (29-49).
96. 2000/2
Moosmüller, A., Perspektiven des Fachs Interkulturel-
le Kommunikation aus kulturwissenschaftlicher Sicht
(169-185). - Lauterbach, B., Integration am Arbeits-
platz? Probleme kulturwissenschaftlicher Flüchtlings-
forschung (186-202). - Beck, S., Rekombinante Pra-
xen. Wissensarbeit als Gegenstand der Europäischen
Ethnologie (218-246).
Anth
lropos 96.2001
Studia Series
of the Anthropos Institute
Ethnological research has
changed dramatically in
recent years. The unremit-
ting spread of Western
industrial civilization has
lead to a devaluation of
regional and local cultures.
As a result, the Anthropos
Institute has taken on the
task of promoting the
preservation of surviving
cultures and languages,
in order to accentuate the
diversity of creation and to
recognize the basic right
of mankind to cultural
self-determination.
The Studia series would
like to foster and contrib-
ute to the investigation
and preservation of cul-
tures. Works published
in this series are mono-
graphs of ethnological
and religious-ethnologi-
cal character, be they
dissertations or other
independent results of
research. Manuscripts are
welcomed. They will be
read and, if appropriate,
accepted for publication.
Manuscripts should be sent to
Anthropos Institut
Arnold-Janssen-Str. 20
D-53754 Sankt Augustin
Germany
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r°pos 96.2001
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356
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes
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Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 359-378
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
What Difference Do Hai||om “Bushmen” Make
to Anthropology (and Vice Versa)?
Thomas Widlok
Abstract. - Anthropologists are concerned about the absence
°f their discipline in Namibia and in the wider region. In this
contribution I try to clarify what exactly is missing if anthropol-
°gy is not institutionalised locally. I underline the importance
°f ethnography and comparison which I fear is underestimated
by some recent work. In my response to views about my
own work aired in Anthropos (2001), I point out the useful
Potentials of comparative ethnography with special reference to
hunter-gatherer studies. I argue against attempts at redefining
all anthropological work as contemporary history and extreme
reflexivity and at renouncing and denouncing all comparative
anthropology as anachronistic and politically irresponsible. I
■dentify three new debates dealing with cultural difference,
case-based evidence, and political relevance, which I hope
"'ill take over the space previously occupied by “the Kalahari
debate.” [Namibia, Hai\\om, Mangetti, sociality, ethnography,
Cotnparison, cultural difference, case-based evidence, political
relevance, hunter-gatherer studies]
Thomas Widlok, Ph.D. Social Anthropology (London 1994);
Previously lecturer in anthropology at the Dept, of Anthro-
P°l°gy, London School of Economics and Political Science,
ar>d researcher at the Institute of Ethnology, University of
Cologne, currently research staff member at the Max Planck
Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle/Saale, Germany; field
Search in Namibia (1990-92, 1993, 1994, 1996, 2000) and in
Australia (1998) - Research interests include Khoisan studies,
comparative hunter-gatherer studies, anthropological theory
and methodology. - Publications include: Symbolic Categories
aud Ritual Practices (co-edited with K. Sugawara. Kyoto 2001);
See also References Cited.
Introduction
Th
nere is wide agreement that anthropology has
een underrepresented in post-apartheid southern
Africa, and in post-independence Namibia in par-
ticular (Widlok 1992a, 1992b; Gordon 2000; Sul-
livan 2001). A discussion of the role of anthro-
pology in this particular region sheds some light
on the more general issue of why anthropology
matters and what exactly we miss (apart from job
opportunities) if there is no or very little anthro-
pology in a region. Does it matter for the region
and does it matter for anthropology at large? I have
given my own view on this, first in programmatic
terms ( 1992a, 1992b) and later in substantial terms
as I have reported on my field research with
the Hai||om of Mangetti (1994a, 1994b, 1995b,
1996, 1999) and with the j=Aoni of the ¡Khuiseb
(1998a, 1998b) without of course claiming that
the work of an individual could or should cover
everything that anthropologists can do. In fact,
the number of non-Namibian anthropologists in
the country has grown steadily since independence
creating a plurality of approaches and fields under
investigation. However, in reaction to this work,
especially with regard to work related to so-called
“Bushmen” or “San,” it has been advocated that
anthropology should primarily be “contemporary
history” (Suzman 2000), or “extreme reflexivity
and deconstruction” (Sullivan 2001: 190) and it
is these positions which I want to discuss in
this contribution. It makes sense to carry out this
discussion on the basis of my most comprehensive
work (1999), an ethnographic monograph with
a comparative perspective, and with regard to a
counterposition that it has provoked in the previ-
360
Thomas Widlok
ous issue of this journal (Sullivan 2001). I will
also discuss two recent anthropological books on
Namibia, one that explicitly aims for reflexive
history (Suzman 2000) and one that seems to
have rediscovered contemporary ethnography after
having been exiled in history (Gordon and Douglas
2000). Working my way through the debate so far,
I am concerned that ethnography and comparison
are lightly thrown overboard and that a misleading
choice between either reflexive thought and history
or ethnography and comparison is imposed on us.
I end with some remarks on what I consider the
really burning issues that deserve further debate,
namely cultural difference, case-based evidence,
and political relevance. Before I embark on these
debates which I would like to see taking over the
arena previously occupied by “the Kalahari de-
bate,” the table has to be cleared of some misread-
ings and misrepresentations of my monographic
text, so that they are not confused with the actual
points that deserve debate. Those who have read
my book “Living on Mangetti” and who know that
I have no interest in resurrecting outmoded notions
of culture may want to skip this first section and
go straight to my more general points.
Misrepresentations
Ethnographic monographs aim to capture the
complexity of social and cultural processes. Hence
there is always the danger that selective or inatten-
tive citing from monographs can mislead readers
and debates and the following remarks are intend-
ed to prevent this from happening.
It is disappointing to read that my ethnography
supposedly “structure[s] a rather bounded Hai||om
ethnic category” (Sullivan 2001: 180), that I con-
struct “a Hai||om identity” (Sullivan 2001: 190, my
emphasis) and that I negate “parallel histories of
dispossession and marginalisation” that Hai||om
share say with some Damara people or others
(Sullivan 2001: 189). On the contrary, readers of
“Living on Mangetti” will find that from the start
the book explicitly discourages an oversimplified
view of ethnic identity and any overgeneralization
on the basis of my case study from the Mangetti
area:
I [...] worked with only a fraction of the overall Hai||om
population [...]. I do not claim that my generalizations
apply to all people classified as Hai||om in the statis-
tics. Most Hai\\om are today firmly integrated into the
commercial farming industry and may not recognize all
aspects of the description I give as representing their
present way of life. What I do claim is that the aspects
which I have identified as relevant for the internal and
external social relations of the Hai||om with whom
I worked are fairly described and analysed and can
therefore be applied not only to other Hai||om, both
present and past, but indeed to other people in Namibia
who may be classified differently (Widlok 1999: 20 f.,
emphasis added).
This programmatic statement is substantiated in
the book by numerous descriptions of social events
at Mangetti which I believe have no parallel
with Hai||om living at other places as well as of
events and processes for which I believe there are
parallels in what has been reported from other
places, including parallels between the situation
at Mangetti and that of people at other places in
Namibia who call themselves “Damara,” “!Xu,” or
“Owambo.” One reason for highlighting parallels
and the lack of parallels is that diversity is the
raw material of comparisons which I believe may
provide many insights, as I explain in more detail
below.
It is strange to read that my ethnography sup-
posedly aims to elucidate “Hai||om identity and
‘culture’” (Sullivan 2001: 181) and that I have
the intention of creating a cultural “other.” The
claim that my ethnography identifies “Hai||om
‘difference’ as manifest in an internal ‘culture’”
(Sullivan 2001: 180) can be shown to be wrong. I
begin my monograph by saying that “there was no
unified cultural style that would allow for a quick
and precise answer to the question of how the
Hai||om of Mangetti lived” and that field research
“subverted my confidence in the analytical value
of certain established concepts: above all, that of
‘culture’” (Widlok 1999: 10). After arguing that
“society” and “culture” can no longer be con-
sidered “ultimate causes which determine human
actions and ideas” (Widlok 1999: 259), I conclude
my monograph by stating that “the diversity found
in Hai||om social practice is not the product of
a simple interaction between an original ‘Bush-
man’ culture and external influences in the natural
environment (as some would have it) or in the
political environment (as others would have it)”
(261). It is also wrong to maintain that my ap-
proach “eschews” an “understanding [of] how the
difference of ‘Bushman’ is both constructed and
maintained” (Sullivan 2001: 180) because I spend
a whole chapter discussing the construction of the
category “Bushmen” over time and I conclude
(1999:262):
Neither are Hai||om people who have lived in un-
tampered continuity with the distant past, nor are their
identity and way of life simply the product of colonial
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
361
forces. Rather, their group identity and social organi-
zation are an integral part of the characteristic way in
which they have been involved with relations of depen-
dency both before and after Namibian independence.
Sullivan ignores the fact that I advocate abandon-
ing the concept of “culture” and that I suggest a
turn towards “sociality” instead (1999: 259). My
monograph explicates that this is not about chang-
ing labels but rather that it implies a radical shift
because sociality or social relatedness cannot be
described as something “internal” but by definition
emerge in processes of relating to others.1
Sullivan claims that I explain Hai||om “dif-
ference” “with reference to its appropriateness
for ‘prior conditions’” (2001: 180, 183). She uses
the phrase “prior conditions” in quotation marks
several times, but this is not a concept that I use
anywhere. Quite to the contrary I state that “7/t
order to avoid misrepresentations this book has
analysed Hai||om social institutions in terms of
their implications rather than in terms of their
origins” (1999:262, emphasis added). I examine
“Hai||om social organization as it emerges from
its embeddedness in the conditions of present-day
Namibia” (1999: 262). This has led some commen-
tators to criticize me for not looking into history
sufficiently (Henrichsen 2000) but I maintain that
to know the historical origin of a social institution
(or of an identity for that matter) is not sufficient
for explaining the implications and entailments of
that institution in contemporary or future social
settings. Although intriguing topics for academic
debate, the historical origins of the Hai||om kin-
ship terminology or of the term “Hai||om” itself
were of little relevance to either my informants
°r myself in making sense of their contemporary
hfe because all that mattered was that kinship
terms and ethnonyms were currently being used
ln specific ways, by Hai||om and non-Hai||om,
and that their current usage structured social re-
lationships.1 2 Insofar as this structuring process
1 My programmatic statement that culture can no longer be
considered an ultimate cause is substantiated in the book
by investigating local identity politics, economy, social
organization, and religious life as constituted through social
relations which do not form a neatly bounded cultural
whole.
2 I have made this point at various points in the book as
well as in other publications dealing with language (Widlok
1997), ethnonyms (Widlok 1996), kinship (Widlok 2000b),
and settlement patterns (Widlok 1999). I have not “asserted”
that anything in the Hai||om kinship system was “linked
to the exigencies of an uncertain environment” (Sullivan
2001: 187). In fact, I would challenge Sullivan who seems
to claim that this is the case for Nama/Damara.
Anth
has a history, “prior” conditions do matter, but
here understood not as “prior” to any links with
“non-hunter-gatherers” but prior to the specific
situation that the ethnographer is observing.
Sullivan claims that I “assert” that Hai||om are
“part of a ‘Bushman nation’” (2001: 186). In fact
I only use the term once and do so negatively and
in complete opposition to what Sullivan implies:
“The ‘Bushman nation’ claimed by some pre-inde-
pendence advocates of separate development never
existed’ (1999: 263, emphasis added). I am in no
way advocating separatism, nor do the Hai||om
whom I know. I do discuss the recent pressures
on Hai||om and others to form a corporate interest
group called “the San” (1999: 17, see also Widlok
2000a) but this is an observation (which Sullivan
and others share) not an assertion nor, even worse,
the result of an assertion on my part.
Sullivan also criticizes my reference to the
medicine dance as “an important ethnic marker,”
which, however, is made in the context of (well-
documented) attitudes of Owambo and others who
value the dance as a service, i. e., it is not me
who views the dance as an ethnic marker but
people like the local Owambo for whom “doing the
medicine dance” (also for others) is an important
aspect of what makes “a Hai||om” or “a !Xu.”
I have pointed out that the dance itself is “an
arena of interethnic interaction” (1999:235) that
ritual forms are imported and exported (1999: 234)
and shared with other Khoisan groups (1999: 235)
and that it “shows [...] the impact of external
conditions on Hai||om group identity” (1999: 234)
so that it is a misrepresentation to insinuate that
I was constructing “an anthropological other” by
exoticizing the dance (Sullivan 2001: 182).
I will comment in more detail below on Sulli-
van’s claim that my model is an evolutionary one.
Here I want to point out that it is a logical mistake
to equate all comparative analyses of difference
as evolutionary. While I think that there is much
to say about difference and comparison, I don’t
think that there is anything whatsoever in my
book that suggest that we should interpret the
differences observed as forming an evolutionary
sequence. The quote that she gives in support
of her claim (2001: 183) clearly refers to “the
remembered past,” i. e., I am reporting what people
remember (in this case regarding the supposed
switch of Hai||om communities from pastoralism
to foraging). I fully agree that it is extremely
difficult to know what happened before the remem-
bered past, and that it is beyond my own research
interests and beyond my research methodology to
find out about it.
‘ropos 96.2001
362
Thomas Widlok
The claim that I am embracing an evolution-
ary view is immediately followed by references
to Hai||om involvement in politics and trade in
the past which implies that as a consequence of
having disregarded these historical involvements I
end up with an evolutionary perspective. I deal
with Hai||om involvement in trade, in treaties,
in mining, in conflict, and in dealings with the
South African army in various parts of the book.
Also the “switching of ethnic identity” and the
people being “impostors” of “San” are discussed
in the monograph (1999: 30). I go beyond what
Gordon and others have found in the archives
by recording that Hai||om until fairly recently
undertook trade expeditions to the Ndonga king
(64), that some Hai||om were involved as active
members of SWAPO in exile (128), and that they
continue to be supplied with fire arms by Owambo
neighbours (69). While I discuss these matters
I do not interpret them as evidence for a total
domination of Hai||om lifeways through external
forces. There is an important difference between
being negligent towards historical evidence (or
denying it) and being critical of it or weighting it
in a particular way given the other (ethnographic)
sources of evidence available.
Sullivan’s claim that I do not describe harvest-
ing practices is another misrepresentation given the
evidence which must have escaped her (Widlok
1999:78, 95, 110-113). The claim is made in
the context of distinguishing postponed use from
delayed returns which she considers not to be of
qualitative difference at all. However, there is a
very important qualitative difference here because
all the stereotypical nonsense of some early writ-
ers about “Bushmen” not caring about the future
(which she repeats at great length) falsely suggests
that these people are driven by the urge to consume
immediately and furthermore confuses consump-
tion with production strategies. I give plenty of
examples showing that Hai||om consumption is
not immediate. Seeds are kept, tobacco is hidden,
etc. (see Widlok 1999: 107-111). There are also
examples of immediate consumption (which I give
and she quotes) but I have argued that these
strategies make very good sense if one focuses
on adequacy and easy future access (110). I have
also pointed out that I do not think that they
can serve as blueprints for explaining Hai||om
economic activity at large (110). By contrast, “de-
layed-return” is not about individual rationing but
it is all about the socio-political processes which
entail that certain social institutions need to be
in place to successfully bridge the gap between
economic input and its returns. There continues to
be some confusion as to what the analytical tool
of distinguishing immediate from delayed return
does. It is useful in identifying economic strate-
gies, and economic strategies do matter greatly for
people who have no fixed income from a single
source. But it is not only about economic strategies
and it is not primarily about consumption either.
As I have shown in detail, the distinction is not
about an inner craving for immediate consumption.
Consumption may well be delayed. It is also not
about a supposed inability to learn other subsis-
tence strategies (as I have also shown in detail) or
“to grasp the meaning of cash” (Sullivan 2001:
185). It is not about inability at all but about
alternative ways of doing things (equally well in
my view). Rather, it is about the fact that there are
social consequences which are logical entailments
that go with economic activities involving delayed
returns (see Widlok 1999: 70). It seems impossible
not to have a fairly strong institution that sanc-
tions the infringement of extended property rights
when economic input has to be protected for a
considerable period before a return can be secured.
Building up a herd is a typical case in point.
In terms of politics it seems difficult to enforce
egalitarian relations without creating positions of
authority and thereby creating inequality (Wid-
lok 1999: 13). Sullivan (2001: 185) misinterprets
this social dilemma as referring to an analytical
dichotomy between flexible hunter-gatherers and
apparently inflexible “others.”
It is misleading to state that I suggested a “lack
of engagement with ‘delayed return activities’”
(Sullivan 2001: 182). In fact I have spent many
pages explaining exactly how Hai||om “hook onto
the delayed-return economy” (Widlok 1999: 264)
without embracing it and I conclude that “they
have been actively fostering their involvement
in these [delayed-return] economic pursuits since
they value access to the products of delayed-return
activities” (134). There have to be ways of creating
the institutions needed for delayed-return activities
but in the situation that I have observed Hai||om
found other ways of enjoying the products of
delayed-return economizing without creating these
institutions, namely by cooperating in particular
ways with other groups, by hooking onto their
institutions.3 I don’t know of anyone who argues
3 ’’Seizing and capitalising” (Sullivan 2001: 184) can only be
considered to be the same in a very loose sense. Seizing
opportunities may be a human universal, certainly the
Hai||om I worked with do it all the time. Investing capital to
create delayed returns and creating the social relations for
securing the capital in the process are much more specific
social processes. For instance, not everybody who owns
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
363
that this is empirically or necessarily so for all
hunter-gatherers, nor am I saying that this strategy
is only found among hunter-gatherers. Not only
marginal people in postindustrial societies but also
successful international management consultants
and others who live off the capitalist economy may
be portrayed as similarly avoiding being integrated
into institutions for production (managers are non-
producers) but still benefiting greatly from them
(see the contributions in Day, Papataxiarchis, and
Stewart 1999). But in this, as in other instances,
the fact that a strategy has been observed among
a number of hunter-gatherer groups is not inval-
idated by the fact that it may be found in other
contexts, too.
Now that some misrepresentations have been
pointed out, issues emerge that are worth debating
and which probably require debate since they are
not easily resolved. I start with discussions of
the potentials and limitations of ethnography and
comparison which appear in a new light in the
current situation. This is followed by a preliminary
discussion of issues that I have labelled cultural
difference, case-based evidence, and political rele-
vance. Other topics of this sort may emerge in the
process.
The Potentials of Ethnography and Comparison
Ethnography and comparison have for a long time
been considered hallmarks of anthropological ac-
tivity. Occasionally both have been recommended
as panacea in the sense that “everything will be
fine” as long as anthropologists do ethnographic
fieldwork and maintain their comparative perspec-
tive. At the other end of the spectrum both have
been under severe attack for the ways in which
they create “the other” as the object of anthro-
pological discourse. It is now clear that like with
afi skills, ethnography and comparison need to be
cultivated and kept in shape if they are supposed
to do a good job and to reduce stereotypes and
reification.”
For anthropology in southern Africa these dis-
cussions have particular relevance. After the end
°f the segregationist apartheid policy in southern
Africa the way was open for new anthropological
w°rk in the region. In 1992 I made this point
ln a statement published in a Namibian newspa-
per (Widlok 1992a). I argued that although the
a few head of livestock is capitalizing on them but may
simply use them as living storage for future consumption
(see Widlok 1999: 118 f.).
Anth
discipline had lost its innocence because it had
been abused, there were good reasons for doing
anthropology in Namibia and the examples I gave
referred to ethnography and comparison as its par-
ticular strengths. In the course of the 1990s a num-
ber of insightful anthropological monographs have
been published including Kuper (1995) on life in a
mining town, Gordon (1992, 1997) on the fantasies
of settlers and explorers concerning “Bushmen,”
Pendleton (1994) on Katutura, and Schmidt-Lau-
ber (1998) on ethnic Germans in Namibia. At the
end of the 1990s Gordon (2000) noted that the
situation of anthropology in Namibia, and this may
be true for other countries in southern Africa too,
is marked by a striking contrast between a rich
anthropological literature produced by non-Namib-
ians and a virtual absence of the discipline within
the country. While there is anthropology-related
work in Namibia, I would support Gordon by
arguing that one main problem is that there are
few, if any, Namibians who do ethnography in
their own country (or elsewhere) and who do
anthropologically inspired comparisons. This is
partly due to the fact that there is no Department
of Anthropology at the University of Namibia
(UNAM). Anthropologists working in the country
“hide” by shifting their identity and working in
the Department of Sociology or the Department
of History. The Department of African Languages
at UNAM is tiny and correspondingly can give
no shelter to anthropologists. There is more to it
than the issue of shifting labels, though. During the
first ten years of Namibian independence local an-
thropology was to a large extent characterized by
quantitative, policy- and survey-oriented research.
It followed the demand by institutions and policy
makers in independent Namibia who were seeking
a broad database, household surveys, economic
baseline studies and such like, as a basis for estab-
lishing government as well as non-governmental
programmes. An expanding national bureaucracy
and a thriving non-governmental sector stimulated
and welcomed this work. Only fairly recently did
programme makers and policy makers realize that
more qualitative research is needed, too.
Ethnography
To be sure, ethnography has its restrictions, and
here I am talking about ethnography as based on
long-term field research. One restriction relates
to scope. Whether dealing with a localized or a
dispersed group of people, ethnographic work is
restricted in that it can only capture encounters
‘ropos 96.2001
364
Thomas Widlok
with a limited number of people in a limited
number of places at a limited number of events.
Typically, therefore, anthropological work is not
so much concerned with problems of sampling
and representativeness than with validity and the
coherence of an argument that can be produced
on the basis of a limited number of encounters.
It is essential that each ethnographic monograph
specifies in great detail who the ethnographer
talked to, how much time was spent where, how
the plurality of observations are composed into
a synthetic account, etc., clarifications which to
some non-anthropologists may seem to be “pain-
staking” details (see Henrichsen 2000).
Gordon (1992: 218) has noted that the emphasis
on fieldwork may have inevitably led anthropol-
ogists working in the area, especially before the
1980s, away from dealing with the historical pic-
ture at large. In fact professional anthropologists
working in this field today would consider it pre-
sumptuous and not up to standard if someone was
to come forward with “the ethnography of the
Bushmen” simply because diversity of conditions
and of strategies have been documented in such a
great detail that a monolithic ethnography of “the
Bushmen” would seem a misleading simplifica-
tion. While there can no longer be an ethnographic
monograph on “the Bushmen” (just as academic
monographs on “the Australian Aborigines” are
a thing of the past), it is acceptable to write
“the political economy of San” (Wilmsen 1986)
or a “history of Bushmen” (Gordon and Douglas
2000: xviii) dealing with “the Bushmen’s role in
shaping Namibian history” (Gordon 1992: 8). To
have the cake and eat it is only possible with
titles such as “The Bushmen Myth” (Gordon 1992)
and. “Picturing Bushmen” (Gordon 1997) which
appeal to a unifying notion of “Bushmen” but
with the disclaimer “myth” or “picturing.” In fact
these books are not about “Bushmen” but they are
about Europeans creating images of “Bushmen”
and treating some people in southern Africa ac-
cording to this image, which in almost all cases
meant treating them harshly and unfairly. Gordon
has always emphasized that he does not consider
himself a “Bushman ethnographer” but that he
is interested in “settler fantasies” (Gordon, pers.
comm.). The task that he had set himself was
not to do ethnography but rather to trace how
images about “Bushmen” have emerged and have
been altered in the course of the political struggles
before Namibian independence. One of the un-
wanted side-effects of this work is that there is
a danger of reinvigorating representations of “oth-
erness” that Gordon criticizes and which may oth-
erwise finally be put to rest. Having had firsthand
experience of how the segregationist policies in
pre-independence Namibia were used to dispossess
and disempower people, especially those labelled
“Bushmen,” Gordon consequently focused on the
colonial strategies of “ethnicization” over time.
Having produced a classic ethnography himself
(on Papua New Guinea), Gordon turned to histo-
ry to complete his task. However, it is interest-
ing how he, together with S. Douglas, has now
started to complement his historical account of
“the Bushmen” since ethnographic field research
with “Bushmen” has once again become possible.
In the second edition of “The Bushman Myth” the
authors note that “[t]he world is not as simple as
this book first imagined it” (Gordon and Douglas
2000: xv) meaning that images of “Bushmen” were
much more diffuse than previously thought and
that the myths have “not always and everywhere
enjoyed dominance and hegemony” (xv). Having
done ethnographic field research with “Bushmen”
for the first time, Gordon now emphasizes that
“one should not see Bushmen as passive victims
of oppression” (xv) since they at times actively
influence the process of making and exploiting
images. It is not a debate about historical sources
that has made Gordon reconsider some of his
earlier statements about “the Bushman myth” but
it is a new involvement with ethnography. He has
not been selectively reading the historical evidence
but the historical evidence in itself was skewed
because it played down any active involvement of
“Bushmen” and it did not allow one to see clearly
what their part in the encounter was.4 *
This, I argue, only became possible after includ-
ing the results of fieldwork ethnography. Gordon
and Douglas are right, therefore, to suggest that
adding some contemporary ethnography to the
book does more than simply update it, because
ethnography puts the collected historical material
into a different perspective. Furthermore they note
that “the world has changed dramatically during
the 1990s” (xv) and I will argue in more detail
below that these changes have also affected the
images of difference in the region even to the
point that disemphasizing cultural difference may
today lend itself to political abuse in the same way
as emphasizing difference used to be abused by
segregationist policies.
This leads to a second difficulty when do-
ing ethnographic work and that is that the term
4 He noted that in the archival record “[tjhe Bushmen were
remarkably inarticulate, perhaps the most damning evidence
of their powerlessness” (Gordon 1992: 8).
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
365
“ethnography” seems to imply that it is always
ethnic groups that are the topic of one’s research.
However, this need not be the case because more
commonly now ethnographies are about social
relations in a certain domain and not about “the
culture” of “an ethnic group.” “Living on Manget-
ti,” for instance, is “about the social environment
in which gathering mangetti nuts and other subsis-
tence pursuits take place. Neither is it only about
‘Bushmen’ living at Mangetti. It is about social
relations between people who have been classified
as ‘Bushmen,’ ‘Owambo,’ ‘Boers,’ and ‘Germans’
- and as ‘anthropologists,’ ‘government officials,’
or ‘development workers’” (Widlok 1999: 8).5
It is in the nature of ethnographic research
that for reasons to do with language and the
engagement in social networks, the relationships
one studies are not accessible from a bird’s eye
view but are usually biased towards one particular
group. In my own work I have tried to “understand
the maintenance - and the abandonment - of social
relationships through a careful study of the per-
spective and the social practice of Hai||om ‘Bush-
men’ and their neighbours” (1999: 8). I maintain
that “it is an inherent condition of such a study
that collapsing all the divergent perspectives into
one apparently omniscient view from above would
not produce the understanding that is required”
(1999: 8).
Attempts have been made to circumvent this
limitation of ethnographic work by approaching
relations without learning the language of one
group and using the lingua franca instead. Suzman
(2000: 19) decided not to carry out his field re-
search in Ju|’hoan, using Afrikaans instead: “Since
Afrikaans provided the lingua franca in the Oma-
heke, I was able to communicate with all sorts
°f different people from the outset.” He knew that
this would deny him “access to a full appreciation”
°f “key Ju|’hoan terms” (19) and he accepts the
Critique that “my reliance on Afrikaans diminished
tty insight into the Ju|’hoan cultural world” (20)
hut decided that “it was, all in all, a bonus” to have
an “instant medium for communication” (19) and
a suitable means for “being heteroglossic” (9).6
5 Mangetti nuts are the fruit of a tree described as Ricinoden-
dron rautanenii in the botanical literature (called Schinzio-
phyton rautanenii by Sullivan [2001: 184]). Mangetti is also
the name of an area north of Tsumeb that has an extended
Mangetti grove at its core.
h I would agree that anthropologists who pretend that learning
a Khoisan language was something that could be done
easily exhibit the same kind of “cavalier attitude’’ to lin-
guistics as those who like Suzman affirm rather boldly
that one might as well try to do without special language
Anthropos 96.2001
Similarly, being faced with a situation in which
Suzman was “attempting to spend time with people
who considered themselves as belonging to the dif-
ferent communities which made up this polarised
society” he frankly admits that he “spent a great
deal of time lying to people” (2000: 20).7 Again,
I interpret this as an attempt at overcoming an
inherent limitation of ethnographic field research,
namely that in order to study the implications of
social relationships one has to immerse oneself
in specific social networks which means that one
has to leave the bird’s eye perspective and to
understand that the limitations that this entails
also buy us considerable insights that we would
otherwise lack.
Possibly there are situations where no infor-
mation can be gathered unless the ethical and
methodological standards of ethnographic work
are lowered but if one decides to work under these
conditions - explicitly refusing to work under
these conditions seems a respectable option to
me -, one has to be aware that the resulting work
will be less ethnographic. However, this is not only
an argument about the ethical and methodological
standards that the profession has set itself, because
being more ethnographic - with all its limitations -
also buys us some important advantages which I
would not jeopardize lightly. Above all it provides
us with insights into social practice that we would
otherwise lack. More valuable insights arise pre-
cisely from looking at the pragmatic language use
(and not at language in the abstract), at storytelling
practices (and not at decontextualized collections
of folklore), at naming practices (and not at “the
kinship system”), at “ethnic deixis” (and not at
ethnic classification exhibited by key informants),
skills. However, since Suzman explicitly set out to study
discourses, and not, say, ecology or exchange relations,
doubts remain whether using Afrikaans did in fact allow
him to collect the “local models” and “indigenous voice”
(2000: 10) that he sees silenced in other approaches and
to understand “how Ju|’hoansi constructed themselves”
(2000: 25).
7 While I understand why he felt pressed to use this strategy
I do doubt whether creating little everyday myths about
one’s own identity is a useful step in overcoming a situation
where fictions are constantly used to manipulate social
status. Furthermore, given that representations, especially
images of self and others, are usually formulated in di-
alogue with the ethnographer, they can only be usefully
compared if the ethnographer does not constantly change
his or her position, thereby provoking different responses.
Being a truthful ethnographer and interlocutor has the
great advantage that it allows a controlled comparison of
representations whereas responses stimulated by a dodgy
interlocutor may lead to artificial contrasts or similarities.
366
Thomas Widlok
at using space (and not at ideal type settlement lay-
outs), at making a living (and not at “the economic
system”) (see Widlok 1999). Interviewing people
or broadly synthesizing what people do simply
does not produce insight into the ways in which
values and strategies are reproduced and altered
in practice. Suzman recognizes that we want to
find out about “the interplay between discourses,
practices and identities” (2000: 167). But his book
has only two parts, “Contexts and Histories” and
“Identities,” it records discourses in great detail,
not only those among “the Omaheke Bushmen”
but also among non-Bushmen living in this area,
but it says disappointingly little on practices. His
account of religious matters begins with an insight-
ful ethnographic account of a funeral which shows
how in practice Christian and non-Christian ele-
ments are combined into a commonsensical syn-
thesis. Unfortunately this is an exception and later
in the chapter it is once again only discourse, nar-
ratives, labels, post-event commentary on which
the analysis is based. Suzman’s book illustrates
the problems that emerge when - instead of high-
lighting practice - anthropologists try to record
and analyze only those things that can be situated
within the larger imagery of “Bushmen” and with-
in historical narratives. He proves the point that
fictitious representations are social facts but fails
to recognize and document ethnographically that
these are not the only social facts, and in some con-
texts maybe not the decisive ones either. Gordon
has reminded us that oral testimony “must be used
with caution because, in the final analysis, it tells
us more about the self-perceptions of the people
studied than about the actual events” (1992: 218).
Suzman’s book shows in great detail how people
in Namibia have dealt with “Bushmen” as if they
were merely “things from the bush” but his final
analysis does not go beyond the idea that to live
what some call “a Bushman life” is primarily
a thing, a subject for multiple discourses, and
nothing else. Trying to overcome the framework
of ethnography may emphasize links to the broad-
er narratives but it forfeits insights into social
practice and into the dynamics of life processes.
Thus, we need to recognize that every serious
ethnographic piece of work has specific limitations
to do with the nature of the methodology applied
because it is conditioned by being in the position of
talking more directly to one group than to another
and by being integrated in the network of one of
the parties more than in that of others. Neither we
nor our informants are omniscient and we should
not pretend that it is otherwise but we should docu-
ment how social practice creates partial views that
only partially overlap but that generate life in its
totality.
In sum, it seems that post-revisionist anthro-
pology in Namibia is far from uniform. While
some researchers in the field (R. Gordon, B. Fuller)
are rediscovering the value of ethnography after
having taken long excursions into the history of
representations, others like Suzman still write un-
der revisionist shock and adhere to the research
agenda provoked in the segregationist period as if
anthropologists in Namibia could do nothing more
than continually reinvent the reflexive history that
has already been laid out and at the same time cut
all ties with comparative ethnography.
I feel that indiscriminately cutting all ties to
hunter-gatherer studies (Suzman 2000: 164) im-
poverishes our work as anthropologists and is (bor-
rowing a phrase from Gordon) “to submit to the
effectiveness of colonial socialization” (1992:6).
Like with the label “Bushmen” we have to con-
front ideas and concepts of “hunter-gatherers” and
to “infuse them with new meaning” unless we want
to buy into a restrictive socialization (see Gordon
1992: 6). Gordon advocates maintaining the label
“Bushmen” in order to “make social banditry re-
spectable again” (1992:6). I think there are good
reasons to make ideas and practices connected
to “foraging” (in present-day Namibia, Germany,
and elsewhere) respectable again. To do so in an
ethnography has its problems. One strategy is to
base the ethnography more explicitly in spatial
terms. Suzman does that in his “contemporary his-
tory of Omaheke Bushmen.” My own ethnography
could be called a “domain ethnography” because
it is not about “a people” but about an area,
“the Mangetti farms,” where the local majority of
people call themselves Hai||om and live largely on
the Mangetti nut using largely, but not exclusively,
hunter-gatherer skills to make a living. Both, area
and people, make up the domain of the Hai||om
of Mangetti that is to say a localized sphere
of Namibian life where ideas and practices are
dominant which the people themselves consider to
be “Hai||om.” This has parallels to the ethnography
of the Aboriginal domains in Australia. Suzman’s
work is also localized since it deals with the
Omaheke, and contains no information, say, on
the Mangetti or on “the foraging Bushmen” of
the Nyae Nyae area (Suzman 2000: 1). Suzman
faced the same problem as I did in that there are
other people in the country outside his area who
go by the same autonym, namely Ju|’hoansi in his
case and Hai||om in mine, but who live a different
life. However, instead of simply differentiating the
Ju|’hoansi of his field site from those living in
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
367
other situations, Suzman sees the situation of the
“Omaheke Bushmen,” where the Ju|’hoansi are a
minority (2000: 13), as a general articulation of
“San identity” in history. Possibly both perspec-
tives, domain ethnography and San historiography,
can be combined but certainly dropping the first in
favour of the second would lead to an impoverish-
ment of anthropological work by disregarding ex-
isting comparative models off hand without having
tested them carefully.
Comparison
Comparison can be a powerful tool. In the absence
of “experiments” and other such techniques in
the social sciences, comparison may indeed be
the most powerful tool available to us. For one
comparison is the most promising way of dealing
with the inherent limitations of an ethnographic
monograph as pointed out above. I believe that
anthropology has to play a particular role in de-
livering the insights from comparison to fellow
researchers and to the public at large. However,
the success of any comparative project depends
on what is compared and for what purpose, and
on being aware and clear about this.
Comparisons take place at different levels of
analysis. At a micro level I have, for instance,
made use of the fact that the people at and around
Mangetti switch between a variety of externally
defined living spaces, namely “communal, com-
mercial, or State land controlled by other people”
(Widlok 1999: 37). Comparing personal and social
strategies of people at and around Mangetti who
switch between these contexts give an insight into
a more general dilemma of accommodating oneself
to such a variety of living spaces (1999: 37). The
suggestion that working exclusively with farm
labourers, for instance, would be the right choice
for an anthropologist in Namibia today because
they seem to be the most numerous and would
best represent “the Bushmen” of today, I think
is as self-defeating as the earlier suggestion to
study “the last remnants of true hunter-gatherers”
tucked away somewhere in the Kalahari. Both
strategies deprive us of the potential of comparison
to allow us to see patterns as social relations are
transformed in changing contexts - and it deprives
the people we write about from recognizing the
Potential for diversity in their own way of do-
lng things.8 In fact, many “Bushmen” today are
8 When starting work with Ju|’hoansi today it may in fact
make more sense to study life on the farms (see Sylvain
6nth
as much former farmworkers as they are former
full-time hunters and gatherers having lost both
their land and their jobs.
At a macro level ethnographic monographs, too,
deal with fundamental social problems such as (in
my case) the “tension between independence, or
the ability to choose among extensive options, and
autonomy, or the enjoyment of autonomous modes
of social organization” (1999: vii). These problems
concern people in Europe as much as in Namibia
or elsewhere. A monograph can contribute to such
fundamental issues by comparing all results of the
case study with what has been reported about the
dynamics of social institutions across the world
in other contexts. The units of comparison, in my
view, should be processes and not “cultures” or
“societies”:
The flexibility and seemingly disorganized dynamic of
the Hai||om way of life bear a resemblance to many
other social and cultural phenomena in today’s world in
that they force us to take a different approach which
no longer assumes that “society” and “culture” are
ultimate causes which determine human actions and
ideas (Widlok 1999: 259).
I am not arguing that this shift from comparing
“peoples” towards comparing processes is easily
achieved. I find myself (see above) and others (see
Suzman 2000: 130) talking about “the” Hai||om
way of life or about “the” way Ju|’hoansi speak
on certain matters with “the Ju|’hoan voice” (Suz-
man 2000: 137). People themselves tend to use
the definite article in this way (see Dam Kakao
quoted in Suzman 2000: 127) and anthropologists
use these formulations for short when they should
be more specific as to who exactly they are talking
about. Although the context usually shows that we
differentiate and do not compare en bloc, misinter-
pretations are not excluded (see my comments on
Sullivan above). Although we are not dealing with
bounded cultural wholes, we can nevertheless de-
scribe relations in various fields systematically and
analyse them with the help of comparative models
(of a rather low degree of abstraction). Working
1999) in order to compare that to life outside the farms
which is so well-documented. When working with Hai||om,
I was faced with the situation that there were no good
studies on their contemporary life either on farms or away
from farms. There was some work on Hai||om people in
the Etosha region, some on Hai||om living on the farms
but virtually nothing on Hai||om living in the sparsely
populated communal area given to the Owambo. Therefore,
the people “sitting on the red line” who moved into and out
of “Owamboland” on the one hand and the “white farms”
on the other hand became the focus of my study.
»ropos 96.2001
368
Thomas Widlok
towards questions of rather grand comparative
scope requires that more attention be given to our
habitualized ways of speaking. One very simple
technique of positively working towards compar-
ing processes is careful indexing. Referring to
indexing in this context may sound like a formality
but it is not. I agree that doing an index for a
book is a tiresome task but for one thing it is
a systematic way of including reflexive thought
and comparative concepts at the same time. When
compiling an index, and when using it, we can
trace the concepts that are used in a monograph,
their distribution across the account that is given,
the way they overlap, complement one another
or form logical oppositions (or do not). And we
can relate the monograph in question to other
ethnographic works. Indexing specific persons and
places is important because it allows readers to
follow social actors across events (see Widlok
1999: 1). But leaving it at that (as Suzman [2000]
does) is not good enough. Skipping a subject index
is not a formality but it undermines systematic
reflexive thought and it seals a monograph off from
any comparative project. Using ideas or concepts
across contexts or cases does not automatically
“reify” them. By contrast, we need to acknowledge
that the categories of hunter-gatherer studies can
be useful across cases because they are sufficiently
abstract. They are not things in themselves but
they can be related to empirical phenomena. The
concepts developed in “hunter-gatherer studies”
are not “out there” in the Kalahari inseparably tied
to the cases from which they may have originally
arisen, but they can be applied to make sense of a
changing world of ongoing processes.
In between the micro and the macro levels
of comparison ethnographic monographs usual-
ly contain all sorts of comparisons for different
purposes and it is a matter of empirical inves-
tigation for which of these comparisons models
from hunter-gatherer studies are useful (and for
which ones they are not) given the specific phe-
nomena at hand. Comparisons between Nama/
Damara and Hai||om may be used to show the
dynamics of the kinship system they share (Widlok
1999: 186, see also Barnard 1992), comparisons
between Mangetti Hai||om and Dobe Ju|’hoansi
may be used to show the potential of particular
plant products (Widlok 1999: 74 f.), comparisons
between Hai||om and Owambo workers may be
used to show consumption and sharing patterns
(Widlok 1999: 124), etc. As I have pointed out
above, one comparison that I have tried to avoid
because I think it is misleading is that between
“the Hai||om culture” and “the !Xu culture” or
“the European culture.” One of the reasons for
occasionally “flagging” Hai||om as “Hai||om Bush-
men” or “San” is that in the Namibian context
a comparison between those labelled “Bushmen”
and those who are not labelled that way is very
insightful because discrimination along these lines
is a social fact. Comparisons of this sort show that
there are many contexts where the fact that actors
are relegated to the “Bushman” category (or make
use of it) is of crucial importance. Comparing
practices of Hai||om at Mangetti with practices
which have been analysed in comparative hunter-
gatherer studies is a starting point for analysis, not
its conclusion. Unfortunately, Suzman (2000: 18)
endorses the revisionist reflex of axiomatically
denying the possibility that any of these models
may be useful - without demonstrating that this
is in fact so. I am not arguing that he has fallen
prey to the dominant ideology that hunting and
gathering (and everything that it stands for) is a
“legacy” that one needs to rid oneself of, some-
thing that colonizers have preached to “Bushmen”
and others again and again. But in his fear of
becoming “captive to a paradigm generated by
and for the study of hunter-gatherers in isolation”
(Suzman 2000: 166), he runs the risk of falling
prey to a paralysing aversion against a paradigm
that is today much less of a unifying paradigm than
a loose field of researchers who debate with one
another.
When I discuss the social organization of
Hai||om at Mangetti in the context of compara-
tive hunter-gatherer research (1999:71), I select
comparative models from hunter-gatherer studies
which allow us to understand the articulation of
different modes of subsistence in a complex situa-
tion as is the case among Hai||om who engage in a
diversity of subsistence pursuits. There is no need
to buy into every model that has been developed
in hunter-gatherer studies (or in political economy
for that matter). Instead, the usefulness of models
has to be argued one by one, for instance, my
interpretation of Hai||om “inverse maflsa” (i. e.,
lending cattle to pastoralists [1999: 113-119]), of
cooperating with commercial hunters (65-67), of
living at service centers (128-130), of producing
liquor (100-105) and on to matters that are only
indirectly linked to economic pursuits but which I
think became intelligible in reference to ideas from
comparative hunter-gatherer studies (for instance
ritual activity as “demand cooperation” [256 f.])-
Comparative models have their limits and it is a
matter of argument, of trying them out pragmat-
ically and empirically and of assessing alternative
models in order to see where exactly they cease to
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
369
be useful. Povinelli (1993), for instance, has made
a good ethnographic argument why the immedi-
ate-delayed return distinction is not useful for the
Aborigines that she has worked with. However,
she has made that decision on the background
of a detailed ethnographic analysis and without
falling into the trap of arguing that there is nothing
cultural to be explained here.
Kalahari Debaters: The Next Generation?
Ethnography and comparison are not the only
virtues of anthropology, reflexive thought and the
ability to engage in interdisciplinary dialogue are
other virtues. The question is why shouldn’t we
have both? Reflexive thought should lead to bet-
ter ethnography. Close dialogue with historians
or ecologists, for instance, should lead to better
comparisons. I think we should aim exactly for this
and, therefore, translated into the southern African
context, “avoid the dichotomy” that some seem
to see as an inevitable outcome of the Kalahari
debate. I think we can do better than imposing a
trade-off on ourselves either recognizing cultural
difference or the constraints of the political econo-
my. For that reason I do not favour a continuation
of the Kalahari debate into a second generation.
We can do better, both in tone and contents. Not
because we are better anthropologists but because
We can benefit from the achievements and errors
of those who have been working in our field. As
for tone, I appreciate that Sullivan did not intend
to offend with her article (2001: 190) and I want
to express the same attitude. Nevertheless, I think
that placing a contemporary colleague amongst
19th-century evolutionists (Sullivan 2001: 182) is
as inappropriate as calling a contemporary person
who hunts and gathers a “Stone Age man.” It is
the same “denial of coevalness” that Fabian (1983)
has urged us to avoid. There is more to it though
than the danger of personal offence. Not only is
there no evolutionary argument anywhere in my
monograph (see above), but more importantly Sul-
livan creates the impression that all comparative
models that have been developed in the broad
held of hunter-gatherer studies can or should no
longer be part of our contemporary world. I think
lt is important to realize, and not necessarily to
he regretted, that different ways of doing an-
thropology do coexist. The use of comparative
m°dels is not inherently linked to 19th-century
evolutionists. That is to say those who engage
m model-making are not necessarily evolutionists
ar|d the practice of model-making, or thinking
AMhropos 96.2001
about evolution for that matter, is not confined
to an earlier stage of anthropological thinking. To
suggest that would rely on a very narrow view that
measures theoretical orientations in the discipline
according to the scale of linear evolution. It is
pointless to search the history of anthropology
for cases where either the notion that “Bushmen”
are culturally different or the notion that they are
impoverished pastoralists (or whatever) has been
used by individuals to emphasize “primitiveness”
and to prevent them from being “full citizens”
(Sullivan 2001: 182). Much more intriguing is the
question as to how we, as anthropologists who
may differ from one another in methods and theory
but who all consider our informants to be neither
primitive nor out of bounds of the nation-state,
deal with difference when we encounter it in the
field. Furthermore, what do we accept as evidence
when discussing difference? And finally, how do
we judge the political relevance of these academic
discussions? In the remainder of this paper I would
like to embark on these interlocking debates.
Cultural Difference
Typically ethnographic monographs report on dif-
ference, but I disagree strongly that these differ-
ences are (or need to be) conceptualised in evo-
lutionary terms, I disagree that it is a constructed
difference where in fact there are no differences,
and I disagree that at this particular point in time
it is more responsible to cover up differences than
to report them. To reveal difference on the basis of
good evidence is not to assert, affirm, or legitimize
it. As Gordon (Gordon and Douglas 2000: 304)
has pointed out, the point is not to deny difference
but to object to the “reification” of difference, in
particular by the State and its agents.
The last point is an ethical point which I feel
most strongly about and, therefore, want to dis-
cuss first. In pre-independence apartheid days it
was politically irresponsible to emphasize cultural
differences in the country because this was tan-
tamount to playing into the hands of those who
had decided to administer the country by a “divide
ethnically, and rule autocratically” maxim and it
would have undermined the efforts of the majority
of the population who aimed for non-segregationist
rule in the country. Independence, therefore, was
liberating also to the anthropologists working in
the country who had previously “fled into history”
(Fuller, pers. comm.). Writing about cultural dif-
ference even became a common feature of report-
ing in the government newspaper New Era (see
370
Thomas Widlok
Widlok 1992a, 1992b, 1995a) and it encouraged
me to write in this newspaper about the role of
anthropology as a discipline that - after apartheid
rule had ended - could now say something useful
about differences that are of interest to everyday
practitioners of culture. Sullivan’s extreme caution
against the notion of cultural difference, I think, is
still a reaction to the pre-independence situation.
Many people in Namibia have realized that seg-
regationist policy has indeed been overcome with
Namibian independence and that they are now free
to think of cultural difference without endanger-
ing the Namibian nation and without questioning
citizenship. There is a public demand to come
to grips with difference. And there is a demand
among people who in other contexts (for instance
in Australia) would be called “indigenous land
owners” to make sure that they are not consid-
ered to be only one interest group among many
others but that their claims to land are legitimately
different from those of others. As anywhere else
anthropologists in southern Africa need to respond
to this demand by abandoning the fruitless notion
of “cultures” and by rethinking the ways in which
they have conceptualized cultural difference in the
past.
More concretely, however, my intervention in
the public discourse was stimulated by earlier
contributions that suggested that our discipline
should take the role of a “culture history.” While
they situated difference as something belonging to
the past and as incompatible with recognizing the
new Namibian nation, I argued against the notion
of incompatibility. Over the last ten years since
Namibian independence began, official discourse
in Namibia seems largely unimpressed by any
reports of cultural difference within the country.
There is, for instance, no affirmative action pro-
gramme for underprivileged people classified as
“San.” Government policy has rejected any pro-
gramme that would smack of recognizing ethnic
difference. If the situation of Hai||om in Namibia
has further deteriorated in the last ten years, this
cannot be attributed to a current discourse (much
less a specialized anthropological one) describing
them as being different. Over the years I have
always been confronted with government officials
who refused to accept that the Hai||om of the
Mangetti are different from “any other poor people
in the country.” Rather, the official discourse is
one either of indifference or of a refusal to dif-
ferentiate. The policy of the Ministry of Lands,
Resettlement, and Rehabilitation was to hand out
2 ha plots for each and every “family” in all
parts of the country irrespective of any differences.
Ultimately, the policy was assimilationist because
it was based on the - ecologically and culturally
questionable - premise that agriculture and pasto-
ralism were the only land use practices that would
justify landownership. Elsewhere (Widlok 1994a,
1995b) I have pointed out that to recognize that
there is a cultural and even ethnic dimension to
the fact that Hai||om continue to be landless is
not in conflict with the constitutional guarantee
not to disadvantage any member of the Nami-
bian society for ethnic reasons. Firstly, Hai||om
were dispossessed as an ethnic group, classified as
“Bushmen” on the grounds that they were “only”
hunter-gatherers, neither being “proper” farmers
and herders nor complying to the image of foragers
as a part of nature. Secondly, they were dispos-
sessed for the alleged benefit of the wider Nambian
society. And thirdly, their restricted access to land
continues to involve issues of ethnic identity and
cultural difference up to the present. Disregarding
this particular history of Hai||om land claims that
produced the status quo amounts to negating the
fact that like all other Namibian citizens Hai||om
live in a complex web of relations that has to be
accounted for. Furthermore, since other Namib-
ians in the country are recognized as occupying
certain positions in such webs (for instance the
“traditional” headmen of former “Owamboland”
who continue to distribute land for use in this
communal area, or “traditional leaders” of Herero,
Damara, and others) and are allowed continuity,
to deny Hai||om the same recognition seems to
violate the equality maxim of the constitution.
Events from my most recent field research (in
2000) may illustrate that this is not only true for
the highly politicised debate on land rights. Several
Mangetti Hai||om who (according to the local doc-
tor) were 70 years old or more would not receive
their state pension because of wrong birth dates
on their identity cards (IDs) and birth certificates.
I was repeatedly told by state bureaucrats that
“no exceptions can be made for the procedures”
acknowledging that “therefore these people will
always suffer, there is nothing that can be done.” In
many ways the deterioration of the situation seems
not to be a matter of discourse and representations
at all but of a more material nature. In the pension
case it is an inflated aloof bureaucracy that makes
demands on local people in terms of the requested
paperwork (X-rays to proof their age, fees for
new IDs, transport to get into town, etc.) which
effectively excludes some people from receiving
their pension. People like the Hai||om of Mangetti
are once again hit particularly hard, not because
they are called “Bushmen” but because they live
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
371
without transport in remote areas where they lack
the social connections to people in power and
cannot afford to pay the most basic fees or follow
up the relevant bureaucratic procedures. And also,
it is those with different physical features whose
age continues to be estimated particularly low
by administrators (leading to wrong IDs, leav-
ing little chance of ever receiving a pension).
Finally, it is their families that are particular-
ly hard hit because of the social procedures in
many “Bushmen” settlements, and beyond, that are
characterized by a particular permeability which
has been cultivated over time and which results
in the redistribution of income through pensions
across the whole local group. State agencies react
with indifference towards this “difference.” They
refuse to make special allowances for people with
a specific combination of special needs with spe-
cific interests and special strategies of using state
resources. Hence, in this case to describe very
specifically how their situation differs from that
of others is the only responsible reaction. The
same is true for the land issue. In the monograph I
have documented that government officials in the
1990s turned a blind eye on differences arguing
that everybody has the same constitutional rights
to buy land, to apply for government subsidies, or
to found an association that accepts money from
overseas, etc. Therefore, they argued, there was no
need to account for factors in the proceedings of
land distribution which may be called “cultural.”
But not everybody is in an equal position for doing
the cultural things necessary to benefit from the
nation-state, things such as formally applying for
land, forming a corporate group, building up a
network of political links to high-up places, etc.
To claim (falsely) that everybody is in the same
Position - a representation of non-difference -
can easily lead to indifference, and can just as
easily be exploited for the creation of inequality,
for instance, through unequal access to state or
mternational money, as representations of differ-
ence.
To be more precise, it is not the case that apart-
heid was all about difference and current politics is
aH about covering up differences. Apartheid rulers
ln Namibia decided to ignore Hai||om difference
and used this to dispossess them of their land,
deluding that which is now the Etosha national
Park (they were not considered to be sufficiently
different [see Widlok 1999: 35]). Equally, power
holders today do make differences of different
s°rts, for instance, by distinguishing strongly be-
tween those organized in registered associations
ar,d those who are not organized in that way or
Anthropos 96.2001
by distinguishing “traditional groups with leaders”
from those without (see Widlok 2000a). Both
phases in Namibian history have left the Hai||om
whom I know disadvantaged, more than other
people that I have come across. Thus there are
underlying strategies of exclusion and domination
that do not require a discourse of difference in
order to operate successfully. Surely the solu-
tion to the problem cannot be a categorical one,
privileging “the Hai||om” or “the San” as a catego-
ry because they traditionally form the most disad-
vantaged group. Rather, differentiation cannot be
predicated on categories. Anthropologists, because
of their intimate knowledge of local affairs, can
point out how specific constellations of social
relations lead to specific dilemmas. In doing so,
it becomes noticeable that across ethnic divisions
those with some involvement in what I call hunter-
gatherer social relations (’’immediate return,” etc.
are other ways of characterizing these relations
and strategies) suffer similar disadvantages in the
contemporary set-up of Namibian politics and bu-
reaucracy.
As anthropologists we note these patterns of
difference and we compare them. I have been
inclined to argue that what some call “the hunt-
er-gatherer legacy” in fact provides many Hai||om
with skills that seem much better suited to the
future of Namibia than the social strategies of
other people in the country, especially various
livestock owners (see Widlok 1994a). But it is not
up to me to tell Hai||om people or anyone else
that they should make claims for equal treatment
on the basis of cultural or even ethnic difference
or to tell them to drop the issue of difference
when trying to better their lot in the short run.
It would be paternalistic to make such a decision
for others.9 And quite frankly as an ethnographer
with no sanctioning power, no political position in
a government or non-governmental organization, I
don’t think that the Hai||om I know would follow
any recommendation that I might make, even less
so people in the Namibian government.10 In fact
9 It is disappointing to see that Sullivan (2001: 186) seems to
believe that it is up to linguists, historians, or ethnologists
to tell the Hai||om of today who they “really” are.
10 In the pensions case I wrote a petition (upon request) which
incidentally did not have the words “San,” or “Bushmen” in
it but which I believe made no impact other than triggering
an angry reaction from the local councillor regarding my
interference as a foreigner in Namibian affairs. Here the
difference between being a Namibian and being a foreigner
was clearly played out in order to obscure differences within
the country and strategies of marginalizing some people in
the country. Probably, a Namibian anthropologist would
have been in a better position here.
372
Thomas Widlok
when I make my assessment of the situation, my
interlocutors and I usually agree that since they
have to live with the implications, while I fly
back to Europe, the decision to foster their “San”
identity, to link with “indigenous people” else-
where or to drop the whole discussion is primarily
their business. Probably anthropologists with more
vested interests in the country would react differ-
ently because they want to be on particularly good
terms with the government or because they depend
on being employed locally. However, it seems
that assimilation in other countries has not served
indigenous minorities well so that anthropologists
with this comparative knowledge may be inclined
to underline cultural difference for the benefit of
the people they work with. Sullivan’s mentioning
of landless Damara groups seems to suggest that
being assimilated into a larger category of Nama/
Damara-speaking herders has had very unfortunate
results for these groups so that Hai||om would be
ill-advised to join this group if they are given the
choice.
In any case I think it is realistic to assume
that the direct impact of academic monographs
on “official discourse” is very limited in a setting
like Namibia where anthropologists have little
backup at the university and in other institutions.
However, this does not mean that anthropologists
may not find themselves in rather painful situations
of ethical conflict. Our colleagues in Australia
have a great deal of experience in cases where
a faction of a local Aboriginal community has
demanded evidence from “their anthropologist”
that would support their struggle over resources
not only vis-à-vis the state but also vis-à-vis other
Aboriginal people. David Turner (1999) describes
the resulting dilemmas for the anthropologist in
great frankness. In Namibia, too, this situation
may easily occur. When I started field research
with the j=Aoni “Topnaar” in 1996 their chief had
just returned from a conference for “traditional
leaders” in Namibia. The chief was unhappy that
we had not met earlier because he would have
liked to take me along to this conference to which
other ethnic groups, for instance Owambo groups,
had brought “their European historians” along to
support their cause. With no historian available,
the chief thought that I as an anthropologist could
have done the job to certify his legitimacy and the
identity of the £Aoni. I don’t think that anthropol-
ogists working in Namibia are well-prepared for
these kind of situations (certainly I was not and in
a sense I was lucky not to be put to the test) and
there is an urgent need to come to grips with these
issues for which there is no easy answer.
Case-Based Evidence
In the case of the Hai||om, ethnic identity has
been manipulated by various interest groups in the
country, leaving no doubt that this manipulation
will continue for some time, possibly with more
input from Hai||om themselves than was previous-
ly possible (Widlok 1999: 17). There is diversity
in cultural styles amongst those who identify as
Hai||om today but the practitioners consider this
diversity to be commonsensical and not “mixed”
(Widlok 1999: 38):
Individual Hai||om are characterized by specific combi-
nations of styles of dress, music, and language at particu-
lar points in time. [...] Cultural styles are not restricted
by spatial or rigid ethnic boundaries. At |Gomais [the
Mangetti area] the diversity of cultural styles illustrates
how different socio-economic contexts affect everyday
Hai||om life and how intertwined they are (Widlok
1999:40).
Given all these cultural links, I also think that it
is striking that the Hai||om of Mangetti find them-
selves again and again in rather specific dilemmas
which seem either not to exist for their neighbours
or at least not to bother them to the same extent.
There is something to be explained here and I
refuse to accept the facile (and ultimately wrong
and unhelpful) “explanation” of these dilemmas as
being the product of either adaptations to the en-
vironment or of the manipulative power of “more
consistently productive environments” (Sullivan
2001: 180). As I have stated elsewhere:
Encountering the people of Mangetti provided me with
insights into the internal organization of a social group
that lacks a rigidly defined “Culture” but that neverthe-
less generates distinct modes of social relationships and
of “doing things” (Widlok 1999:40).
The case of the Hai||om is relevant to anthropol-
ogy precisely for the fact that it defies an easy
cultural classification despite the fact that there
are patterns emerging from the ethnography which
can be described. These patterns are not simply
the product of ecological or political economical
mechanisms. Hai||om are as much conscious actors
as those who run the administration in Namibia, or
those who are rich livestock owners, or those who
decide to do ethnography, even though they do
not have the same power. It is not “environments”
(ecological or political) which almost mystically
create “Hai||om Bushmen” but it is a web of
relations between people with different interests,
different resources, and different strategies. To
disentangle the web one needs to get immersed in
Anthropos 96.2001
■■M6H
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
it and this is what we do in our ethnographic work.
It is the bias of those living in a pastoralist domain
that they consider the lives of non-pastoralists
to be just the same as theirs, only minus the
livestock. Only immersion in the non-pastoralist
part of the social web will reveal a different story.
Ethnographic work which elucidates how people
actively achieve egalitarianism or at least support
social levelling devices and individual autonomy
shows the arrogance of the standpoint maintained
by many pastoralists - and possibly by many
political economists, as well.
Field research, therefore, introduces a certain
bias in that it privileges views from within. If
Bushmen are nothing but puppets of a grim eco-
nomic mechanism as the alternative view seems to
suggest, then ethnographic field research is not the
place to look for evidence supporting this because
it highlights the actions of people on the ground.
The Kalahari debate suggested that it is either ex-
ternal pressures of the larger social formation or an
‘internal culture” we are dealing with. I distance
myself explicitly from the notion of a “Hai||om
culture” as something that would explain anything.
These ways of doing things always need to be
explained in the context of Hai||om interaction
with one another as well as with non-Hai||om.
The Hai||om case underlines that it is misleading
to assume that an economic strategy or any other
way of having a social relationship is either the
Product of a cultural blueprint or it is enforced
from outside (by stronger groups that presumably
have such a cultural blueprint, if only to assign
1(lentity to “others”). Rather, the case suggests that
sociality, the way of entertaining social relations,
can be contained in the process of social practice
itself, in the way that people practice naming,
the way they construct their homesteads, the way
they conduct rituals, and so forth. It is “internal”
only with regard to the process of practice which,
however, is not a closed Hai||om thing but which
Evolves wider social relations. In my monograph
^ give a great amount of detailed ethnography
t° substantiate this point. Critical readers of the
ffai||om case material have acknowledged the
detailed ethnography (Sullivan 2001; Henrichsen
2000) but seem to reject it as evidence for the
generative power of social practice. While they do
n°t question the ethnography, they rather fall back
" when in doubt - on accounts based on archival
^ork and on analyses of the dominant discourses
*han on ethnographic evidence.
This raises the more fundamental question as to
^hat counts as evidence. Maybe it is due to an-
hropology’s failure to establish itself in Namibia
Anth
373
that history is still the champion for providing ev-
idence. This is not altogether surprising. Colonial
Europe was obsessed with history, but many Afri-
can agropastoralist societies also greatly value his-
tory, especially in the form of genealogical knowl-
edge. Finally, the indigenous peoples’ discourse
is dominated by talk about “heritage” and other
metaphors referring to the importance of “having a
history.” I have always been sceptical towards this
and I have noted how lifeworlds which make much
less of history are discriminated against (1999: 56).
I see some attempts to “provide Bushmen with a
history” in similar terms as “providing Hai||om
with a San identity” (Widlok 1995a). If history
is the dominant mode of defining cultural capital,
then to give the underprivileged history is an
attempt at empowering them. The same is true for
the politics of identity. If a distinct identity is a
political asset, assisting disadvantaged people to
document their distinctiveness may be considered
as empowerment. Personally, I am suspicious of
both forms of cultural capital because I think that
formalized histories and identities are commonly
exploited and that the alternative view which traces
generative forces in the practical activities of living
people is more resistant to attempts of misuse.11
The issue to be tackled is how to combine
very different sources of evidence. Evidence from
ethnography and evidence from history are only
two of these sources. The evidence from life
sciences is an important other field that has not
been discussed but which needs to be brought
in since the discovery that all humans are as
much natural beings as they are cultural is only
novel to us who have made that distinction in
the first place. We have some experience to judge
ethnographic fieldwork on the basis of other ethno-
graphic fieldwork (and archival work on the basis
of other archival work), but unless we want to
perpetuate an “either history or ethnography” or
“either culture or nature” dichotomy we have to
11 This scepticism towards history is itself a cultural factor
and has to do with my own biography and the situation
of my generation in a particular country. Certainly I have
experienced attempts by those who have “more history”
than others to use this capital for the purpose of exclusion
and domination before I ever went to Namibia. I have no
intention of taking the untenable position that history is
of no relevance but I have plenty of reason to insist that
history is not the only source of information for making
sense of the world, for understanding how it works, and
for imagining how it may work better. Comparing patterns
of interaction, dependency, autonomy, etc., between cases
is I think a valid source for creating explanations about
the world, and it is a potential source which we have only
inadequately tapped so far.
Topos 96.2001
374
Thomas Widlok
think more systematically about possible ways of
combining the evidence from different sources and
of arguing with this evidence.
Political Relevance
I have outlined why I think that the Mangetti
Hai||om case study is relevant to anthropology
but I still need to show that anthropology is in
fact of relevance to the Hai||om or to anyone
dealing with them. While there seems to be fairly
wide agreement that the notion of “a culture” as
a bounded whole is analytically not very useful
and that it tends to be politically disastrous, the
issue remains as to whether we in fact need a
distinct discipline to deal with cultural matters or
the cultural dimension of processes. In this final
section I would like to once more comment on Sul-
livan’s article in this journal because it illustrates
strong views on this matter. According to this
interpretation we would be better advised to stop
talking about cultural things and just listen to what
political economists, psychologists, or ecologists
have to say.
To begin with, Sullivan claims that the eco-
nomic flexibility of “Bushmen” could well be
explained by an ecologist who would predict this
kind of “instability” for any population living
under unpredictably varying dryland conditions
(2001: 185). I have no objections to the suggestion
that comparative knowledge of other people living
in dryland areas will be beneficial but my feeling is
that a general tendency towards “instability” will
not help to explain, for instance, why Herero songs
are highly formalized while Hai||om storytelling
is so flexible, why Himba settlement layouts are
highly formalized while Hai||om settlement lay-
outs are not, why Nama leadership positions are
strong while Hai||om leadership positions are weak
in the current setting.
Sullivan also suggests that the way in which
Hai||om make use of the by-products from other
economic enterprises does not require any cultural
analysis because as a feature of “impoverished
people the world bver” a simple encounter with
“desperately poor Bangladeshis” on Dhaka’s rub-
bish tip would tell us how to understand what
Hai||om are doing (2001: 183). While I cannot
talk about Bangladesh I do not think that Hai||om
would be so worried about land rights if they
thought that Etosha or their huge Mangetti groves
were nothing but a rubbish tip (on the contrary
some seem to realize that these are potential gold-
mines). Also, one need not be romantic about the
rich wild food of the northern Namibian bush, the
individual autonomy in a Hai||om social network,
the joy of storytelling and making music, or the
enthusiasm of trance dancers, to realize that this
comparison is condescending to the Hai||om of
Mangetti. Incidentally I think Sullivan is wrong to
assume that “it would surely be odd to find anyone
arguing that it was some sort of ‘foraging identity’
which kept those people poor” (2001: 183). There
is a growing literature about cases which were
traditionally not considered to be hunter-gather-
er cases (because they do not involve “wild”
foodstuffs) but where researchers find notions of
a foraging identity or elements of a “foraging
mode of thought” very useful for characterizing a
range of empirical cases (see Ingold 2000; Day,
Papataxiarchis, and Stewart 1999). Researchers
working with marginalized people (and with peo-
ple voluntarily giving up some aspects of wealth)
have successfully borrowed concepts from hunter-
gatherer studies. Studies on “new age foragers”
are a case in point (Prince and Riches 1999). If
there are parallels between these cases, it is by
no means self-evident that hunter-gatherer studies
are a thing of the past. By contrast, models from
hunter-gatherer studies seem to be much more
useful for the study of a variety of postindustri-
al settings than, say, studies of pastoralism. My
optimistic view is that transformed hunter-gatherer
models will thrive in future because those living in
advanced industrialized countries will face many
of the dilemmas that (former) hunter-gatherers face
today while the study of ethnicity and colonial
fantasies will eventually be a matter of the past.
I describe Hai||om coresidence and membership
in a “house” in terms of social and spatial per-
meability while Sullivan claims that they can be
explained on the basis of common human experi-
ences (of reciprocity in this case) which are “cul-
turally ‘filtered’” (2001: 187).12 I am not arguing
against human universals at all but this particular
point I think shows easily how our own cultur-
al expectations of hospitality are misleading us.
Sullivan interprets the incidences of sharing that I
12 Similarly she has reservations about the ways anthropolo-
gists have described the “trance dance” which she describes
as “culturally moulded” as if its cultural form was some-
thing rather superficial that was added on in a second step
(2001: 182). It seems that anthropology is a discipline divid-
ed by a shared term, namely that of “culture,” because there
are different notions of culture being used. I see the cultural
dimension of the trance dance in the social interaction that
allows dancers to have a specific experience in the first
place. Left by him or herself neither a Hai||om person nor
anyone else can have a medicine dance experience.
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
375
report as instances of reciprocity but the calculated
mutuality in much of reciprocity does not apply to
sharing or demand sharing which is why it is useful
to keep the two terms separate - and to further
distinguish it from a European notion of sharing
as an act of charity. I think there is something to
be said for a comparative anthropology of “house”
(see Gregory 1997) without, however, assuming
that common sense is sufficient to understand what
keeps Pygmy houses (see Grinker 1994), Hai||om
houses, or Australian Aboriginal houses together.
I failed more than once trying to use “Hai||om
common sense” in Aboriginal Australia, including
violating the rules for entering houses or being
present when someone is eating.
Sullivan’s arguments culminate in the statement
that Hai||om social practice “can be almost en-
tirely interpreted as due to systematic and pro-
gressive exclusion from land and from access to
formal decision-making and economic structures”
(2001: 182). There are two ways of interpreting
such statements about the superfluousness of a
distinctly anthropological analysis. Firstly, they
may be intended to suggest that cultural analysis
is fine for some people but not for people clas-
sified as “Bushmen.” I think this is a mistaken
Position and that it directly feeds into the stereo-
types that people in Namibia and elsewhere have
about Hai||om and others, namely that they are
not cultural beings, but either a part of nature or
the diluted version of people who really “have
culture,” i. e., “us” who practice agriculture and
animal breeding (or anthropology) or who descend
from people who did so. Part of the reason why
my monograph uses the term “cultural” repeatedly
ls precisely to argue against this view that some
humans “have culture” and others don’t. However,
f assume that Sullivan would want her statements
t° be interpreted in another sense, namely that
much of what anthropologists describe as cultural
behaviour - be it among Hai||om, or Owambo, or
amongst themselves - is in fact better explained
^ith reference to economics, psychology, ecology,
°r plain common sense. This would, by exten-
Sl°n, also mean that, say, Owambo social practice
Cau “almost entirely” be interpreted as due to
systematically and progressively excluding others
fr°m the land and from economic structures (or at
least as not having been excluded by others ...).
Certainly exclusion mechanisms are important, but
apart from the fact that Hai||om are not simply
deluded from land and economic structures but
father pressed to occupy a particular niche on the
and and in the structures, I think it has yet to
e demonstrated that all their social practices, in-
Anthropos 96.2001
eluding storytelling, accessing resources, creating
name and kin relations, settlement patterns, and
religious activities can be explained in reference
to domination. Although the claim has repeatedly
been made, the evidence is usually restricted to
discourses and the construction of identity, mean-
ing that “Bushmen” tend to accept the labels that
they are given as a consequence of being subject
to stereotyping (see Gordon 1992). By contrast,
the practices that I describe for various social
fields seem to be much less readily amenable to
an approach that is ultimately based on economic
or ecological determinism.
Obviously, we do not want to fall prey to
“cultural determinism” either. Damara ethnogra-
phy will serve to make this point.13 There are
Damara people in high positions in the Namibian
government, in all political parties, in the bureau-
cracy, in the university, and in business. This is
a striking contrast to the low positions achieved
by Hai||om. In the Tsintsabis area it is Damara
who run shops, who own cars and who provide
transport for money, who have relatives in local
government, the health service, the police, etc.
Again in striking contrast to most Hai||om living
in the area. As Sullivan shows, there are groups of
people who call themselves “Damara,” who live
in great poverty, marginalized, and dispossessed.
This is therefore the best illustration of the fact
that obviously we cannot explain the diverse ways
of Damara life today with reference to “a Damara
culture.” All ethnic groups in Namibia are het-
erogeneous and my tendency to talk of “Hai||om
‘Bushmen’” instead of “Hai||om” in some contexts
is a consequence of that knowledge, namely that
the lives of those Hai||om who are labelled “Bush-
men” (and the reason why I use quotes consistently
is because I want to show that this is an external
category) and whose life is strongly influenced by
“living in the bush,” i. e., by being in remote rural
areas, by having some access to “wild” products,
by sharing a domain with !Xü, is different from
that of Hai||om who live in towns or exclusively
on farms. To that extent I would have no objections
to talking about “Kwanyama ‘Bushmen’” when
13 I would like to emphasize that I find Sullivan’s comparative
data intriguing and very interesting indeed. I am looking
forward to seeing more of it and notwithstanding our differ-
ences on theoretical issues, I foresee a productive exchange
in terms of a regional ethnography. While she interprets
parallels between Hai||om and Damara as evidence for
Hai||om not being hunter-gatherers or “Bushmen,” further
debate may show that the inverse is true, namely that
there are more hunter-gatherer dynamics at work in Damara
social relations than people are ready to admit.
376
Thomas Widlok
discussing about some of the Angolan refugees
who live - often in families together with Hai||om
- at remote cattle posts in what used to be called
“eastern Owamboland” and who eventually adopt
practices of their Hai||om neighbours.
More importantly, however, these shorthand
descriptors for a way of life are of limited use
and they need to be replaced by analytically sound
descriptions of practices. Life is complex and the
only way to avoid simplistic deterministic descrip-
tions is to develop models that take account of the
complexity of practice. The painstaking detail of
ethnography is not embroidery or obsession with
minutiae. Rather, I recommend this detailed analy-
sis to any anthropologist working in the region.
A certain degree of microanalysis is necessary
for two reasons. Firstly, only a detailed account
can put the reader into the position of judging
arguments that are made on the basis of the ethnog-
raphy presented. One should not need to consult
history books before judging the arguments made
in ethnographies (and vice versa) but one should
consult the history books to see whether the argu-
ments made in ethnographies can be carried over
into other contexts and other periods. Secondly, we
need a replacement for our previous description
of “cultures,” but without pretending that there
is nothing cultural about humans. It may seem
inconsequential to continue using the adjective
“cultural” while dropping the noun “culture” (es-
pecially in its plural form) but for an intermediate
period in the development of a more suitable
terminology this may be an acceptable strategy.
Any theory of cultural and natural dwelling (Ingold
2000: 5) will have to start at the level of practices
and relations. As I have stated at the beginning of
my monograph, “[t]he aim is also to see how social
relationships, once created, constitute the context
for further social action and in turn influence
the Hai||om perspective on the world” (1999: 41).
And: “The aim is not simply to represent ‘the
Hai||om perspective,’ but also to account for it”
(1999: 41). I maintain that a practice-oriented eth-
nography can achieve these aims because it starts
with the realization that social practices “need not
be formalized by a structural core in order to be
effective elements in the social process. Informal
though they are, they still have the potential to be
formative” (1999: 264). I would like to repeat how
I summarize this in “Living on Mangetti” (264):
It is not only having a ritual in one’s heritage that affects
social structures, but conducting and participating in
ritual events. It is not necessarily elaboration on a spatial
layout as an ideal type that affects social permeability,
but constructing material settlements and moving around
in them. It is usually not an economic calculus in
the abstract that provokes social strategies for securing
control over returns, but gaining economic assets and
attempting to keep them. It is not primarily the synoptic
edition of folk stories that constitutes identities, but their
repeated narration in changing situations.
Or, to phrase it again in more general terms (260):
Where there seems to be a lack of an integrated “orig-
inal” culture in the face of a multiplicity of cultural
styles, there is in fact participation in a number of
observable social practices which have the potential to
generate and “cultivate” cultural diversity.
I agree that the conceptual territory beyond the
ridge called “culture” is largely uncharted and that
is part of our problem as anthropologists. The
discoveries that we need to make are not out there
in the archives or in more discourses that we have
failed to record so far, but they will consist of an
innovative development of anthropological theory
and a reevaluation of the ethnographic material
that is available. It is our task as anthropologists
to make these new concepts accessible to those
in political offices instead of imitating what is en
vogue in official discourse.14
Conclusion
Like many of my colleagues I am concerned
with the lack of institutionalised anthropology in
Namibia and the wider region. In this contribution
I have tried to clarify what different people seem
to think is missing if there is no anthropology.
I have underlined the importance of ethnography
and comparison and, taking my own work as an
illustration I have defended what I consider the
useful potentials of ethnography and comparison
against attempts to redefine all anthropological
work as contemporary history and extreme reflexi-
vity and to denounce all comparative anthropology
as anachronistic and politically irresponsible. I do
not argue that Gordon’s interest in “settler fanta-
sies,” Suzman’s “contemporary history,” or Sulli-
van’s “extreme reflexivity and deconstruction” are
useless anthropological enterprises. I have tried to
be fair to these different agendas by situating them
in the major trends and phases of anthropology in
southern Africa. However, I maintain that to turn
14 I acknowledge that making these discussions accessible to
people in the region is not easy. As for monographs which
are too expensive to purchase for individuals, Namibia
fortunately has a fairly good library network to which
researchers should donate copies of their work.
Anthropos 96.2001
Living on Ethnography and Comparison
377
any of these three into a prescriptive agenda for
anthropology would not only deprive us of the
potential of ethnography and comparison but it
would kill the debates that any discipline needs.
I have identified three new debates which I think
need to be addressed urgently, namely that of
cultural difference, of case-based evidence, and
of political relevance. It is part of the irony of
our situation that because of the lack of institu-
tionalised anthropology in Namibia these debates
take place among scholars from outside Namibia
arguing in an academic journal that is inaccessible
to people in Namibia. However, I am confident
that achieving a high standard of ethnography and
anthropological comparison internationally will ul-
timately support the discipline locally.
I am grateful to Elizabeth Ewart, Jan-Bart Gewald,
Martine Guichard, Chris Hann, Stephen Reyna, Dagmar
Widlok, and James Woodburn for comments.
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Anthropos
96.2001: 379-390
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum Ekstasetanz
von Frauen in Marokko
Ulrike Krasberg
Abstract. - Muslim women who practice ecstasy dancing
within a ritual called dhikr do it out of love to Allah. This
love has a bodily and a spiritual dimension coming together in
a dramatic action. The performance theatre of Jerzy Grotowski
shows spiritual dimensions of human living by dramatizing
Physical actions of the players. To be a character on stage
means to be “I” and “Not-I” simultaneously. To understand
what is happening during ecstasy dancing within the dhikr, I
follow an approach out of the theatre work of Jerzy Grotow-
ski. [Ecstasy dance, love and obedience in the Muslim world,
Grotowski’s “Armes Theater,” ritual]
Ulrike Krasberg, PD. Dr., Völkerkunde Universität Marburg.
Forschungen in Griechenland u. a. zum Geschlechterverhältnis,
m Marokko zur Theaterethnologie; Religionsethnologie, Stadt-
ethnologie.
Ekstase galt lange Zeit aus westlich wissenschaft-
licher Sicht als ein Phänomen, das man einer
Theatralität im Sinne des “So-tun-als-ob” zuord-
nete. So vergleicht etwa um die Jahrhundertwende
Edmond Doutté die ekstatischen religiösen Séan-
Cen der Ordensmitglieder der Aissäwa in Alge-
rien mit den Vorführungen von Zaubertricks eu-
ropäischer Gaukler und findet letztere “besser”
(Doutté 1900). In den 60er Jahren geht Claude
Lévi-Strauss in der Biographie eines Zauberers
v°rn Betrug des Heilers an seinen Klienten aus,
°bgleich er durchaus auch die heilende Wirkung
dieses “Betrugs” sieht (Lévi-Strauss 1967). Ei-
ne weitergehende Annäherung an das Phänomen
der Ekstase,1 verdanken wir Michel Leiris (über
den Zär-Kult in Äthiopien [1958] und in Zusam-
menarbeit mit Alfred Métraux über Trance im
^°du, [1950, 1951]).1 2 Indem er das Phänomen
der Ekstase und Ekstasepraktiken aus einem lite-
rarischen Blickwinkel beschrieb, wurde es ihm
möglich, das dem westlichen Auge obskur Er-
scheinende zu erfassen ohne es abzuwerten, und
damit gelang es ihm als Ethnologen, zumindest
partiell, über das wissenschaftlich determinierte
europäische Weltbild hinauszublicken. In den 70er
Jahren dann, als die westliche Welt mit den da-
mals sogenannten “bewußtseinserweiternden Dro-
gen” Erfahrungen machte, begann man mit neuro-
physiologischen Laboruntersuchungen (s. Walker
1972:15,18; Goodman 1988:91; 1991:36) und
psychologischen Erklärungsansätzen (Crapanzano
1973) sich dem Phänomen Ekstase zu nähern.
Dies bewirkte, daß die Ekstase vom Ruch der
Primitivität und des Hokuspokus tendenziell be-
freit wurde, und die Fähigkeit zur Ekstase als wis-
senschaftlich nachweisbare biologische Konstante
der Menschheit erkannt wurde.3 * Doch blieb auch
bei diesen Untersuchungen zur Ekstase sozusagen
noch ein “Rest”, der wissenschaftlich nicht erklär-
bar war. Sheila Walker meinte, eine Wodu-Seance
mit all ihren Wahrnehmungs- und Symbolebenen
wäre viel zu komplex, als daß das Geschehen
wirklich erschöpfend wissenschaftlich bearbeitet
1 Ekstase ist in allen Religionen zu linden, auch im Christen-
tum, vgl. Benz 1972.
2 Leiris’ Schriften hat H.-J. Heinrichs 1985 in zwei Bänden
herausgegeben.
3 Trance - als wissenschaftlicher Oberbegriff von Ekstase
einerseits und Besessenheit andererseits - wird seitdem
auch in psychotherapeutischen Behandlungen eingesetzt (s.
Strobel 1992; Grof 1987; Akstein 1987).
380
Ulrike Krasberg
*
werden könnte und verwies dabei insbesondere auf
die religiösen Aspekte (1972: 146 ff.).
Aus religionswissenschaftlicher Perspektive hat
die Orientalistin und Islamwissenschaftlerin Anne-
marie Schimmel einen bedeutenden Beitrag gelei-
stet zum Verständnis der islamischen Mystik, dem
Sußsmus (Schimmel 1995a, 1995b, 1995c, 1996).
Ihr geht es dabei nicht um den wissenschaftlichen
Beweis der Realität der Ekstase, ihr geht es um die
mystische Erkenntnis als solche und darum, die-
ses Wissen Menschen mit westlich wissenschaft-
lichem Denken näherzubringen. Dabei leistet sie
eine Übersetzungsarbeit, die auch Ethnologlnnen
nicht fremd ist.
Wenn ich nun im folgenden den Versuch unter-
nehme, mich aus theaterethnologischer Sicht der
Ekstase zu nähern, so steht dieser Ansatz einer-
seits den frühen Beschreibungen von Ekstase und
Sufi-Ritualen als Inszenierungen nahe, nimmt sie
andererseits aber auch ernster durch das Wissen
um die Universalität der Ekstase als menschliche
Qualität und durch das Wissen über die Bedeutung
von Ekstase aus religionswissenschaftlicher Sicht.
Ich gehe des weiteren bei meinen theaterethnolo-
gischen Annäherungen davon aus, daß Mystik und
Ekstase menschliche Erfahrungsbereiche sind, die
sich wissenschaftlichen Analysen immer wieder
zu entziehen scheinen, daß aber die Kunst, ob
bildende Kunst, Musik, Tanz oder Theater, ein
Bereich ist, der die Grenzen wissenschaftlich über-
prüfbarer Realität transzendieren kann. Und genau
in diesem Grenzbereich ist die Ekstase zu finden
(vgl. Krasberg 1998b).
Die Theaterethnologie liegt - wie ihr Name
schon sagt - im Schnittpunkt von ethnologischer
Wissenschaft und (Theater-)Kunst. Bislang haben
aber die Theaterwissenschaftler mehr von einer
Annäherung an die Ethnologie profitiert, und erst
in letzter Zeit begannen auch Ethnologen Perspek-
tiven der Theaterkunst in ihre Arbeit mit einzu-
beziehen.4 Auf der Suche nach einer Möglichkeit
der Annäherung an die Ekstase aus der Sicht der
(Theater-)Kunst schien mir die Theaterarbeit von
Jerzy Grotowski (sein Performance-Konzept wie
er es in seinem “Armen Theater” verwirklicht hat)
und seiner Schüler besonders geeignet, um Ekstase
als inszenatorische Handlung (auch im Sinne von
Synergie) begreifen zu können, nämlich als den
Ausgangs- oder Brennpunkt, indem sich verschie-
4 Ich beziehe mich hier auf den deutschsprachigen Raum (s.
etwa den Sammelband von Schmidt und Münzel [Hrsg.]
1998). In den USA hat die Theaterethnologie, angeregt und
institutionalisiert von Richard Schechner und Victor Turner,
schon eine längere Geschichte.
dene Ebenen von Alltagsrealität oder Materialität
und Spiritualität bzw. Mystik treffen.
Ein weiterer wichtiger Aspekt in der Betrach-
tung von Ekstasetanz im Zusammenhang mit ma-
rokkanisch-islamischen Gebetsritualen ist das reli-
giös-kulturelle Konzept von göttlicher Liebe (vgl.
al-Ghazzäli 1956), das besonders die weibliche
Ekstase zu charakterisieren scheint.
Weiblicher Ekstasetanz in einer Loge
des Ordens der Aissäwa
Die Loge
Ich werde zunächst einige der ekstatischen Se-
quenzen des Gebetsrituals dhikr beschreiben,5 so
wie er in einer Loge des Ordens der Aissäwa von
einer Gruppe von Frauen regelmäßig durchgeführt
wird. Der Orden der Aissäwa wurde im 15. Jh.
von Ibnlsa in Marokko gegründet und gilt heute
als einer der großen “volkstümlichen” Orden, der
mit Schlangenbeschwörungen und ähnlichem in
der Öffentlichkeit assoziiert wird. Die Ordens-
mitglieder vor allem aber die Besucherinnen des
dhikr-Rituals rekurrieren sich eher aus den ärme-
ren Schichten Marokkos.6
Die folgenden Beobachtungen entstanden in
einer Loge des Ordens in der nordmarokkanischen
Stadt Nador.7 Diese Loge ist integriert in eine
lokale Heiligen- und Pilgerstätte, genannt “Sidi
Mustafa”. Sidi Mustafa und seine Frau Lala Sahra
sind Marabouts, die diese Pilgerstätte als Heiler in
einer Art Familienunternehmen betreiben. Wich-
tigster Teil der Pilgerstätte ist das Mausoleum, die
quba, das über den Gräbern von Sidi Lmadhi und
seiner Frau Lala Aziza (Sidi Mustafas Großeltern)
errichtet wurde, ein weiß getünchter quadratischer
Bau mit einer Kuppel aus grün lasierten Dach-
ziegeln. Die Pilger verweilen in dieser quba, um
der Segenskraft, dem baraka, des toten Heiligen
teilhaftig zu werden, denn die dem Heiligen und
seinem Grab entströmende Segenskraft hat - so
wird geglaubt - heilende Wirkung. In dieser quba
5 Vgl. auch Özelsel 1996.
6 Siehe Brunei 1926; Topper 1991; Lang 1992; vgl. Welte
1990; Crapanzano 1973. Siehe auch De Jong 1984 und
Geertz 1991 zum Ordens wesen in Marokko und siehe
Fernea und Fernea 1972 zum Thema Frauen und Orden.
7 Diese Beobachtungen waren Teil einer längeren Feldfor-
schung, die ich 1997 in Marokko durchführte, finanziert
von der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft. Ein ausführ-
licher Forschungsbericht “Die Ekstasetänzerinnen von Sidi
Mustafa. Theaterethnologische Untersuchungen” erscheint
demnächst im Dietrich Reimer Verlag, Berlin.
Anthropos 96.2001
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko
381
findet jeden Freitag von morgens um zehn Uhr
bis nachmittags gegen vier Uhr das Gebetsritual
- dhikr - statt, durchgeführt von den Frauen der
Aissäwa-Loge. Unter der Leitung einer Ritualfüh-
rerin, die Heilerin und Mitglied des Ordens ist,
und einiger Assistentinnen, die ebenfalls initiiert
sind, wird das dhikr-Ritusd durchgeführt. Der Ek-
stasetanz während des Rituals wird aber nicht nur
von diesen Frauen vollzogen, sondern hauptsäch-
lich von den Besucherinnen, die regelmäßig oder
sporadisch am Ritual teilnehmen (der dhikr ist
grundsätzlich zum Gebet für alle offen; für Männer
und Frauen - natürlich in getrennten Gruppen-
und sogar für Christen und andere Gläubige).
Welche Frau auch immer von der Ekstase ergriffen
wird, tanzt. Der Ekstasetanz hier unterscheidet
sich vom Ekstasetanz in anderen Logen dadurch,
daß die Frauen einzeln tanzen und nicht Schulter
an Schulter in einer Reihe.
Der Tanz
Im Mausoleum von Sidi Mustafa haben sich etwa
vierzig Frauen in traditionell marokkanischer Fest-
tagskleidung zum dhikr-Ritual versammelt. Sie
sitzen neben den Gräbern von Sidi Lmadhi und
Lala Aziza mit untergeschlagenen Beinen auf Mat-
ten und Decken, um einen freien Platz in der
Mitte des Raumes herum. Sie haben gebetet und
zum Rhythmus der Tamburine, die von einigen
Frauen jetzt geschlagen werden, singen sie Lie-
der im Wechselgesang und klatschen dazu in die
Hände.
Plötzlich richten sich zwei Frauen auf und rut-
schen auf Knien und Händen, heftig den Ober-
körper hoch- und niederbeugend, in den freien
Kreis in der Mitte des Raumes. Im Rhythmus der
Tamburine schnellen ihre Köpfe auf und nieder,
nach kurzer Zeit lösen sich die Kopftücher, fallen
herab und geben die langen Haare frei. Erst stellt
sich die eine, dann stellt sich die andere auf die
Füße. Der Rhythmus des sich Vor- und Zurückbeu-
gens wird jetzt noch durch Kniebeugen verstärkt.
F iegen sie den Oberkörper zurück, gehen sie in
die Knie, beugen sie sich nach vorn, strecken sie
die Beine durch. Auch die Arme arbeiten jetzt mit.
Abwechselnd schlägt der eine Arm vor die Brust,
der andere auf den Rücken und umgekehrt.
Sängerinnen, Tamburin-Schlägerinnen und die
Tänzerinnen haben sich auf einen immer schneller
werdenden Rhythmus eingearbeitet. Dann brechen
Gesang und Tamburine plötzlich ab. Ich höre den
Atem der Tänzerinnen: ein stoßweises “Allahhh”,
Allahhh”. Indem sie so weiter atmen, zeigen
Anthropos 96.2001
sie an, daß sie noch nicht fertig sind, daß sie
weitertanzen wollen. Sie bewegen sich noch im
Rhythmus, aber langsamer, weicher, schlingen die
Arme um sich, wiegen sich, schlagen sich leicht
mit den flachen Händen auf die Brust. Gesang und
Tamburine setzen wieder ein, mit einem anderen
Lied, aber dem gleichen Rhythmus. Die beiden
Frauen lassen sich vom Rhythmus wieder mit-
nehmen. Eine führt beim Zurückbiegen die Arme
ausgestreckt im Halbkreis nach hinten, dabei geht
sie leicht in die Knie. Sie wirkt wie ein Vogel,
der abheben und losfliegen will. Als der Rhythmus
schneller und intensiver wird, läßt auch sie wie-
der die Arme abwechselnd um Bauch/Brust und
Rücken schlagen. Nach dem dritten Lied streckt
eine der beiden Tänzerinnen die Arme hoch über
den Kopf, wedelt dabei mit den Händen, schiebt
das Becken vor, legt den Kopf zurück, und - erfüllt
von heftigem Atmen - entsteht für einen Moment
so etwas wie eine nach oben weisende Lebenssäu-
le, vom Becken bis zum geöffneten Mund. Dann
läßt sie sich zu Boden gleiten. Kurze Zeit später
fällt auch die andere nieder.
Beide Frauen zittern heftig an Armen und Bei-
nen, röcheln und husten. Die Ritualleiterin schlägt
ihnen nacheinander mehrmals mit der flachen
Hand auf die Brust, greift dann in den Hals-
ausschnitt ihrer Kleider und drückt den ganzen
Brustkorb bis hinunter zu Taille. Nach einiger Zeit
richten sich die Frauen auf, binden ihre Kopftücher
wieder stramm um den Kopf und setzen sich auf
ihren Platz zurück.
Plötzlich drängt es fünf Frauen fast gleichzeitig
in den Kreis. Heftig den Kopf vor und zurück-
schlagend und laute Schreie ausstoßend, kriechen
sie auf Händen und Knien aus verschiedenen Rich-
tungen zwischen den vor ihnen sitzenden Frauen
hindurch. Im Kreis angekommen, fällt eine von
ihnen durch ihre besondere Heftigkeit, ja Ag-
gressivität auf. Sie reißt am Halsausschnitt ihrer
dschelläba. Eine der weiß gekleideten Frauen aus
der Sitzreihe um den Kreis herum steht auf und
versucht den Verschluß ihrer dschelläba zu öffnen,
was bei der unvermindert fortlaufenden Heftigkeit
ihrer Bewegungen aber nicht gelingt. Ihre Aggres-
sivität scheint die anderen Frauen anzustecken. Sie
stoßen Schreie aus, der Gesang der Frauen wird
immer lauter und anpeitschender, die Tamburine
schnarren und röhren.
Die Frauen im Kreis tanzen heftig und aus-
dauernd. Fast neben jeder steht nun eine Helferin,
die dafür sorgt, daß die Tanzenden nicht mit den
Köpfen zusammenschlagen. Die Frauen um den
Kreis herum singen ein Lied nach dem anderen,
ohne Pause. Zwei, dann drei Frauen gehen zu
382
Ulrike Krasberg
Boden, werden von der Ritualleiterin mit den
Händen an Kopf und Oberkörper gedrückt und
mit den Handflächen bestrichen. Während sie noch
im Kreis liegen, rücken die nächsten zum Tan-
zen nach. Die Frau, die auf der anderen Seite
des Kreises mir gegenüber saß und mir auffiel,
weil sie so nett, freundlich und adrett wirkte in
ihrem Blümchenkleid, steht plötzlich auf, geht in
den Kreis und fängt an zu tanzen. Sie “arbeitet”
heftig aber mit großer Präzision, ihre Bewegungen
scheinen geübt, ja trainiert zu sein. Immer wieder
streckt sie sich nach oben, den Kopf weit in
den Nacken gebeugt, die Hände flatternd gegen
die Decke gestreckt. Ob sie die Schreie, die tief
aus ihrem Inneren nach oben/draußen drängen,
auch wirklich hörbar schreit, ist wegen der Laut-
stärke der Tamburine nicht auszumachen. Aber
die Schreie sind sichtbar, sie kommen aus ihrem
Körper, tief aus ihrem Becken. Sie ist die einzige,
die jetzt tanzt. Sie hüpft von einem Bein aufs ande-
re. Oberkörper und Kopf schlagen vor und zurück
mit fast unmenschlicher Präzision, die Schläge der
Tamburine und ihre Bewegungen sind ineinander
verschmolzen. Noch einmal steigert sich die In-
tensität von Gesang und Tamburinschlägen, dann
brechen Gesang und Tamburinrhythmus ab. Die
Tänzerin schwankt noch vor und zurück, hin und
her, ihre Haare kleben am schweißnassen Gesicht,
dann gleitet sie zu Boden. Den Kopf im Schoß der
Ritualleiterin, zittert sie heftig an Armen und Bei-
nen. Nur ganz allmählich scheint sie ruhiger zu
werden.
Liebe und Gehorsam
Ekstasetanz ist in Marokko nichts Außergewöhn-
liches.8 Die meisten Teilnehmerinnen an diesen
Gebetstreffen, in deren Verlauf der Ekstasetanz
stattfindet, sind nicht in den Orden initiiert, son-
dern sie nehmen als Besucherinnen an den Seancen
teil. Sie kommen zum dhikr entweder aus thera-
peutischen Gründen, weil sie krank sind und sich
durch den Ekstasetanz und die Gebete am Grab
eines Heiligen Linderung für ihr Leiden verspre-
chen, oder auch aus dem Bedürfnis heraus ihrem
Alltag zu entfliehen und Zerstreuung zu finden,
so wie Europäer ins Theater gehen oder in die
Oper. Religiöse Praxis und Vergnügen schließen
sich hier nicht aus (vgl. Andezian 1986; Moore
and Myerhoff 1977).
8 Zum dhikr s. auch Topper 1991; Schimmel 1995c; Crapan-
zano 1973; Welte 1990.
Daß Frauen alleine dhikr- Veranstaltungen besu-
chen, ist aus gesellschaftlicher Perspektive jedoch
nicht ganz problemlos. Obwohl das dhikr-Ritual
auch von orthodoxen Muslimen anerkannt wird,
bedeutet dies nicht, daß Frauen selbst entscheiden
können, ob und wann sie daran teilnehmen wollen.
Sie müssen erst die Männer ihrer Familie um Er-
laubnis fragen. Marokko als ein islamischer Staat
ist bis in die persönlichen familiären Beziehungen
hinein hierarchisch autoritär strukturiert (vgl. Mer-
nissi 1997; Höll 1979). Der Grund hierfür ist im Is-
lam zu finden: Der Mensch schuldet Allah, seinem
Schöpfer, Gehorsam. Und dieser Gehorsam wird
übertragen auf Allahs irdische Vertreter, nämlich
auf den König, auf religiöse Funktionsträger, auf
die Staatsdiener, auf Männer überhaupt. Aber auch
Frauen in Gruppen (in der Familiengruppe z. B.)
sind hierarchisch strukturiert, fordern von einander
Gehorsam und erteilen Befehle (vgl. Combs-Schil-
ling 1989). Gehorsam drückt zugleich aber auch
immer die Liebe zu Allah aus. Denn: Liebe ist,
Allah zu gehorchen (s. al-Ghazzäli 1956). Dieses
kulturelle Prinzip der Liebe strukturiert auch die
endogamen Großfamilien. Niemand lebt alleine
und eigenverantwortlich, immer ist das Schicksal
des einzelnen an die Familiengruppe gebunden.
Die Familie sorgt für jeden einzelnen. Jemand in
der Hierarchie über mir kümmert sich um mein
Wohl, ihm oder - innerhalb der Frauengruppe -
ihr muß ich gehorchen. Ich wiederum trage die
Verantwortung für jemanden unter mir, dem oder
der ich Anweisungen geben muß, zu dessen Wohl,
aber auch zum Wohl der ganzen Familiengruppe
(s. Krasberg 1998a). Dieses Umsorgtwerden und
Umsorgen ist Ausdruck von Nächstenliebe, durch
sie wird die Liebe des Schöpfers zu seinem Ge-
schöpf von Mensch zu Mensch weitergegeben, und
auf der irdischen Ebene hält dieses Prinzip von
Liebe und Gehorsam die Familiengruppe zusam-
men. Diese Abhängigkeit von der Liebe und Sorge
eines hierarchisch Höherstehenden bewirkt auch,
daß eine Frau ihren Ehemann, Vater oder Bruder
um Erlaubnis fragen muß, wenn sie zum dhikr
gehen will. Und diese Nächstenliebe und Liebe zu
Allah findet sich auch im dhikr und Ekstasetanz
wieder.
Die Liebe zwischen Schöpfer und Mensch ist
also das Hauptmotiv des dhikr-Rituals unter den
Frauen.9 Wieder und wieder in den schier endlosen
Wiederholungen des Wechselgesangs singen die
Frauen während des dhikrs: “Allah wir lieben
9 S. Smith (1974) über Rabi’a von Basra (A. D. 717-801) und
ihre Liebesmystik.
Anthropos 96.2001
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko
383
Dich” oder “Prophet Mohammed wir lieben Dich,
wir folgen Dir nach” und ähnliches, und wenn
die Ekstase die Frauen ergreift, dann ist dies ein
Zeichen der Gnade und Liebe Allahs. Der Eksta-
setanz als körperlicher - oder, wie John Blacking
(1977) sagt, “somatischer” - Ausdruck von Liebe
und Gehorsam, die Schöpfer und Mensch verbin-
det, aber auch das Selbst und die Gruppe, sollen
nun eingehender betrachtet werden. Zunächst aber
ist es nötig, einige Aspekte der Ritualforschung in
die Betrachtungen mit einzubeziehen.
Rigidität, Dramatik und Emotion im
kollektiven Ritual
Kollektive Rituale wie der dhikr haben ein Merk-
mal, das unserem heutigen westlichen Weltbild
zutiefst suspekt ist: Es ist die Rigidität mit der
ein bestimmtes vorformuliertes Verhalten (im Rah-
men des Rituals) gefordert wird. Ritualteilnehmer
können den Ritus - wenn sie einmal beschlossen
haben daran teilzunehmen - nicht in Frage stellen,
und innerhalb des Rituals kann nicht diskutiert
Werden: Ein Lied oder Gebet ist die Bekräftigung
einer unveränderlichen Wahrheit (Bloch 1974: 68).
Richard Schechner und Victor Turner haben
m der Gegenüberstellung von Theater und Ritual
die Wirksamkeit des Rituals durch seine Rigidität
als eine positive Qualität entdeckt. Turner stellte
hei den Ndembu fest, daß gerade die tradierte
feste Form des kollektiven Rituals in der Lage
lst, Brüche und Konflikte des sozialen Lebens der
Gemeinschaft zu reparieren, zu heilen (Schechner
1990; Turner 1989). Seine sozialen Heilungskräfte
stehen in Zusammenhang mit der Formalität von
Handlungen, die der Form und dem Inhalt nach
uicht zur Disposition stehen, also “fest” sind.
Sally Moore und Barbara Myerhoff schreiben,
daß Rituale unbekannte Realitäten porträtieren und
Sle präsent machen, auch wenn diese an sich
Unsichtbar bleiben. Die Nichtvariierbarkeit der li-
turgischen Form garantiert die Heiligkeit und die
Gewißheit der Bedeutung dieser unbekannten Rea-
lität für die alltägliche Welt. Sie gibt eine Stabilität,
auf die man “bauen” und mit der man “planen”
kann. Hier werden sozusagen Versprechen über
Kontinuität gemacht (Moore and Myerhoff 1977:
Stanley J. Tambiah weist vor allen Dingen auf
Handlung des Rituals hin, nämlich auf seine
%namik und Dramatik (1985: 128). Die Hand-
üng eines Rituals ist performativ in dem Sinne,
^aß es eine Vorführung ist in die alle Beteiligten
auch die Zuschauer - aktiv eingebunden sind
Anthropos 96.2001
und die intensives Erleben, evoziert.10 11 Aber auch
wenn das Ritual mit Erleben also mit Emotionen,
mit Gefühlen zu tun hat, und Liebe oder auch
Aggressivität zum Ausdruck gebracht werden, so
wird damit nicht die spontane, persönliche, aktuell
emotionale Befindlichkeit der Teilnehmer ausge-
drückt, sondern im Gegenteil gerade auf der Ebene
des Rituals distanzieren sich die Akteure davon.
Direkte Spontaneität wird ausgeschlossen, denn
das würde Unordnung und Chaos bedeuten. Die
Akteure im Ritus gehen vielmehr notwendiger-
weise eine innere Distanz ein in Bezug auf das
von ihnen geforderte konventionelle Verhalten: sie
zeigen nach Tambiah “symbolisierte” Emotionen.
Er bezeichnet diese Artikulation von Gefühlen
im Ritual als “Attitüde des Gefühls”, und meint
damit: es ist nicht das Gefühl an sich, das zum
Ausdruck gebracht wird,11 sondern ein kulturelles
emotionales Muster, das in seiner Spezifität jedem
Individuum eigen ist. Die Akteure artikulieren
Gefühle in Gesten, nicht als “rohe” Gefühle. Das
Ritual wäre also nach Tambiah die disziplinierte
Aufführung richtiger Attitüden (1985: 132 f.). Dem
hinzuzufügen ist noch, daß auch Zustände von
Trance nicht durch direkten äußeren Druck auf die
Psyche herbeigeführt werden, sondern Ausdruck
sind eines sozialen und kulturellen Verhaltens, das
Trance als eine Ausdrucksmöglichkeit in bestimm-
ten Situationen vorsieht.12
Noch ein weiterer Aspekt in bezug auf das
dhikr-Ritual ist von Bedeutung: Jedes kollektive
Ritual braucht Spezialisten, die Wissen über die
Traditionen und über den Körper haben. Diese Ri-
tualführer sind unseren westlichen Schauspielern
nicht unähnlich, sind aber ganz und gar in die
Religion eingebunden. Ihre Kompetenz in bezug
auf die Mystik, ihr Wissen über Körper und Seele
und ihr Lebenswandel, der sie notwendigerweise
am Rande der Gesellschaft stehen läßt, sind auch
die Voraussetzungen dafür als Heiliger anerkannt
zu werden. Walter Burkert, der über Sozialformen
der griechischen Antike schreibt, spricht von den
10 Der Begriff “performance” wird in der Literatur einmal
als “cultural performance” verstanden im Zusammenhang
mit Ritualen, etwa bei Turner (1957), aber auch bei Goff-
man (1967) oder bei Schieffelin (1985), Kapferer (1977,
1979) und Brenneis (1987), die Rituale aus der Sicht der
“performance” interpretieren (s. hierzu auch MacAloon
1984), aber auch als “performance” in Unterscheidung zum
Theater (siehe hierzu Diamond 1996). Neuere Arbeiten, die
beide Richtungen stärker miteinander verbinden, sind von
Conquergood (1992) und Gissenwehrer (1994).
11 Er bezieht sich hier auf Jane Ellen Harrison (1969), die
diese Zusammenhänge schon 1913 formulierte.
12 Tambiah (1985: 146); vgl. auch Goodman (1991:37) und
Walker (1972).
384
Ulrike Krasberg
Akteuren antiker Mysterien, nämlich den Ritual-
führern/Schauspielern, als von “wandernden Cha-
rismatikern” bzw. von “Handwerkern des Heili-
gen”. Diese “charismatischen Handwerker”, ha-
ben ihre besondere “Kunst” (techne) von einem
Meister gelernt und übernommen und stehen da-
mit in einer esoterischen Tradition (1990: 36 ff.).
Die Arbeit dieser charismatischen Handwerker
macht die Schatten einer nichtsinnlichen Wahr-
heit theatralisch wahrnehmbar (s. auch Baumbach
1994:80 f.). Ein Heiliger oder charismatischer
Handwerker wäre also jemand, dessen Handwerk
die Theatralik (oder Performanz) ist, die im Dien-
ste der Wahrnehmbarkeit göttlicher Wirklichkeit
steht. Der “charismatische Handwerker” ist also
Leiter eines Ritus, und zwar sowohl in den anti-
ken Mysterien als auch in der frühen christlichen
Liturgie und der islamischen Gebetslitanei, dem
dhikr.13
“Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” im
Performance-Theater und Ekstasetanz
Die Lestigkeit der Lorm, das Repetitive, die Dra-
matik und die Inszenierung kultureller emotio-
naler Muster finden wir auch in einer Richtung
des modernen europäischen Performance-Theaters
wieder, nämlich im “Armen Theater” wie es von
Jerzy Grotowski und seinen Schülern ausgearbeitet
wurde.14 Nun soll aus dieser Perspektive das dhikr-
Ritual bzw. der Ekstasetanz betrachtet werden.
Beim Ekstasetanz, wie ich ihn eingangs be-
schrieben habe, ist unübersehbar, daß jede Frau
einen anderen Körper und andere Bewegungen hat,
und doch überwiegt bei den Zuschauerinnen der
Eindruck des völlig Gleichen, des Repetitiven. In
dieser vorgegebenen Form des Ekstasetanzes ent-
stehen durch performatives Handeln Emotionen,
nämlich Gefühle der Liebe. Ich gehe nun der Frage
nach, wie das Verhältnis von individuell gefühlter
Emotion und dargestellter Emotion ist.
Den Zusammenhang zwischen der Festigkeit
der Form eines dramatischen Ablaufs - im Theater
“Partitur” genannt - und dem individuellen Erle-
ben des Akteurs beschreibt der Grotowski-Schau-
spieler Richard Cieslak folgendermaßen: “Die Par-
titur ist wie ein Glas, in dem eine Kerze brennt.
Das Glas ist fest, es ist da, man kann sich dar-
auf verlassen. Es enthält sie und es gebietet der
13 Vgl. Harrison (1969). Diese Charakterisierung trifft auch
auf den bereits erwähnten Sidi Mustafa zu.
14 Grotowski 1970; Burzynski und Osinski 1979; Barba 1985;
Richards 1996.
Flamme ... Die Flamme drückt meinen inneren
Prozess aus, in der Nacht in der ich spiele. Die
Flamme erleuchtet die Partitur, ist, was der Zu-
schauer sieht. So wie sich die Flamme im Glas
bewegt, flackert, sich aufrichtet, fällt, fast erlischt,
plötzlich hell erstrahlt, auf jeden Windzug reagiert,
so variiert mein inneres Leben Nacht für Nacht
... Ich beginne in jeder Nacht voraussetzungslos
... Ich bereite mich nicht darauf vor, etwas zu
fühlen ... Ich versuche nur, bereit zu sein für das
was geschieht. Wenn ich mir meiner Partitur sicher
bin, kann ich auch nehmen, was sich mir bietet.
Ich weiß, daß, wenn ich auch nur ein Minimum
fühle, das Glas nicht zerbrechen die äußere Struk-
tur ... mir weiterhelfen wird” (zit. in Schechner
1990: 235). Übertragen auf den Ekstasetanz heißt
das zunächst einmal aus Zuschauersicht: Ich sehe
den Tanz, aber durch den Tanz hindurch sehe ich
auch das Individuum, denn nur durch die indivi-
duellen körperlichen Möglichkeiten der einzelnen
Tänzerin, den Ekstasetanz zu gestalten, entsteht er
überhaupt.
Sufis (islamische Mystiker), die durch Medita-
tion und Tanz Ekstase erreichen (vgl. Meier 1943)
(auf einer höheren Stufe als die Frauen bei Sidi
Mustafa), beschreiben diesen Zustand als einen,
in dem sie “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” zugleich sind.
Auch der Theaterregisseur Richard Schechner ar-
beitet mit den Begriffen “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich”
und meint damit: Wenn ich eine Rolle spiele, bin
ich nicht mehr ich, sondern die Person der Rolle,
aber ich bin die Rolle nicht ganz und gar, ich bin
immer auch noch ich, denn ich spiele die Rolle.
Dadurch entsteht etwas, das er auch als “Negation
des Nicht-Ichs” bezeichnet. Der Zwischenraum
zwischen “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” bestimmt die
Qualität des Geschehens. Schechner (1990:219)
schreibt: “... Dieses Gebiet ist prekär, weil es
virtuell grenzenhaft ... ist. ... Das Gebiet ist
die Verkörperung des Möglichen, des Virtuellen,
des Vorgestellten, des Fiktiven, des Negativen, des
“Nicht-Ichs”. Dieses “Gebiet”, hier beschrieben
aus der Sicht der Performance-Kunst, wird in
der Sprache der Mystiker als die Überwindung
der materiellen Gebundenheit des Menschen, als
Befreiung der Seele bezeichnet, als das Aufgehen
in der Liebe zu Allah.
Der Unterschied zwischen Theateraufführung
und Ekstasetanz aber ist der, daß Schauspieler
durch ihre Rolle zu ihrem Ich sozusagen noch “et-
was dazubekommen”. Der Ekstasetanz aber zeich-
net sich gerade dadurch aus, daß er das “Ent-
werden” des Menschen aus seiner menschlichma-
teriellen Gebundenheit anstrebt bzw. ermöglicht,
und dazu muß der Mensch “leer” werden. Beide
Anthropos 96.2001
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko
385
- Schauspieler und Ekstasetänzer - aber können
in den zugleich realen und nichtrealen Zustand der
“Negation des Nicht-Ichs” Vordringen. Im dhikr ist
das Gebiet zwischen “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” der Be-
reich der Liebe, der Verzückung, des Entflammens,
Verbrennens, der völligen Hingabe und weist als
göttliche Liebe über das Menschliche hinaus (s.
Schimmel 1995c).
“Physische Handlungen” und Ekstase
Von zentraler Bedeutung in der Theaterarbeit Gro-
towskis ist das, was er “physische Handlungen”
nennt.15 Seiner Meinung nach können wir uns
nicht an die Gefühle als solche erinnern, son-
dern “... nur an die Linie der physischen Hand-
lungen.” Er geht davon aus, daß sich Gefühle,
hervorgerufen durch Erlebtes, im Körper mani-
festieren. Aktives Erinnern, so wie es für seine
Theaterarbeit notwendig ist, kann nur im Tun, im
körperlichen Handeln stattfinden, Handlung und
Erinnerung sind also eins. Der Grotowski-Schüler
Thomas Richards beschreibt dies mit folgendem
Beispiel: Ein Schauspieler ist in der Lage, wie
ein erschrockenes Kind zu weinen, indem er “...
die genaue Körperlichkeit, den lebendigen körper-
lichen Prozess eines weinenden Kindes in seiner
Erinnerung fand und ihn darstellen konnte. Er
suchte nicht nach dem Gefühlszustand des Kin-
des, sondern erinnerte sich vielmehr mit seinem
Körper an die physischen Handlungen des Kindes”
(1996: 28 f.).16 “Physische Handlungen” schreibt
Richards “haben immer mit Wünschen und Sehn-
süchten zu tun. ... Für Grotowski war die Arbeit
an physischen Handlungen eher ein Werkzeug, um
Jenes etwas zu finden, in dem eine persönliche
Entdeckung für den, der die Handlungen ausführte,
lag” (Richards 1996: 122 f.).
15 Phillip Zarrilli, ein Experte für das Kathakali-Theater, be-
schreibt, wie durch tägliches Körpertraining der Körper der
Schauspieler befähigt wird, ihren körperlichen Mikrokos-
mos dem Makrokosmos des Universums zu öffnen und
durchlässig zu machen. Hier wird die nichtsichtbare Realität
des Universums durch den Mikrokosmos des Körpers, so
wie er sich in Handlungen ausdrückt, sichtbar. Zarrilli
nennt die “physischen Handlungen” “psychophysical acts”
(1990: 131 ff.). Da unsere abendländische Trennung von
Körper und Seele und unser Konzept von Psyche hier
nicht paßt, ist es schwierig diese Vorgänge sprachlich zu
, benennen.
Auf einer etwas anderen Ebene beschreibt die Anthropo-
login Kirsten Hastrup (1996) das Wissen des Körpers am
Beispiel von Fischern auf Island.
Anthropos 96.2001
Physische Handlungen aber bedürfen der Fe-
stigkeit der Struktur. Während im Ritual die Ri-
gidität der Form von vorneherein gegeben ist,
müssen sich Grotowskis Schauspieler durch ein
langes Training eine feste - tragende - Struktur
selbst erarbeiten.17 * Sie tun dies indem sie zunächst
ihre eigenen Lebenserfahrungen erforschen. Die
mit den Erfahrungen verbundenen körperlichen
Erinnerungsspuren werden als einzelne körperliche
Bewegungen herausgefiltert und durch Training
wiederholbar gemacht, und diese Abläufe gestalten
dann eine bestimmte Bühnenfigur. Die Struktur
“... die dem Schauspieler durch ihre Unerbittlich-
keit Sicherheit gewährt” und seinen “Lebensstrom
fließen läßt” (Richards 1996: 32) sind der Text und
der Ablauf der Bewegungen. Sie müssen so fest
mit der Person verbunden sein, daß der Schauspie-
ler in der Arbeit sie nicht mehr verlassen kann, er
aus diesem Rahmen nicht “herausfallen” kann. Nur
dann können die “feinsten Impulse der erlebten
Erfahrung” hervortreten und zum Ausdruck kom-
men.
Und doch gibt es auch hier die innere Distanz
des Schauspielers zum Geschehen auf der Bühne.
So beschreibt Richards, wie Richard Cieslak sich
die Rolle des “Standhaften Prinzen” erarbeitete
und endet damit, daß er sagt: “Cieslak arbeitete
nicht an einer Tragödienfigur, sondern an persönli-
chen Erinnerungen ...” (Richards 1996: 127). Und
doch entstand eine für den Zuschauer erkennbare
Tragödienfigur.
Thomas Richards schreibt zum Verhältnis von
Körper und Verstand: “Der Körper hat seine eigene
Art zu denken. Als mein Verstand lernte, sich in
den richtigen Momenten passiv zu verhalten, hatte
mein Körper freie Bahn für seine Aktivitäten und
löste sich aus seiner Verkrampfung und seinem
Eingeigeltsein. ... Grotowski sprach von solchen
Momenten immer als Momenten der Gnade, in
denen die Quellen, die tiefen Reichtümer eines
Menschen, fruchtbar zu werden beginnen und jede
Bewegung umgeben zu sein scheint von einer
Wolke der Leichtigkeit” (1996: 112 f.). Das Ritual
(wie das Theaterstück) kann also ein Rahmen sein,
in dem durch stark regelgebundene Aktivitäten
ein Raum entsteht, der individuelle Emotionali-
tät zulassen bzw. hervorbringen kann. Aber diese
individuelle Emotionalität ist nicht identisch mit
dem, was auf der Bühne oder im Ritual “gezeigt”
wird, sondern steht sozusagen dahinter.
17 Die starre Form kann eine Konzentration hervorrufen, die
wiederum Zustände von “flow” bewirkt, wie sie Mihaly
Csikszentmihalyi für das Spiel und seine Regeln beschrie-
ben und definiert hat (1985, s. auch Turner 1989: 49 f.).
386
Ulrike Krasberg
Hier wird deutlich, wie weit der Bereich zwi-
schen “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” im Performance-
Theater gespannt ist, und es wirft auch ein Licht
auf “Ich” und “Nicht-Ich” der Ekstasetänzerinnen.
Sie sind eingebunden in den Ritus des dhikrs und
die vorgeschriebenen Bewegungen des Ekstasetan-
zes. Für alle Anwesenden wahrnehmbar vollzie-
hen sie ihre ritualtypische Rolle. Die somatischen
Erinnerungen, die dabei von der Bewegtheit ih-
res Körpers hervorgebracht werden, kommen aus
einem profanen, nichtreligiösen Bereich. Für den
Ablauf des dhikrs ist das unerheblich. Aber für
die einzelne Tänzerin entsteht hier die Bestätigung,
daß während der Ekstase sie in der Totalität ihrer
Person angenommen wurde, sie ganz und gar
Allah zugewandt sein kann. Welche somatische
Erinnerung aktuell hervorgerufen wird, sie kann
sie nicht steuern. Das Erinnern entsteht, wenn
die Widerstände des Intellekts durch die Trom-
melrhythmen, Bewegungen und die Hyperventila-
tion aufgebrochen wurden (s. Strobel 1992), aber
immer geschieht hier auch eine Bestätigung ihrer
selbst. Wobei die Selbstwahrnehmung und die
Wahrnehmung der Zuschauerinnen nicht identisch
sind.
Die Realität der Ekstase
Während des Ekstasetanzes besteht eine Bezie-
hung besonderer Art zwischen den Tänzerinnen
und den übrigen Frauen. Die Frauen als Zuschau-
erinnen stehen für “Realität”, und zwar sowohl
für die Realität der materiellen Welt als auch für
die Realität der Ekstase.18 Wenn die Tänzerin im
vorgegebenen Rahmen des Ritus in der Ekstase die
Materialität der eigenen Körperlichkeit verläßt, ge-
schieht eine Stilisierung des Selbst, die man auch
als eine Ästhetisierung des individuell Menschli-
chen bezeichnen könnte. Diese ästhetische Stilisie-
rung ist wie ein Bild, eine Ikone auf der materiel-
len Ebene der Ekstase, die sich zugleich aber auch
als ein Seinszustand des Individuums auf einer
anderen Ebene abspielt. Das Sehen (das eine star-
ke emotionale Berührtheit bei den zuschauenden
Frauen verursacht) und das Gesehenwerden (das
ebenfalls eine körperlich-seelische Wirkung auf
die Tänzerin hat; vgl. Sachs 1976: 18, 24, 31) ist
eine Art Garant für die Tatsächlichkeit der Ekstase.
Was dem Individuum in der Ekstase passiert, oder
18 Vgl. Rapp: “Die Zuschauer sind die Bürgen und Vertreter
der Objektivität der Gruppe, sie vertreten deren Willen
und Meinung im Anspruch an die Handelnden” (Rapp
1973: 106).
was es erfährt, wird sichtbar in der Bewegung,
bildet sich gleichsam ab auf der Oberfläche des
Körpers. Der Tanz, die Bewegung des Körpers
bewirkt aber auch die Ästhetisierung, die wie-
derum auf die seelische Verfassung der Tänzerin
hinweist, Ausdruck ihres Selbst ist. Je ausgeprägter
die Ekstase bzw. der Bereich der “Negation des
‘Nicht-Ichs’” ist, desto eindringlicher geschieht
die Ästhetisierung des Selbst, wird das “Ich” er-
kennbar als und im ästhetischen Ausdruck. Diese
Dramatik aber bekommt ihre weltliche Realität,
wird sozusagen geerdet, durch die zuschauende
Gruppe.19
Die Ästhetik des dramatischen Handelns in der
Ekstase basiert auf der Festigkeit der Form und
ist damit eine ikonische Handlung. Die Ikone in
ihrer Membranfunktion, in ihrer Durchlässigkeit
zu beiden Seiten hin, zeigt auf der einen Seite
das individuelle, intime Selbst der Tänzerin, das in
der Ästhetisierung der Ekstase wahrnehmbar real
wird, auf der anderen Seite aber erfahren zugleich
auch die Teilnehmerinnen bzw. Zuschauerinnen ihr
eigenes Selbst in der Ästhetisierung der Ekstase.
Jede - Tänzerinnen und Zuschauerinnen - erlebt
etwas Authentisches Individuelles, evoziert durch
den Ekstasetanz als ikonische Handlung.
Wenn Tambiah sagt, das Ritual sei die fest-
geschriebene Inszenierung symbolisierter Emotio-
nen, so hat er recht in bezug auf die Inszenie-
rung. Aber dies ist nur eine Ebene. Wenn wir die
Funktion der Ästhetik der dramatischen Handlung
als ikonische Handlung sehen, so wird deutlich,
daß die in der ikonischen Handlung symbolisier-
te Emotion auf sehr individuelle Gefühle dar-
unter deutet, sie sozusagen mit zum Schwingen
bringt.20 Das heißt in der festgefügten Handlung,
ausgeführt durch die Ekstasetänzerinnen, können
bei allen Teilnehmerinnen gleichzeitig sehr tieflie-
gende individuelle Gefühle hervorgerufen werden,
die wiederum gleichsam gebündelt werden in der
ritualtypischen vorgegebenen Handlung. Da diese
Handlung für eine unveränderbare ewige Ordnung
steht, können die Teilnehmerinnen im Ritual erle-
ben, wie sie in ihrem individuellen Selbst in diese
Ordnung eingebunden sind.
Und noch einmal zur Perspektive der Ek-
stasetänzerinnen: Der Ekstasetanz braucht das
19 Die Religion und das Sakrale können nur in der tatsäch-
lich gestalteten Gemeinschaft entstehen, gewinnen so die
Dimension in Raum und Zeit. Die Gemeinschaft ist mehr
als die Summe der einzelnen (s. Dürkheim 1981).
20 Dies könnte man auch als Synergieeffekt bezeichnen, ein
Zusammenhang übrigens, auf den schon Rudolf Otto 1919
hinwies (das Numinose als “heiliges” Gefühl).
Anthropos 96.2001
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko
387
Gegenüber der zuschauenden Teilnehmerinnen,
um in diesem Spannungsfeld zwischen Tänzerin
und Zuschauerin die Virtualität des Ichs real und
damit wahr zumachen. Hier, wo sich Körper und
Seele überlappen, wo der Körper die Seele bewegt
und umgekehrt, entsteht ein spezifisches Erleben,
eine Qualität, wie sie auch in der körperlichen
Liebe zwischen zwei Menschen zu finden ist:
Nämlich den Körper das Ich ausdrücken zu las-
sen, eine Aktivität, die aber zugleich auch passiv
ist, zuzulassen. Die Zuschauer beim Ekstasetanz
oder die andere Person beim Liebesakt, stellt
im Gegenüber die gewöhnliche Realität dar (sie
verkörpern sozusagen die Bestätigung: es passiert
tatsächlich!). Das Sichöffnen für die Liebe Allahs,
bzw. das Leerwerden, um dieser Liebe Raum zu
geben, ist Aktivität und Passivität zugleich und
braucht die andere Person (die Mitwirkenden im
Ritual), um eine Mitte zu schaffen durch die Me-
taphysisches fließen kann. Im Ekstasetanz erlebt
sich die Tänzerin sowohl als Individuum als auch
als Teil einer sicheren göttlichen Ordnung, die sich
wiederum in der Gruppe der Teilnehmerinnen und
Zuschauerinnen manifestiert.
Zusammenfassung
Zusammenfassend möchte ich noch einmal einen
Rogen spannen von der Lebenssituation der Tän-
zerinnen zur Ekstase.
Was bedeuten Autorität und Macht in der mus-
limischen Gesellschaft Marokkos? Autorität - be-
reitet und gestützt von Macht - ist die charis-
matische Autorität, vergeben nicht durch ein Amt,
s°ndern durch Gott, durch die Tradition, sie ist also
mcht hinterfragbar (Autorität wird im weltlichen
Zusammenhang symbolisiert durch die Heiligen,
und die Heiligen bekommen sie von Allah: einmal
ererben sie baraka [Segenskraft] von ihren Vor-
vatern, von denen einige ebenfalls heilig waren,
^er zugleich wird ein Heiliger auch direkt von
.ott erwählt, dabei verändert er oder sie sich in
einer Weise, daß Mitmenschen ihn/sie als heilig
^kennen können; s. auch Geertz 1991: 70 ff.). In
en Logen wird die Unterordnung unter diese
(gottgewollte) Autorität sozusagen eingeübt. Liebe
lst Gottes Allmacht, sie schützt und gibt Gebor-
genheit. Liebe, Macht und Gehorsam bilden das
. °0rdinatensystem, an dem die Menschen sich
lrn Chaos der diesseitigen Welt ausrichten kön-
Das Ritual, der dhikr, zeigt, daß es Liebe,
acht und Gehorsam schon immer gab und es
^mer geben wir. Und die Anhängerinnen der
°gen erfahren im Ekstasetanz, daß sie in ihrer
Anth
ropos 96.2001
einzigartigen Individualität darin aufgehoben und
angesprochen sind.
Die feste Struktur, die für unverrückbare
“Wahrheit” steht und damit auch Autorität und
Macht bedeutet, ist gebunden an das Erleben
und Agieren der Individuen, die zugleich mit der
Erfahrung von Autorität und Macht auch ihre
Individualität wahrnehmen können. Die eigene
individuelle Realität wird extrem erfahrbar in der
Ekstase, die aber zugleich - im selben Moment -
als Teil der Rigidität des Rituals erlebt wird.
Es werden zwar nicht “rohe Gefühle” einge-
bracht, sondern es ist die disziplinierte Aufführung
kulturell anerkannter Darstellungen, aber diese
beziehen sich auf dahinter liegende Gefühle bei
Tänzerinnen und Zuschauerinnen. Insofern wird
doch eine sehr individuelle ja intime Gefühlswelt
angesprochen, aber sozusagen “bekleidet” darge-
stellt.
Ekstase zu erleben bedeutet “der Gnade Gottes
teilhaftig zu werden”, die Macht Gottes zu spüren.
Macht aber muß angenommen, erlebt werden, so
wie Autorität zugleich “von oben” (befehlen) und
“von unten” (gehorchen) gelebt werden muß. So
kann das Ritual Macht und Autorität nur dann
installieren, wenn das Erleben von Individuali-
tät und Macht zusammenfällt. Denn dann haben
Autorität und Macht Dynamik und Lebendigkeit
und werden von Individuen bestätigt und getragen.
Und anders herum: Nur wenn die beiden Pole
“intimste Individualität” der Teilnehmerinnen und
“eherne unhinterfragbare Struktur” des kollektiven
Rituals (also Macht) Zusammenkommen, ist das
Ritual tatsächlich wirksam.
Die Alltagsrealität der Teilnehmerinnen wird
für sie selbst wahrnehmbar durch ihr persönliches
Erleben von Macht im Ritual, denn die Individua-
lität der Teilnehmerinnen - auch wenn sie hin-
ter dem vorgeschriebenen, strukturierten Verhalten
des kollektiven Rituals verborgen bleibt - garan-
tiert sozusagen die Verbundenheit mit der Alltags-
realität. Gerade durch den Vollzug des dhikr-Ri-
tuals mit seinem Ekstasetanz können die kulturell
bedingten Formen von Autorität und Macht nicht
nur weiterhin die Basis gesellschaftlicher Struk-
turen bilden, sondern darüber hinaus auch gesell-
schaftlichen oder sozialen Veränderungsprozessen
inhärent bleiben.
Der Ekstasetanz mit all seinen Abstufungen
und Differenzierungen zeigt eine menschliche Di-
mension auf, nämlich die Sakralität. Sakralität
findet nicht außerhalb des Menschen statt, sondern
in ihm. Und das Ritual, der dhikr, mit seinem
Ekstasetanz ist in der Lage, diese Dimensionen
aufzudecken und erfahrbar zu machen. Sakralität
388
Ulrike Krasberg
ist nicht atemberaubend, erschreckend oder so weit
entfernt, daß man sich ihr kaum nähern kann.
Sie ist in den Menschen und entsteht zwischen
ihnen, ganz selbstverständlich und in gewisser
Weise alltäglich. Sie ist der verdichtete Ausdruck
potentieller Menschlichkeit.
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 391-409
The Way of All Flesh
Sexual Implications of the Mayan Hunt
H. E. M. Braakhuis
Abstract. - The Mesoamerican deer hunt serves as a metaphor
for war. It is here argued that it equally represents alliance.
The quarry is viewed by the hunter as a wife and by the
hunter’s wife as a male partner. The Owner of the Game
corresponds to a father-in-law for whom the hunter performs
bridal service (e.g., the sexual regeneration of the deer bones).
The ensuing idea of antagonistic sexual exchanges between the
hunter and the game informs Mayan deer dances and Kekchi
h^ayan Hummingbird myth. Vase scenes from the Classic
Period of the Mayas demonstrate the antiquity of the above
concepts. [Mesoamerica, Mayas, deer hunt, sexuality, myth,
tonography]
E. M. Braakhuis, Utrecht University, studied anthropology
and ethnohistory at the universities of Amsterdam and Utrecht
with Rudolf van Zantwijk. - Previous articles concern problems
of Mayan iconography and mythology (Twins, Howler Monkey
brothers, Maize Hero); see also References Cited.
^ The Deer Hunt: Between War and Alliance
^he deer hunt is one of the prominent themes of
Classical Mayan vase representations. Scenes of
^eer hunting and warfare - especially head-hunting
Parties - often alternate or are fused together. As
faube has shown, killing and slaughtering a deer
ls a favored image for sacrificing and butchering
^ Prisoner of war (1988: 331 f.). What seems to
ave been generally understated, however, is that
Pe deer hunt equally implies alliance and, more
Particularly, marriage. It is the principal aim of
. ls study to explore this theme and thus fill a gap
ln the literature on Mesoamerica and the Mayas.
. That the deer hunt means both war and alliance
already suggested by the succession of events
in the myth of those deer hunters par excellence,
the Mesoamerican Twins (cf. Thompson 1970:
355-369). First they capture, sacrifice, and butcher
the stag (or, according to the Kekchis, tapir) lover
of their old stepmother and distribute its meat, an
episode which amounts to the founding act of war
cannibalism (Braakhuis 2001a). This stag, or tapir,
had been the paradigm of unsociability, which had
to be eliminated before the hunt could acquire a
more socializing quality. In the continuation of
the story in Kekchi Maya Twin myth (Thompson
1930: 119-140), the deer hunt runs parallel with a
quest for women, ending with the deer consecrat-
ing the main Twin’s marriage. This myth, together
with its other Mayan versions, forms a focal point
of this article.
To state my argument in more abstract terms,
war has been aptly characterized as a “continuation
of policy by other means” (Clausewitz). Since
Mayan policy was largely affinal policy, the im-
agery of the hunt should logically embrace the
opposite of war as well, i.e., marriage and alliance.
If the war in question is a mere raid for acquiring
sacrificial victims, it can entail kidnapping foreign
women so as to absorb them into one’s own group
and completely strip them of their former social
identity. But if a war is to be a war of conquest,
it should lead to marriage alliances between the
nomadic “hunters” and the indigenous population
of the “deer,” or their Owner.
The ambiguity inherent in the hunt made it
particularly useful as a symbol, and it is quite
probable that, for this reason, the hunt has always
392
H. E. M. Braakhuis
been a vital part of Mesoamerican ideology. The
Aztecs, for example, were familiar with ancient
myths connected to the Chichimec hunting deity,
Mixcoatl, in which deer pursued by two primeval
hunters turn into dangerously seductive women
ready to destroy their pursuers, whereas other
women are hunted down as if they were does. One
of the latter women - who is, in fact, the main rep-
resentative of the conquered earth - confronts her
enemy, removing her clothes and exposing herself
to the phallic spears of the hunting deity. Thus
the confrontation takes the form of foreplay to the
sexual act which follows: The woman is thrown to
the ground and impregnated to become the mother
of a king, viz. Quetzalcoatl (Lehmann 1974: 358 f.,
363-365; cf. Graulich 1987: 170-178, 345).1
Returning to ancient Mayan representations, the
well-known motif of a woman mounting a stag
suggests an intimate association between the fe-
male element and the quarry. The related scenes I
intend to discuss here, those of the dying Owner of
the Deer surrounded by deer-riding young women
and antlered young men, strongly suggest that
marriage and procreation were indeed central to
the way the Classical Mayas conceived of the hunt.
2 Hunting for a Partner
As an introduction to the ethnographic evidence
to follow, consider a story from the Mayas of
the former British Honduras that has been entitled
“The Deer Folk” (Thompson 1930: 173-175). It
is about a boy who longs for a wife and finds
a beautiful doe standing in the middle of his
maize field. As he looks at it, it turns into a girl.
He decides to marry her, but the doe’s human
transformation turns out to be unstable, and a visit
to the prospective in-laws ends up in disaster. The
deer attack him, and hunting dogs have to come
to the boy’s rescue. As we shall presently see, the
unfortunate marriage candidate is likely to have
mistaken the shifting and seductive images of the
dream for the harsher realities of the hunt.
Over a large part of the world, hunting for
game is interchangeable with hunting for women.
This is as true for traditional reindeer hunters in
Canada (e.g., Tanner 1979: 125, 136-138) as it is
for many Amerindian groups in Central and South
1 In a section of the Féjérvâry Codex dealing with the
formation of children (26), Mixcoatl has been depicted
while ejaculating rather than shedding blood. The deity
thus appears to represent the idea of the hunt as a sexual
conquest.
America, and Mesoamerica is no exception in this.
For the Mixes of Oaxaca, for example, “to dream
of embracing a woman or spirit lover means the
hunter will surely obtain deer” (Lipp 1991:45);
inversely, for the Ixil Mayas, “a bachelor dreaming
he got hold of a deer will get a woman” (Paz Pérez
1994: 31). Lacandon men, too, believe that a lovely
woman appearing in a dream presages game. Thus,
if in a dream “you kiss a woman’s mouth, you will
soon taste meat” (Bruce 1979:237, s.v. ts’u’tsik),
and “a woman’s vagina represents an animal”
(Bruce 1979: 149, s.v. -e’ [-el]).
The purpose of premonitory dreaming is to
establish a framework of alliance with the game;
without such dreams there is felt to be no good
sense in beginning the hunt (Wisdom 1940: 72
fn. 15). This alliance is specifically a marital one.
The Tzutujil hunter, for example, assumes preex-
istent affinal ties when he ritually addresses the
deer as “sister-in-law” (Prechtel 1998: 153). To
the Lacandons - who, because of their overall
archaism, are most likely to have retained the
original conception of the hunt - dreaming of
courtship, a bride, or a wedding foretells hunting
or stalking game (Bruce 1979: 234 f., s.v. ts’i’otik
“desire, want”). Similarly, a Tolupan hunter of
Central Honduras who dreamt he was caressing
the breasts of a woman from the other moiety
declared: “the next day I went to court the deer”
(Chapman 1992:78). To assure the courtship’s
success, love-magic is needed. The Cuna hunter of
Panama, for example, bathes in a herbal perfume
and, as a result, “becomes fragrantly attractive
to animals, who fall in love with him and ap-
proach him, enabling him to kill them” (Sherzer
1983: 115).
The conception of the hunt as an effort at
alliance extends into northern South America. It is
particularly prominent among the Desana Tukanos
of Amazonian Columbia. According to Reichel-
Dolmatoff (1974:225), “the hunt is practically a
courtship and a sexual act, an event that must be
prepared for with great care and in accordance with
the strictest norms. The verb ‘to hunt’ is [...] ‘to
make love to the animals.’ The manifest idea is
that of sexually exciting the game so that it will
draw near and allow itself to be killed. [...] ‘The
game animals are like coquettes,’ the informant
says.” Indeed, “to kill is to cohabit” (ibid.), and
this may visibly arouse the hunter.
Certain ritual practices seem to carry the mes-
sage that women also enter into affinal ties across
species boundaries. When Chord Maya women,
for example, welcome the quarries carried home
by the hunters, a doe is given a man’s hat, and a
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
393
stag is respectfully clothed with a woman’s shawl
(Wisdom 1940: 73, cf. 73 fn. 16). More generally,
in Mesoamerica the hunter’s wife has a vital part
to play in the strategy of courting the game. The
hunter uses his wife as bait, or, to be more precise,
he promises a woman to another group, that of
the “deer folk.” First, however, the game is to
surrender and give up its own women, whereby the
hunter acquires an animal “wife” and prospective
“sisters-in-law.” When the Tolupan hunter dreams
that his wife is taking a bath with another man,
this means she will succeed in attracting the deer
(Chapman 1992: 78). The Cakchiqueles of San An-
tonio Palopo appear to have put this into practice,
for we are told that there, “the wife of this leader
[of the deer drive] had to bathe in the lake before
the hunt, so the deer would go toward the lake to
be shot” (Redfield 1946:54).
The Aztec rituals for catching bees, deer, fish,
and scorpions, as recorded by Ruiz de Alarcon
(Coe and Whittaker 1982), center around the
“love-magic” worked by the hunter’s wife, who
ts equated with that personification of female se-
ductiveness and nubility, Xochiquetzal. The bee
hunter intruding into the territory of the bees
declares: “Let no one be afraid of me. I shall take
them [the bees] to see my elder sister Xochiquetz-
al” Ruiz de Alarcon commented that “perhaps
the wife of the one who makes the said spell
ls meant, and it seems that he praises his wife’s
beauty to the bees to entice them to go and live
with her” (1982: 128, II-7). In other words, the
bees are invited to become the bee hunter’s
brothers-in-law.
The rituals for hunting deer with nooses and
with bow and arrow (Ruiz de Alarcon II-8, II-9
ln Coe and Whittaker 1982) more specifically
refer to the primeval parents of Cinteotl/Xochi-
PiUi, viz. Xochiquetzal and Piltzintecuhtli. Pilt-
zintecuhtli appears to have left his wife and to
have suffered a transformation into a deer. On
lbe pattern of the bee hunt, Xochiquetzal is once
^ore to exercise her sexual attraction, now not
*° acquire a new husband, but to bring a former
husband” back home. The hunter himself plays
part of “the orphan,’’who is like a son to
Xochiquetzal. He declares: “At last I shall carry
father Chicome-Xochitl Piltzinteuctli; I have
c°me to seize him, I shall carry him. Already she
^Waits him expectantly, my mother Xochiquetzal”
(1982: 145, II-9).2
2 The erotic background of the hunt also is suggested by
the way the fingers of the hunter, throwing a net over the
deer father” (already caught in the noose), are personified,
The mythology of the Nahuas living on the Gulf
Coast provides the background to this dramatiza-
tion of the deer hunt (for references, see Braakhuis
1990). Its hero is a Maize God corresponding to
Xochipilli, son of Piltzintecuhtli and Xochiquetz-
al, and sometimes bearing the same calendrical
name as his father, viz. Chicome-Xochitl. Like the
hunter of the Aztec ritual, he is a sort of orphan.
The father has disappeared and the mother drowns
a child she cannot feed. The child is reborn,
however, and, once grown up, rejoins his mother.
Together, they plan to bring the lost father back
home, a cooperation which institutes the strategy
of the hunt as we find it in Ruiz de Alarcon.
The son’s task is to retrieve the paternal bones,
regenerate them, and bring the father home, the
mother’s task is one of ritual attraction. When the
hero approaches, carrying the body on his back,
the hero’s mother fails to welcome her husband
laughingly. She weeps as if she saw a corpse, and
her husband’s transformation gets interrupted: he
regenerates as a deer instead of as a human being.3 *
The hero destines his deer-father to be hunted
forever. This implies that, henceforth, it is the deer
that shall be seduced into “coming home” again -
and which will then be killed and carried on the
back as quarry.
Whereas in 16th-century Nahua ritual, woman
is to convert the wild bees into her husbands and
to attract the deer conceived of as her originally
human partner, the Ixil Mayan myth I shall discuss
next takes the opposite, and complementary, per-
spective. It focuses on the hunter’s own courting
of the bees and deer, while explaining it by an
unsuccessful effort to regenerate the bones of his
wife back to their original shape. This Ixil myth
can also serve to introduce an important figure who
thus far has remained in the shadow: the hunter’s
father-in-law.
3 Dealings with the Father-in-Law
If the hunt is a courtship and first attempt at alli-
ance, there must be a father-in-law and a payment
for the bride. The father-in-law corresponds to the
figure of the Owner, or Master, of the Animals (for
an overview, see Haekel 1959). At times, alliance
namely, as female deities and, more specifically, as se-
ductive women (Macuiltonallehqueh, i.e., “pleasure gods”)
adorning the male quarry with flowery bands (Coe and
Whittaker 1982: 138 f.).
3 In its basic features, the Tarascans shared this origin
myth of the deer (Chronicles of Michoacan, cf. Graulich
1987: 183 f.).
394
H. E. M. Braakhuis
with him can take the form of a pact, in which
case the hunter enters into the Owner’s service
after death so as to tend to the needs of the game
in exchange for consistent luck in hunting (e.g.,
La Farge II and Byers 1931: 132). This could be
viewed as a postponed bridal service. Properly
speaking, the bridal payment corresponds to the
ritual payments offered to the Owner immediately
previous to the hunt and continued afterwards, a
hunt which itself is subject to severe restrictions
and surrounded by taboos (particularly on over-
hunting and on unnecessarily wounding the game,
thus spilling its blood).
Human sexual behavior is often directed to-
wards the desired alliance with the animals by
a temporary suspension of intimacy between the
hunter and his wife and, without exception, by a
strong taboo on adultery. Especially adultery on
the part of the hunter’s wife is treated as a break
of the “marriage contract” between the hunter and
his otherworldly “father-in-law,” since it amounts
to a violation of the procreationist ideology shared
by both parties. The woman should cooperate with
her husband and sexually attract the stags; the
stags will then give themselves up and indirectly
enable her to become a mother. If she breaks the
rules of this game by behaving promiscuously, her
husband’s “father-in-law” takes great offense and
- as happens in a Tlapanec tale (Loo 1980: 107 f.)
- may allow his stag “sons” to violate her as if she
were a mere prostitute.
The Owner of the Game is thus a contrac-
tual partner who critically observes human sexual
behavior and who is not easily convinced that
marriage candidates are really deserving of his
daughters. More than in simple hunting stories and
“exempla,” one finds this figure acting explicitly
as a powerful and demanding father-in-law in what
I shall call “Hummingbird myths” - tales which
relate how a Mayan hunter-conqueror attempts
to win over the daughter of an Earth Owner
who, as such, is also the supreme Owner of
the Game.4 The tales stereotypically receive their
impetus from aggressive love-magic, signaling a
blending of war into alliance and symbolized by
the invader’s transformation into a hummingbird.
The outcome, at least in some variants, explains
the sexual attraction operative during the hunt and,
4 These myths are but parts of a much larger body of
Mesoamerican bridal service tales turning on the marriage
between a representative of mankind and a daughter of the
Earth. The tales are largely syncretic, with minor motives
from Spanish folklore cropping up in Hummingbird myth
as well.
in the case of the bees, continuing afterwards.
In so far as they treat of love and procreation
(rather than war and conquest), these “flowery”
tales overlap with the sphere of Xochipilli “Flow-
er Lord” (or Chicome-Xochitl), whose equivalent
Mayan name can, indeed, denote the Hummingbird
character.5 *
The Kekchi “Hummingbird myth” which ends
with the transformation of its protagonists into
Sun and Moon is no doubt the best-known mem-
ber of this group (cf. Thompson 1970: 363-366).
It is instructive in that the refusal of the deer
hunter (in the earlier versions still identified with
the war deity Xbalanque) to pay his prospective
father-in-law (the supreme Earth Owner) for his
daughter, is punished by the destruction of the girl
and her subsequent transformation into evil crea-
tures. The implied shamanistic concern with black
sorcery (Braakhuis 2001b) is absent from the Ixil
and Cakchiquel versions which, being generally
less complicated, allow us to perceive the basic
tenets of Hummingbird mythology with greater
clarity.
In the case of Ixil Hummingbird myth (Colby
and Colby 1981: 180-183; cf. Maxwell 1980: 60-
66), the marriage candidate, Oyew Achi “Fierce
Warrior” (probably a Quichean intruder into Ixil
territory) is required to fulfill a variety of bridal
tasks, thus showing his willingness to pay the Ixil
Owner of the Earth for his daughter. Since the
tasks are impossible and without end, however, the
“Hummingbird” is liable to become an uxorilocal
debt-slave. Only through the intervention of the
Owner’s daughter can the tasks all be carried
through to completion.
The father-in-law apparently does not really
want to lose his daughter’s procreative power to
another party. His growing suspicion and hostility
finally force Hummingbird to abduct the woman.
The Earth Owner reacts drastically. His Lightning
destroys the “loose woman” and reduces her to
bones. The son-in-law collects and stores the bones
of his beloved for regeneration. In all likelihood,
this action reflects the core ritual of the hunters,
who, everywhere in Mesoamerica, periodically de-
posit the bones of the game in the mountains,
5 In its prophecy for a katun 11 Ahau, the book of Chilam
Balam of Chumayel evokes the descent of Hummingbird to
Yucatan, i.e., the love-magic of a “Flower King” or “Flower
Lord” (nicte ahau), and its dire consequences for traditional
rule. Hummingbird is represented by a god of dance and
music corresponding to Xochipilli (Chicome-Xochitl or
Macuil-Xochitl) whereas his seductive partner is called “lx
Macuil-Xuchit”, i.e., Xochiquetzal (cf. Roys 1967: 104 f-
and 105 fn.4).
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
395
thereby ritually restoring them to their Owner for
regeneration.
In the Hummingbird myth, the woman’s bones
are regenerated as game. Consonant with the ide-
ology of the hunt, it is these regenerated animals
that, collectively, are seen as the hunter’s “wife”:
“She [the transformed woman] asked Oyew Achi
[the invader] to call all of them. So he called her
bones. They came, all the animals: deer, rabbits,
wild pigs, birds, and bees. The man asked, ‘Are
you all my wife?’ They all answered ‘yes’” (Colby
and Colby 1981: 182). The remainder of the tale
suggests that the game is about to leave and
retire into the forest. In such a way, the hunter’s
dependence on a chthonic father-in-law for getting
a “wife” has convincingly been demonstrated and
indeed, reaffirmed. At the same time, we may con-
clude from this tale that when a hunter dreams of
making love to a woman representing the game he
is to encounter, he has succeeded in reestablishing
contact with the Daughter of an Earth Owner (in
the latter’s role of Owner of the Game) and has
won her favor.
The last animals to be mentioned in the Colby
tale are sometimes allotted a separate treatment.
Honeybees, in particular, are considered to be the
true wife of the hunter. Thus, in another Ixil variant
(Maxwell 1980:66), one finds Oyew Achi still
searching for his woman in the forest after her
bones have already become game. She turns out to
have changed into a honeybee living in a hollow
tree. The Quichean antihero resigns himself to his
fate and entrusts his bee wife to the poor, and
Presumably Ixil, bee hunters who will come in
his wake, saying, “they will take care of you.”
This probably implies transferal to the domestic
compound.6 Still other renderings of the tale focus
entirely on the honeybees, leaving aside the origin
°f the game animals (e.g., Thompson 1970: 365 f.,
from the Cakchiquel area). It may be noted that by
comparison to the deer and other game “wives,”
the honeybee is a closer approximation to the
human wife in that she is brought home alive,
feeds the “husband” with whom she lives, and
always returns to him.
What seems to be a truncated version of the
beekeepers’ Hummingbird myth has recently been
^Ported from Quintana Roo (Jong 1999: 145).
while almost completely suppressing the role of
the girl’s father, it has the frustrated marriage
6 Especially in the case of the bees, the buzzing container or
jar, in which the bones of the nubile Earth had been stored
to regenerate, can prefigure the womb-like container where
the honeybees are traditionally kept.
Anthropos 96.2001
candidate finally violate the daughter, “Lady Bee,”
who thereupon flees to the forest. “Ever since then,
we have had to search for her in the forest and
take her home with us.” In keeping with the tenor
of this tale, beekeepers from Quintana Roo tell
about their stingless honeybees, together referred
to as “Xunan Cab,” or “Lady Bee,” that “it often
happens that they fall in love with the beekeeper”
(Zwaal 1993: 44, cf. Jong 1999: 244 f.). In this,
“Lady Bee” is quite like the Earth Owner’s daugh-
ter who once fell in love with Hummingbird and
became a honeybee.
4 Burial and Sexual Regeneration of the
Bones
The hunt can be viewed as a cycle in which flesh is
reduced to bone and bone is regenerated as flesh.
Hummingbird myth demonstrates how this cycle
was started. The Earth Daughter was reduced to
bones; her lover, the hunter, collected the bones
and stored them in a womb-like jar; in the jar,
the bones were regenerated as flesh. These bones
are treated as the carriers of life, for when the
hunter “called the bones” of his wife (as Ixil myth
mystically puts it), living creatures responded to
this calling. Through the process of collecting and
storing the bones, the hunter carried out the first
ritual of restoring the bony parts of the game to
his father-in-law for regeneration. “Calling for the
bones” then amounts to a plea for new animals,
directed at this deity.7
Lacandon Hummingbird myth, however, dem-
onstrates that the hunter can also enter the cycle of
regeneration of the bones as an active engenderer
(Bruce 1974:224-228; Boremanse 1986:78-96,
293-304). The Lacandon ancestor, Nuxi’, trapped,
killed, and ate all gophers everywhere, thus obvi-
ously exceeding the limits of what might otherwise
have been an acceptable “courtship.” This over-
stepping of the bounds of the hunt meant that the
entire exchange system had to be re-instated, or, if
there had been none, inaugurated. Consequently,
the familiar initial images of Hummingbird myth
recur. A woman once more presents herself to
attract the hunter, and the hunter, for his part,
puts his love magic to work: Transformed into a
hummingbird, he is able to invade the home of
the subterranean Owner (who in this case happens
to be the Death God, Kisin) and to find his way
7 In a Pipil tale (Schultze Jena 1935:48-51), the Earth
Owner guards animal bones which on command reincarnate
as girl servants and animals alike.
396
H. E. M. Braakhuis
into the clothing of his beloved. The first act of
bridal service to follow this union is, in this case, to
fertilize the Owner’s daughter, and, thus, sexually
restore the gophers to the father-in-law.8
This task of regenerating the bones by mating
with what one might call a “Game Mother” follows
from a more general concept of kin-based absorp-
tion by the game, which has found expression in
tales from both Americas.9 In many Mesoamerican
stories the hunter meets an attractive young woman
(often while she is bathing) who turns out to be
an animal, usually a doe. She leads the hunter into
the cave of her “father,” the Owner, where he is
reprimanded because of a flaw in the fulfillment
of his contractual obligations. Not uncommonly,
the hunter is then made to cure the animals he has
wounded and whose blood he has spilled (e.g.,
Thompson 1930: 141; Reyes García and Christen-
sen 1976: 77 f.). The Lacandons, however, also tell
hunting stories where an ancestral hunter is not
only obliged to redress his behavior and cure the
animals, but where his next task is to engender new
animals with the Owner’s daughter (Boremanse
1986: 229-231, cf. 227 f.; Ratsch 1984: 177-
180, cf. 180-182).10 * This, of course, is the very
framework in which the Lacandon Hummingbird
myth has been set. The forced labor of repro-
duction described in the more elementary tales
could accordingly be understood as a regression to
the hunter’s initial role of uxorilocal “son-in-law”
without the means to buy his bride directly and so
become independent.
Another case in point is a Pipil story from
Izalco, El Salvador (Schultze Jena 1935: 34-40). It
8 The same task of creating a grandchild and “replacement”
recurs in bridal tales of the Tzutujiles (Sexton 1992:21)
and Mixes (Miller 1956: 181).
9 In a tale from the southeastern United States, for example,
a hunter falls in love with women who are really does
and allows himself to be transformed into a deer, taking
on antlers and a deerskin (Swanton 1929:91, cf. 126).
As in the Belizean “Deer Folk” tale (see section 2), the
opposite is also tried out, by having deerwomen live in
a human community (Swanton 1929: 193). A Guajiro tale
from Colombia (Perrin 1987:31-39) has a deer leading
a hunter to the home of the Lady of the Animals where
attractive young women representing game try to make him
into their husband, and, thus, into an animal.
10 Tozzer (1907: 41 f.) mentions that the Lacandons referred to
the members of the wild animal species serving to distin-
guish major patrilineal kin groupings as their “relatives.”
The term used, onen, appears to be a variant of Yucatec
onel, “relative” (Barrera 1980). The relationship involved
could refer to the fictitious affinal ties established by the
hunt, but also to consanguineal kinship, in line with the
fact that the ancestral hunter’s animal children would be
half brothers to his human children.
differs from the preceding tales in that the mating
with the Owner’s daughter is now intended as a
final settlement, since the Owner has decided to
introduce the hunter to agriculture and thus to keep
his deer safe from further killings.11 The text lays
great emphasis on the fact that, through his sexual
service, the hunter is to restore life to the deer
bones. These bones, lying in the Owner’s cave,
had apparently been ritually deposited by hunters
and then collected and brought there.12 * This puts
us at the climax of the burial-rites which began
when the quarry was deantiered and the antlers
dried and left in the mountains, or, as among the
Lacandons (Boremanse 1986: 102), buried at the
foot of a tree. The antlers (or skulls and other bony
parts) were then collected in the funerary chamber
of the Owner of the Deer, which is now about to
be transformed into a delivery room.
The Pipil text states that the regeneration of the
bones through sexual heat is the revivification of
the deer’s tonallis, or souls (in this case the full
number of twenty, since the settlement is to be a
definite one). This has its parallel in human burial
rites. The Aztecs specifically denoted the rite of
making an effigy of the deceased encapsulating
his tonalli-bearing remains - the incinerated bones
together with the hairs and nails - through the
verb (qui)tonaltia / (te)tonaltia, “give tonalli,”
in its double sense of “heat, power of growth”
and “birth” (cf. González Torres 1975:40; López
Austin 1980: 367-369).
On passing the threshold of the Owner’s cave
to confront the slumbering bones and regenerate
them, the hunter becomes like dead to his kin,
death here equaling complete absorption by a for-
eign group. The Lacandon hunter not only mates
with his game-woman (a peccary), but marries her
and enters into the service of his animal affines as
a curer. Only when his peccary-wife is killed by
an intruding brother, who has become a stranger to
the former hunter, does he return to earth, where
he soon dies from grief. In all likelihood, he then
11 This notion is apparently widespread. In a Nahua story
from S. Miguel Acuexcomac, Puebla, another nomadic deer
hunter and invader is made sedentary by the local Owner
of the Deer, and for the same reason (Fagetti 1998: 58 f.).
12 The Owner addresses the hunter thus (Schultze Jena
1935: 37, my translation): “Are you the man who killed my
children? Just come here, see what you have done! Look,
here are their bones! I had not thought they would ever
return to life again - and now it becomes true! I say, they
are about to come to life: this very day I will give you one
of my daughters, so that you may restore to me all of my
children killed by you. First [...] it’s the turn of this bone,
that one you killed first - and so forth until you will have
finished restoring all the spirits [tunal\ of my children!”
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
397
descends to the cave of his father-in-law, perhaps
to be forever changed into a peccary.
It may be noted that the Lacandon hunter
not only regenerates the animals he himself has
killed, but also those killed by others. This may
hold for the Pipil hunter as well, since he rep-
resents, in a single person, a general transition
from hunting to agriculture. When the Lacandon
hunter subsequently becomes a professional eurer
to his affines, he takes upon himself a task which
would otherwise have had to be carried out by
his fellow human beings, i.e., by the transgressors
themselves. In paying for the sins of other hunters,
the life-restoring hunter of these tales effectively
becomes their representative. Once returned to the
Owner’s cave, he might well assume the role of an
intercessor to be invoked in the hunters’ expiatory
rituals.
Intermediaries between the hunters and the
Owner of the Game are known to exist in Me-
soamerica, for example, among the Nahuas of
the Huaxteca (Reyes Garcia 1960: 37 f.)13 and the
Yaquis living far to the Northwest. Yaqui hunters
wishing to ascertain the success of their hunt
could approach a man seemingly living in celibacy
and often sleeping alone in the woods. Like the
Lacandon hunter, this somewhat uncanny figure
was really a son-in-law to the Owner: A special
emissary in the shape of a small deer had once
approached him, offered herself in marriage, and
tnade him into her husband. Therefore, he could
talk the language of the deer and set deer free for
the hunters (Beals 1945: 12).
^ Sexual Exchanges
Yhe idea of a marriage alliance governing the hunt
and of the accompanying “bridal payments” rests
°n the existence of two parallel consanguineous
§roups, primarily intent on fostering their own fer-
ity. Among the Desana Tukanos, whose hunting-
theology shows a considerable overlap with that
°f the Mayas, this fundamental opposition has led
0 further consequences (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1974:
°b-85). The dominant feature of their Owner of
hte Game is his sexual prowess and concomitant
Jealousy of human procreative power. He should
tke to possess all females, whether animal or
The Huaxteca Nahua intermediary is called a “discharger”
(wokixtihketl) and represents the repentant hunter to the
offended Owner of the Deer. He ritually feeds the deer
Wlth herbs and lianas and helps to restore his client’s shot,
J-e-, his virile power (Reyes Garcia 1960: 37 f.).
Arith
r°pos 96.2001
human. In addition to procreating the game with
his animal women inside what Reichel-Dolmatoff
calls his “uterine storehouses,” the Desana Owner
violates human women and multiplies the game
with them; his daughter seduces hunters with the
same result. With the help of his daughter, the
Owner thus inverts and subverts the opposed strat-
egy of the human hunters.
If the Owner nonetheless assists the hunters
in their hunting forays, this is only possible be-
cause of the intervention of shamanic mediators
for the human party who negotiate the conditions
for a successful courtship and pay the Owner
by copulating with his women, the female game,
and giving him new children (Reichel-Dolmatoff
1974: 81 f.,cf. 131 f.). The same type of interme-
diary is likely to have existed throughout Central
America. They are still recognizable in the punak-
panes of the Tolupans of Honduras, shamans who
visited the “Masters of Animals,” conversed with
them, and as a consequence, could also send deer
to the hunters (Chapman 1992: 250). Furthermore,
it would only be logical to assume that if the Yaqui
intermediary mentioned above could give deer to
the hunters, he could only do so because the doe
he had married gave birth to fawns that he could
return to the Owner.
The Mayas appear to have drawn remarkably
similar conclusions in their own hunting ideology,
especially as regards the Owner and his daughter.
The Owner as a seducer of human women strongly
recalls the pivotal figure of the Guatemalan Deer
Dance, the “Grandfather on (or among) the Deer”
(.Mam pa Kiej). The pattern of events is usually the
same (e.g., Thompson 1930: 103; Mace 1970: 56-
58, 61). When his assistance is invoked by hunters
(who are suggested in various ways to have been at
fault in the fulfillment of their contractual obliga-
tions), the Grandfather is prepared to come to their
aid by ensnaring the deer - deer which to hunt-
ers are like marriageable women.14 * In exchange,
however, he is to be allowed to interfere with
the hunters’ wives and daughters, to caress their
breasts, etc. One Tzutujil account, in particular
(Sexton 1992:58-64), strongly suggests that if
the Grandfather assists the hunters in finding their
“women,” he in turn views the human women sur-
rounding the spectacle as does which he ardently
14 Since the old man does not kill himself but only sets nooses,
he could correspond to the Yucatec hunting-deity Ah Tabay
“Ensnarer,” whose probable representative in the codices is
the antlered god Y. In the Madrid Codex (MC 45c) this
deity personifies the deer trap; in the Dresden Codex (DC
13cl) he grasps the arm of a doe, suggestive of the eroticism
of the hunt.
398
H. E. M. Braakhuis
desires to marry and fertilize.15 Moreover, together
with the shot deer, a pretty woman may be carried
off as another quarry.
This Mayan “Grandfather on the Deer” has his
counterparts elsewhere in Mesoamerica (cf. Bricker
1973:201-211), most recognizably in the lewd
“Old Men” performers of the Yaquis and Mayos of
distant northwestern Mexico, Arizona, and Sonora,
which were once the northernmost “Chichimec”
territories. The Yaqui “Old Men” in particular used
to stage a mock deer hunt of the Tzutujil type
just mentioned (Spicer 1940: 196). These paskola
performers received their powers from the Owner
of the Game whom they were to represent amongst
the human beings (Crumrine 1977: 98; cf. Beals
1945: 127). This role made them imitate all sorts
of animals, but more importantly, it often took the
form of a parody of human sexual behavior and
of a general licentiousness vis-à-vis the spectators
in which, once more, the ancient rivalry between
mankind and the animals, who came first, mani-
fested itself.
Whereas the Desana Owner of the Game vi-
olently takes possession of human women, the
Owner’s daughter, for her part, seduces young
boys so as to be fertilized by them, thus pro-
ducing animal offspring, which can then again
be hunted. “At the place of the encounter many
animals appear as a payment for the sexual favour”
(Reichel-Dolmatoff 1974: 84). Essentially, this is
what happens in the hunting tales of the Lacandons
and Pipiles discussed in the previous section. The
seductive behavior of the female representative of
the deer can also have served as a recruitment
strategy; and, as I have suggested, some of the Me-
soamerican ci-devant hunters may have assumed
an intermediary role comparable to the shamanic
“marriage-negotiators” of the Desanas who help
reproduce the game for the Owner.
In order to understand the Mayan hunting dra-
ma fully, it should be viewed as a sexual exchange,
albeit an asymmetrical one because of the danger-
ous power of the Owner. As soon as the hunter
upsets the precarious balance, the Owner of the
15 “Then the old man says, ‘... Now I’m going to kill the
animals that are better known as the deer.’ Then the old
fellow enters again to kill the deer, and he mixes again
among all the people, looking for concealed deer” (Sexton
1992: 63), and: “There is one thing - when the old man goes
to look for the animals among the people, the women hide
or retreat and shout a lot when the old man approaches them
because the old fellow is very naughty. He puts his cane
between the skirts of the women, feels the breasts of the
señoritas ...” (64). In this respect, the Tzutujil “Grandfather
on the Deer” is not unlike that other, much more strongly
sexualized Tzutujil Grandfather, Maximón.
Game again takes the upper hand. He and his
daughters are intent on pursuing the same strategy
as the human hunter, but in the inverse, in that
they try to force human beings into serving the
procreation of the game. If the hunter’s wife tries
to seduce the deer (now conceived of as “male”
irrespective of their true gender), the Owner’s
daughters try to seduce the hunter into procreating
the game with them. If the hunter tries to trap
the deer “women” so as to feed his family and
procreate, the Owner tries to entrap the human
“does” to the same purpose.16
These paired ideas of sexual competition and
sexual exchange especially characterize the Hum-
mingbird myth of the Kekchi Mayas. In one ver-
sion (Schumann 1988: 213), the hero and the deer
are presented from the very outset, not just as
the hunter and the hunted, but precisely as sexual
rivals, trying to win over the same woman, the
nubile Earth representative of generalized fertility.
The idea of using the wife so as to get at the quarry
may have its roots here; for having watched the
Earth Owner’s daughter making love to a stag,
the hunter acts upon the occasion, and kills his
animal rival.17 * * * From a fragmentary Tzeltal account
to which Thompson (1970: 370) has already drawn
attention, it would appear that without such an
intervention, the Earth Owner’s daughters would
remain attached to and, indeed, symbiotic with
the deer folk, their bodily states affecting the rut
of their animal partners: “Our forefathers told the
story of the deer and the woman; that the animal
wanted to approach her and lifted up her skirt, her
tsek. It is for this reason, for having put its head
under her cloth, that it changes its antlers as each
year passes by: the heat of the woman burnt them”
(Castro 1959: 19 f.; my translation).
In the predominant Kekchi versions, the hunt-
er’s wife ultimately becomes the celestial, lunar
ancestress of human beings, rather than a terrestrial
16 By itself, the notion of Owners of specific natural domains
and of demons, seducing human women and reproducing
their species with them, is widespread, both among the
Mayas and among other Central American Indians (such as
the Tolupan and Misquito); it sometimes serves to explain
specific disease symptoms in women. What is of concern
here, however, is the strategic aspect of sexual conquest
and its coexistence with contractual relationships.
17 The passage runs as follows: “A girl was walking close to
her house when she met a deer. At first she was frightened,
but the deer followed her, and since she saw that he was
not afraid of her, she drew nearer, and they stuck together.
Seeing that the girl was at ease, the deer persuaded her to let
him have sexual relations with her, but a hunter witnessed
her from a distance, and when the girl went away, the
hunter took the opportunity to approach the deer and kill
it” (Schumann 1988: 213; my translation).
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
399
“deer-rabbit” or “honeybee” wife.18 But at first,
her womb remains closed. In order to get access
to the source of human fertility, the hunter finds
himself obliged to return to the deer and, by the
same token, to establish some sort of exchange
with them; for obviously, he is now about to incur
an everlasting debt. In one version (Carlson and
Eachus 1971a: 154; cf. 1971b: 397), an intermedi-
ary informs the hunter that his wife “still needs
for you to talk with the deer.” That would, almost
inevitably, involve the Owner of the Deer. In any
case, as a result of these talks, a stag emissary
arrives and jumps over the woman three times,
thereby transforming her into a true, full-grown
human being. Usually, however, there are two
stags, a brocket and a white-tailed deer, and they
jump on the woman to mold her labia with their
hooves, thereby opening up the flowery cave of
her womb and freeing the way for “human fawns”
to emerge. An alternative scenario, in which the
hunter takes the role of the stags upon himself,
cutting the womb of his wife with an antler (Wil-
son 1995: 143),19 appears to cast the hunter as a
shaman restoring human fertility.
The seal and imprint of the deer carved into
the female body at the very locus of human
Procreation constitutes an indelible reminder of
the alliance henceforward tying together hunter
ar»d quarry, and of its ultimate purpose, the pro-
creation of their respective groups. The overall
balance is precarious, and, indeed, at this crucial
foment of Kekchi myth, both parties already
evince unmistakable signs of mistrust. The brocket
touches the womb only lightly, for fear that its foot
flight get stuck (Dieseldorff 1926: 5)20; and the
hunter and his wife, for their part, proceed to kick
the ferocious white-tailed deer, which made the
beeper imprint (Termer 1930: 492). As to the deer,
their fear is quite understandable. Even though the
hunter invitingly spreads the legs of the woman
(Cruz Torres 1965: 43), the very fact that they are
18 This is the contrast as it is operative within Hummingbird
fttyth. Of course, as a lunar goddess, Hummingbird’s wife
ls bound to remain closely associated with the fertility
and growth of “deer-rabbit,” i.e., the game, as well; and
consequently, either a rabbit or (though more rarely) a deer
ls recognized in the moon.
If the antler here opens up the womb and bestows fertility,
the Oaxacan Tlapanec tale referred to in section 3 (Loo
1980: 107 f.), it punishes female abuse of the womb: With
their antlers, stags ravish the adulterous wife of a deer
hunter who has been summoned, along with the hunter,
to the Owner’s cave.
Actually, and contrary to the usual sequential order, the
Dieseldorff version has the white-tailed deer try first and
then retract its foot, with the brocket trying next.
only to approach and tread upon her, but not to
penetrate sexually, rather makes the situation re-
semble the hunting strategy of holding the woman
out as bait.
6 Classic Mayan Restorers of the Deer
Various vase scenes from the Classic era docu-
ment the antiquity of the erotic conception of the
hunt.21 Apart from a series of couplings between a
woman and various animals (paralleled by codical
and terracotta representations), one of the most
explicit examples is a woman performing a sort
of striptease for a stag, with the excited animal
running towards her (Fig. 1). This scene is entirely
in conformity with the hunting strategies out-
lined above and their reflections in the foundation
myth of the solar Twin (cf. Robicsek and Hales
1981: 170). The scene is mirrored by a second
one which has an aged Earth Owner fondling the
breasts of another woman.22 The lustful old man
is reminiscent of the “Old Trapper” who lets the
hunters have their deer if he is allowed to interfere
with the hunters’ women. In any case, the general
theme appears to be that of an exchange, or even
alliance, with a powerful Owner.
Against such a background, we may now ap-
proach a number of vase scenes (six in all) which
allow us to look into the “uterine cave” of the
deer. It is pictured as a cavernous palace room
with an old man prostrate on his throne or dais.
In most cases, he is lying in agony. Around the
throne, stags are being embraced and mounted by
young women (Figs. 2, 3, 4). While one of the
women is embracing a stag (Figs. 2, 3) or tending
to a fawn (Fig. 5), another one, standing next to
the throne, is in her turn being embraced by one
of the young men attending the scene (Figs. 2,
3). These youths are provided with the antlers,
cervine ears, and miniature conch-horn pendants of
the deer. Although closely connected to the hunt,
21 On a Tiquisate vase (K3235, MVB3: 396), two hunters of
“deer-rabbit” display an ophidian erection: The first one
pursues a rabbit, the second one grasps an antlered deer
between its legs in a posture miming copulation. On another
vase (K4625, MVB4: 565), a deer hunter with the head of
a hunting deity for a headdress is ityphallic. Other explicit
sexual depictions related to the hunt can be found in caves,
the cave being both “funerary chamber” and “delivery
room” to the game.
22 This specific old man is somewhat atypical, especially be-
cause of his insect-like wings. By itself, a woman embraced
by an old man is a recurrent motif in Mayan art. The old
man’s hat can be that of a hunter, or may be constituted by
a deer head, i.e., by a hunting decoy.
Anth
lroPos 96.2001
400
H. E. M. Braakhuis
Fig. 1: Sexual exchange, K1339 (= CC 140)
Fig. 2: Deathbed scene, K1559 (= CC 14)
Fig. 3: Deathbed scene, K1182 (= CC 15)
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
401
Fig. 4: Deathbed scene, CC 16
Fig. 5: Deathbed scene, K2794 (= MVB2: 293)
these characters are not usually shown as actively
Participating in a hunting foray or wearing the
standard hunting accoutrements (such as certain
hats, shirts, netted packs, or javelins; cf. Hellmuth
1991).23
There can be little doubt that the suffering old
fiaan is the Owner of the Game. The physical type
ls that of an aged Earth Owner, and the cervine ear
betrays that he is more specifically connected to
the deer. Elsewhere, he is antlered and blows his
^ One plate (Sotheby 1982: no. 200) has an antlered young
man on a throne, now with a miniature feathered bowler
rather than a miniature conch-horn ornament, a normal-
ly-sized conch-horn and a javelin, while looking in the
eyes of a young, dead stag pushed against the border of
lhe scene down below (cf. Hellmuth 1991: 144, Fig. 7).
The antler attribute characterizes a wider group of figures;
amongst them are hunters operating as sacrifices and black
sorcerers, and including the skeletal death god.
Anthr0pos 96.2001
conch (Fig. 6, cf. CC 34-37a)24; here, the antler
is conspicuously lacking.25 * * Behind the Owner’s
head, in a corner under the canopy, what looks like
a tasseled hunting-skirt has been suspended; under
his bench, one or more birds are posted that could
24 Although the antlered Owner of the Deer resembles the god
Y presiding over the hunt with nooses, he lacks the latter’s
curly, chthonic hair. God Y’s hairdo resembles that of the
shell-eared, warlike Chac (e.g., CC 19, 24, 30-31). Only
once is it found on an atypical and relatively young Owner
of the Deer (CC 33), who, rather, represents the type of the
“ugly hunting-deity.”
25 In one case (Fig. 7), the Old Man, turned on his side, has a
spool of cotton set sideways on his forehead. The spool is
an attribute of the aged goddess(es) of midwifery that could
symbolize the “weaving” of the body and the growth of a
fetus (cf. Taube 1992: 105; 1994: 650, 662). On the famous
Actun Balam vase, a dwarfish hunter waving a spool forms
part of an elaborate hunting scene involving another woman
mounted on a stag.
402
H. E. M. Braakhuis
Fig. 6: Owner of the Deer, K4336
be his messengers, a widespread concept, familiar
among the Yucatec Mayas as well as the Mosquitos
and Sumus of Central America (cf. Redfield and
Villa 1934: 351; Zerries 1959: 146 f.).
The young women would appear to be the
Game Mothers and to represent the mythological
type of the Owner’s Daughter.26 In Mesoamerica,
Owners of the Game are stereotypically said to
ride on deer27; and both here and in related rep-
resentations, some of the young women emulate
their father in this. In those cases where the
mounts are antlered, one is reminded of the Chord
principle that whereas the Owner of the Deer
protects the does, his female counterpart protects
the stags (Wisdom 1940:400). Suggestively, in
Kekchi Hummingbird myth, the Owner’s daughter
is said to be conducted to the sky, where Sun
preceded her, by a stag (Burkitt, in Thompson
1970: 365). Seen in this light, the stag could be
viewed as a bride carrier on his way towards
26 In various cases (Figs. 3, 4, 7), the women evince the mouth
pieces of an aquatic serpent, such as are also found with
the Moon Goddess and other water-related figures (e.g.,
the Bacab-Chac-Pauahtun). It may be noted that among
various Mesoamerican groups the Owner of the Game
is identical with the Lightning Deity (e.g., Mixe: Lipp
1991: 30, 37, Nahua: Taggart 1983: 126). Nahua tales relate
encounters between hunters and Lightning’s daughters, or
“earth mothers” (Taggart 1983: 126 -135).
27 To give only a few examples of these deer-riding de-
ities: Kanjobales, the Guardian of the Game (La Farge
and Beyers 1931: 132); Tojolabales, the Niwan Winik or
Sombreron, another Owner of the Game (Ruz 1982: 63 f.);
Tzotziles, the subterranean chauk or Thundergod, collecting
rain powder during the dry season (Laughlin 1975: 111);
Mazatecs, the Owner of Animals (Benitez 1973: 44 f.).
the groom. More importantly, however, the Game
Mother riding a stag embodies the female and mar-
riageable aspect of the game vis-à-vis the hunter.
As to the deer themselves, they appear to reflect
the agony of their Owner. Their eyes are blackened
or broken, their faces evince a row of black spots
indicative of death (compare also CC 138), and
their pose, especially the turned-back head, is that
of a victim.28 They would appear to have returned
to the cave of their Owner either to die there, or
to be cured.
It is not immediately apparent how we should
explain the agony of the Owner. There is, however,
reason to assume that he may have fallen victim
to intruding hunters. The shooting of the Yucatec
deer guardian, the cervine Zip, is suggestive in
this respect. That killing constitutes an exceptional
feat with serious consequences, since the deer
holding the funeral wake are without defense and
can all be slain (Redfield and Villa 1934: 118).
Various features of the vase scenes support
this comparison,29 and we might, therefore,
consider the deer guardian a special form of the
Owner.
The fate of the deer guardian may also have
befallen the Owner directly. In a discussion of
Classic Mayan hunting scenes, Boot (1989: 36 f.)
called attention to a remarkable story from Nica-
ragua, communicated to him by the late Wolfgang
Haberland. In this story, a hunter wounds a deer
and follows its trail high up the slopes of a
mountain. There, the deer is seen to enter a house.
When he opened the door, the hunter “saw a young
woman. Asking where the deer had gone, he just
saw the door at the back of the house shut. He went
to the door, opened it, and saw a badly wounded
man struggling onto a bed. Asking where the
deer had gone, the young woman answered: ‘You
28 The turned-back head explicitly identifies a victim on
DC30 c (speared deer), DC47 (speared puma), DC45 c
(dead deer), and Coe 1978: pi. 8 (deer killed by a puma, cf.
Braakhuis 1987:245).
29 On CC 15 (Fig. 3), there is a suggestion of the miasmas
believed to surround a dying Zip (Redfield and Villa
1934: 118). The Owner’s protruding navel (a feature shared
with certain demonical apparitions) may be connected to
this. Some of the birds under the deathbed (Figs. 2, 3, 5, 7)
could be the ppaap-zipob (Redfield and Villa 1934:351)»
possibly Brown Jays (Tozzer 1941: 155, fn. 780), whose
task it is to warn the deer. The Game Mother embracing
a deer may have been called ix-meklah-u-sip (ix-mek-La-
hu[n]-sip?) “She who embraces the Sip [deer guardian]
(or “She who embraces Lahu[n]-Sip”?). The Ritual of the
Bacabs (Roys 1965, fos. 107, 109) mentions this woman
among the mothers of a personified inflammation which Is
to be removed by the hunting deity Ah Tabay at the place
of Uuc-yol-Sip, apparently a guardian of the deer.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
403
Fig. 7: Deathbed scene, K4012
% 8:
Marriage bed scene (drawn by Hans Sprangers, after Patterson 1992: 70 f.)
shot the Lord of the Deer.’ Thereupon the hunter
.ft-” The conclusion of the story is strangely
^consequential, for although matters can hardly
aave rested here, the reactions - or fates - of the
aunter and of the “deer folk” are not disclosed.
Since the Owner represents the entire species,
a!s agony is likely to imply that of his deer, and
VlCe versa. The curing, and especially the regenera-
l°n, of the dying deer would thus affect the ailing
man in the same way. It is significant that
°Ue of the antlered youths is discretely embracing
a Game Mother” (Figs. 2, 3); for, as I shall
ar§ue, the intent to regenerate the deer appears
constitute the background of the interactions
etWeen the young men and women shown on the
Anthropos 96.2001
six vases. Together, these antlered youths could
be viewed as hunters recruited as servants to the
Owner by some pact, or, perhaps, as the Mayan
counterparts to the shamanic mediators of the
Desanas, whose tasks not only included bargaining
the terms of the exchange between mankind and
the game people, but equally and more specif-
ically, engendering new animals for the Owner.
Supporting this interpretation, what looks like a
bargaining session between a representative of the
deer folk, seated in front of the palace room with
the agonizing Owner, and an antlered “mediator”
is depicted on one of the six vases (Fig. 7).
Fortunately, we are in a position to put this hy-
pothesis (in as far as it relates to the interaction of
404
H. E. M. Braakhuis
the younger characters) to the test. A variant of the
deathbed scene has recently been published which,
if taken as a sequel, transforms the deathbed into
a marriage bed. On the vase in question (Fig. 8),
executed in a style markedly different from the
other ones, a young woman is riding on the lap of
an antlered young man rather than being embraced
by him;30 and instead of standing alongside the
throne with the recumbent Owner, the couple is
sitting on top of it, hiding the lower part of the
Owner’s body from view. A reed mat covers the
dais. In the Madrid Codex (Codex Madrid 1967),
a whole series of couples is seated on such mats
in token of marriage, including a woman opposite
a deer (MC 92d2, cf. the glyphic reference on
DC21b4).
With the sexual activity of the young couple
taking place on his mat, the Old Man’s appear-
ance is altered: The signs of bodily decay have
disappeared, and an antler adorns his forehead.
This antler has, however, been assimilated to a
sprouting maize plant, just as the Totonacs iden-
tify antlers, when covered with velvet (i.e., when
still growing), with maize ears (Ichon 1969: 76).
Inversely, the 16th-century Yucatec expression xu-
lubyen “nascent maize” (Barrera 1980) apparently
involves a comparison with a growing antler, or
xulub. The device of rendering the Owner’s antler
as a maize sprout made it possible to convey its
incipient growth.31
The presence of another antler, now as a ritual
attribute, indicates that the young man has been as-
similated into, and absorbed by, the deer folk. The
role-reversal implied by this finds confirmation in
the black hands imprinted on the women’s white
skirts. These are signs characteristic of hunters and
once, of a puma.32 Therefore, we have here the
mirror image of the wife of a hunter seducing
a stag (as represented on CC 140, see Fig. 1):
30 The Dresden Codex (DC19bl) has a very similar couple.
The anonymous young man wears a specific cap, which
recurs only five times in the codex. Three out of the five
times (DC 17a, 14b, 10c) it is worn by a youthful deity
glyphically identified as god Q. Note that a glyphically
explicit god Q without cap has directly been depicted as god
H (DC 6c), whom I believe to represent the Tonsured Maize
God (rather than the Number Three deity). The remaining
occurrence is on DC 12b, where the capped youth (with a
flower piercing his septum) is glyphically identified as god
H.
31 The vegetative antler may be further compared to those
jaguar tails which, assimilated to plant stems in nahualis-
tic scenes (e.g., K2669, MVB2: 254; K3392), are thereby
suggested to be “sprouting.”
32 For black hands on hunters, see: K1373, K2345, K3924,
K4625. On a puma:CC141.
The deerwomen of the Owner have apparently
succeeded in seducing a hunter, and the hunter has
been assimilated to a stag.33
The contrast between the dying Old Man with-
out antlers and the grinning Old Man with a
“flowery” antler suggests that the Owner’s sexual
energies34 are being renewed by those of the
young hunter. This sexual renewal is paralleled
in the regeneration of the bones of his deer and
the incipient growth of their antlers. What would
otherwise be the hunter’s seed and offspring is
now to enter and reinforce his own stock, a feat
which can readily explain the Owner’s sardonic
smile. Indeed, with its sexual weirdness, the entire
scene is reminiscent of the sphere of exhibitionism
characterizing the Mayan “Old Trapper” and his
counterparts elsewhere. Thus, one finds the Yaqui
“Old Men” - representatives of the Owner of
the Game - parodying the consummation of a
human marriage by a travesty and in the process,
assuming the very position of the antlered young
man and the “Game Mother” on the vase (cf.
Spicer 1940: 188 f.).
The Restorer of the Deer has undergone a
telltale change of appearance as well. He is now
unmistakably the Tonsured Maize God, and seems
to be denoted as such by the second glyph from the
left. In one of the parallel scenes (Fig. 5), there are
two glyphs to the right of the antlered young man
(a decidedly aristocratic type), the first of these
clearly being that of the Tonsured Maize God.35 * * A
parallel is thus implied between vegetal and animal
procreation (or between seeds and semen), in line
with the “nascent maize” antler on the head of the
Owner of the Game.
This same parallelism is evident in various
other ways as well. Materially, the Tonsured Maize
God is represented by the ear on the stalk (Taube
1992: 46). To the Choles of Tila, this maize ear
(na ’al) represents “the god of abundance of plants
and animals”: maize and beans on the one hand,
33 The Game Mother’s sexual role here is a positive, life-af-
firming one. Viewed negatively, she would more properly
correspond to the X-Tabay “Female Ensnarer” (cf. Boot
1989).
34 Above the Owner, there is what would seem to be a
blowgun. A giant blowgun characterizes the Earth Owner
of Kekchi Elummingbird myth, and may express his phallic
power.
35 On this vase (K2794), a date and a verb precede a re-
lationship indicator (T126.552:23) for which a reading as
“the wife of,” or “he takes as a wife,” has been proposed
(Bricker 1986: 68-70). Three male personal names come
next. The first of these (also found on CC15 and CC16)
would appear to refer to a representative of the dead. The
second one denotes the Tonsured Maize God.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Way of All Flesh
405
chickens and hogs on the other (Aulie y Aulie
1978). In view of his broader associations with
cultivated, courtly life, the Tonsured Maize God
corresponds to Xochipilli “Flower Prince,” just as
the Foliated Maize God corresponds to Cinteotl
“Maize God” (cf. Braakhuis 1990: 127 and fn. 49).
It is thus of interest that as part of the pre-Spanish
feasts of Xochipilli on 1 and 7 Xochitl, egg shells
were strewn in thanksgiving for the “chickens”
(which would mean, turkeys) the god had sent
(Codex Magliabechiano 1983: 200; 46v-47v). Al-
though it is true that the association with fowl
and hogs more specifically appears to put the
maize, or the Tonsured Maize God, on a par with
domesticated animals, it should not be forgotten
that in the Yucatec Lowlands, as in the Guatemalan
Highlands, deer were once semidomesticated (Pohl
and Feldman 1982: 305; Tozzer 1941: 127).
As noted above, Xochipilli’s mythology has
survived along the Gulf Coast, where the Maize
Hero is sometimes referred to as Chicome-Xochitl
(cf. Sandstrom 1991: 245 f.; Baron Larios 1978:
443 f.). Here, too, vegetal and animal foods are put
°n a par: Not only was the Maize Hero himself
born from an egg, but a Nahua variant affirms that
when the womb-like trunk containing his fetus
burst open, “many different animals were born”
together with the maize child (Law 1957: 348).
The correspondence of the Tonsured Maize
God to Xochipilli and the association of the latter
with procreation and abundance - and hence with
Sexual pleasure36 - can explain why the Restorer
of the Deer assumes the aspect of this deity at the
Very moment of sexually regenerating the deer.
Furthermore, it can hardly be coincidental that
Xochipilli’s present-day mythology has him dig up
and regenerate the bones of his father, which are
then transformed into the flesh of the deer.37 For
fhese reasons, perhaps, the Tonsured Maize God’s
jeweled girdle attributes adorn both the antlered
deer (Figs. 2, 3, 4) and the antlered “mediator”
(Figs. 2, 7), whereas his forehead ornaments ap-
Pear on the deerwoman (Fig. 8). These adornments
6 Other vase scenes have the Tonsured Maize God surrounded
by nude young women, again suggestive of a function
similar to that of Xochipilli/Macuil-Xochitl.
tn connection with the Maize Hero myth, there is a
constant play on the intimate connection between maize
and deer. Thus, Chicome-Xochitl “Maize-stalk with Seven
Ears” (Sandstrom 1991: 245) is paralleled by Chicome-Xo-
chitl “Deer-antler with Seven Points” (Coe and Whittaker
1982: 132 and fn. 7). In the Totonac variant of Maize Hero
Utyth, the deer father is called “Deer with the Maize-ear
Antler” (Ichon 1969:76). The father had departed to find
the maize (Elson 1947: 204), only to return to his wife as
a deer.
Anth
signal their bearers’ involvement in a ritualized
sexual act aiming at the regeneration of the deer
bones and, thereby, directly or indirectly, at the
perpetuation of the respective groups.
Viewed in another way, this specific Classic
Mayan cave ritual, particularly as it has been
depicted on the “marriage bed” vase, is like the
subterranean mirroring of the 16th-century Nahua
deer hunt ritual as presented by Ruiz de Alarcon.
Whereas there, the “Xochiquetzal” of the hunters
attracts a deer “husband” called Chicome-Xochitl,
it is here, inversely, the “Xochiquetzal” of the
deer who attracts a human “husband” whom we
may justly call “Chicome-Xochitl” as well, that
being the name of Xochipilli among contemporary
Nahuas, and the date of one of his “flower feasts”
among the Aztecs. Indeed, the two “Chicome-Xo-
chitls” might both be involved in the vase scene,
with the son acting as the Restorer of the Deer,
and the father as the representative of the dead
deer about to be restored.38
7 The Aftermath of Conquest
Given that the hunt was a favored image for both
war and alliance, the death and restoration of the
deer is bound to have had political implications.
This is immediately suggested by two of the death-
bed scenes where the hapless Owner of the Deer
has been turned on his side and depicted frontally
(Figs. 2, 7). This pose makes him answer to the
stereotype of the conquered enemy, trampled un-
der the feet of a victorious ruler (e.g., Naranjo 21).
Elsewhere, one finds more complicated variations
on this theme. A war god may bite the Owner’s
heel and cripple him (Fig. 6), or a war chief in
the shape of a puma may attack his deer and make
him into a Lord of Flies enthroned on a swollen
deer carcass (Coe 1978: pi. 8).39
38 On the vase in Fig. 8, the deer’s right hind leg is articulated
at the knee as if it were a human leg, suggesting that
the deer might be the transformation of a human being.
In addition, this animal shares certain features (the three
goatees and the marks on jaw and flank) with the deer “spirit
companions,” or transformers, depiected on a Naranjo vase
(Coe 1982: no. 60, K927; cf. the deer on K1398, also
from Naranjo). A possible reference to a Naranjo ruler is
contained in the Primary Standard Text (not shown here)
of the Fig. 8 vase.
39 Instead of having the heads of Death God A,’ these flies
evince the features of the Owner of the Deer, especially
his wrinkled forehead (compare Fig. 6 in this text). The
bloated deer serves as their throne seat, with the puma
hiding inside. For a detailed analysis and interpretation of
the “Princeton 8” vase scenes as parts of a period-ending
ritual, see Braakhuis 1987.
lroPos 96.2001
406
H. E. M. Braakhuis
Moreover, because the Owner of the Deer
belongs to the wider group of Old Men of the
Earth, one finds analogous expressions of defeat
associated with the latter group. The subjected Old
Men par excellence were the four Bacab-Pauah-
tuns. Accordingly, in the Dresden Codex (Codex
Dresdensis 1972) (DC60a), an autochthonous Tur-
tle Bacab is being attacked by foreign warriors
while a stag ducks under his bench; and on a by
now famous Naranjo vase (K1398, MVB1: 81),
an aged deity wearing the netted headdress of a
Bacab-Pauahtun is mirrored by a dead and petrified
stag, while submitting himself to a Sun Deity
representative (as a comparison with Naranjo’s
stela 22 makes evident) of the triumphant Naranjo
warlord.
If conquest is to endure, it must include alli-
ance. Through the seductive power of the Game
Mothers, representing autochthonous women, and
through the ambiguous powers of penetration
proper of a conqueror, the eroticism of the hunt
is to work this vital transaction. Blood had been
shed, however, and contracts broken. It is therefore
far from inconceivable that we should view the
sexual restoration of the deer - i.e., of a victimized
autochthonous population - as the culmination of
rites of atonement such as those mentioned by
Landa for the month of Zac. The hunters were
“to appease the gods and to turn aside the anger
which they would have against them and their
sowings [...] on account of the blood which they
had spilled during their hunts” (Tozzer 1941: 162).
In this respect, too, it would make perfect sense
to have the deer restored by a god whose primary
function it is to create the preconditions for the
flowering of the maize (cf. Braakhuis 1990), and
who is, consequently, often represented by the
king. Once the “Flower King’s” sexual energy has
made the Owner’s antler sprout again, his own
“maize-antler” can freely surge from the earth.
One may recall that it was in order to pave the
way for agriculture that the Pipil Earth Owner and
Owner of the Game had the hunter quit all out-
standing debts and regenerate the complete number
of twenty deer. The hunters’ children would then
be farmers, and “men made of corn dough” would
replace the “men made of deer meat.”
This same transition can be expressed more
dramatically, and for that we have to return to
Hummingbird. His tale is sometimes varied in such
a way that the ancestral deer hunter is forced, in
the end, to part with the woman he had taken
away from the deer and to leave her to the com-
ing generation of maize farmers (e.g., Schumann
1988). Consequently, instead of being reduced to
dry bones and regenerated as the game wife of
the hunters, the hunter’s woman now becomes
what is traditionally called the “Maize Mother,”
that is, the dry sowing seeds, destined to be mar-
ried off to the farmers that are about to climb the
stage.40
This article has greatly benefitted from the critical
acumen of Dr. Addie Johnson. I am indebted to Hans
Sprangers for generously making the drawing of Fig. 8.
Abbreviations
CC Ceramic Codex (see Robicsek and Hales 1981)
DC Dresden Codex
K Kerr Archives
MC Madrid Codex
MVB Maya Vase Book (see Kerr 1989-1997)
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Anth
iropos 96.2001
Studia Series
of the Anthropos Institute
Ethnological research has
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ting spread of Western
industrial civilization has
lead to a devaluation of
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As a result, the Anthropos
Institute has taken on the
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ute to the investigation
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Anthropos
96.2001: 411-421
Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den Azteklnnen
Zwischen totaler Frauenunterdrückung und Geschlechterparallelität
Patricia Zuckerhut
Abstract. - Ancient Mexico with its highly stratified societies
often serves for theories of class formation and state origin.
Yet the often associated suppression of women is rarely treated.
Studies emphasizing gender relations usually assume inequality
to the disadvantage of women but they verify this, if at all,
ln few parts of society. This paper focuses on Aztec gender
relations reflecting the various differences of class, occupation,
age, experience, etc. Gender is viewed in the domain of econ-
0rny, politics, and kinship as well as in the field of sexuality
and symbols. The outcome will be a complex pattern going
far beyond a simple dualistic concept of man-woman. [Aztecs,
Sender relations, concept of differences]
Patricia Zuckerhut, Dr. phil., Studium der Ethnologie und
Psychologie in Wien, freie Wissenschaftlerin und Lektorin
an der Universität Wien, Mitbegründerin und Mitarbeiterin
der ARGE Wiener Ethnologinnen; Forschungsschwerpunkte:
rezente und historische Nahua (Azteklnnen), feministische
Anthropologie, gender-Forschung, Produktionsweisendebatte
u.nd Staatsentstehung, Bedingungen der Wissensproduktion in
Österreich. - Publikationen: verschiedene Buchbeiträge zum
Thema Feminismus; s. auch zit. Literatur.
Das “Alte Mexiko” mit seinen stark stratifizierten
Gesellschaften wird oft für Theorien der Klassen-
bildung und der Staatsentstehung herangezogen.1
Seltener jedoch wird die damit in Verbindung ge-
brachte Frauenunterdrückung behandelt. Arbeiten,
bie das Geschlechterverhältnis in den Mittelpunkt
ber Untersuchung stellen, gehen meist von einer
Ungleichheit zuungunsten der Frauen aus, weisen
diese aber, wenn überhaupt, nur in einzelnen ge-
Sellschaftlichen Bereichen nach.1 2
Neuerdings gibt es allerdings Ansätze (Kel-
°§g 1995, 1997), die differenzierter als bisher
(wie z. B. Rodriguez-Shadow 1991) auf die Be-
ziehungen zwischen den Geschlechtern eingehen.
Susan Kellogg spricht in Anlehnung an einen
Terminus von Irene Silverblatt (1987) von einer
“Parallelität der Geschlechter” bei den Azteklnnen
im vorspanischen Mexiko. Auf die Differenzen
innerhalb eines Geschlechts (bedingt durch Klasse,
ethnische Herkunft, Lokalisierung, Alter, Berufs-
gruppe u. a. vgl. Zuckerhut 2000) und auf die
Überschneidungen zwischen Geschlecht, Klasse,
ethnischer Herkunft usw. wird aber kaum bzw.
gar nicht eingegangen. Gerade die feministische
Forschung der letzten Jahre zeigt aber die Bedeu-
tung der Berücksichtigung dieser Differenzen und
ihrer Überschneidungen und Wechselwirkungen
(vgl. z. B. Schein und Strasser 1997). In meinem
Aufsatz werden die aztekischen Geschlechterver-
hältnisse unter Berücksichtigung vielfältiger Diffe-
renzen wie Klasse, Beruf, Alter, Erfahrung u. a. be-
trachtet. Gender wird auf den verschiedenen Ebe-
nen von Ökonomie, Politik und Verwandtschaft
sowie Sexualität und auf der symbolischen Ebene
nachgegangen. Daraus ergibt sich ein vielschichti-
ges Bild, das weit über ein einfaches dualistisches
Konzept Mann-Frau hinausgeht.
1 Vgl. Adams 1966; Broda 1984; Claessen and Skalnik 1978,
1981; Coe 1981; Conrad and Demarest 1988; u. a.
2 Vgl. Leacock and Nash 1981; Nash 1978, 1980; Rodri-
guez-Shadow 1991; Rostas 1997; Sachse 1963; Seler-Sachs
1984.
412
Patricia Zuckerhut
Einleitung
Entsprechend einer häufig getroffenen Unterschei-
dung in der Qualität der Geschlechterbeziehungen
zwischen klassenlosen Gesellschaften und Klas-
sengesellschaften gehen viele Forscherinnen von
einem qualitativen Sprung mit dem Übergang zum
patriarchalen Staat aus.3 * Im Gegensatz zu klas-
senlosen Gesellschaften, in denen die Verhältnisse
zwischen den Geschlechtern durch Egalität oder
Komplementarität gekennzeichnet wären, sei in pat-
riarchalen Gesellschaften einerseits die Kontrolle
zentraler Institutionen durch Frauen nicht (mehr)
gegeben, andererseits stütze der frühe Staat als die
wichtigste zentrale Institution die Etablierung des
Patriarchats (Lenz 1997: 236). In dieser Tradition
präsentiert Maria Rodriguez-Shadow (1991) “La
mujer Azteca” als ein Wesen, das in ökonomischer,
in politischer, in sozialer, in moralischer und in
sexueller Hinsicht unterdrückt wird. Bei ihr, wie
bei anderen Autorinnen (z. B. Nash 1978) ist die
Nahua-Frau eine Art Arbeitstier, die “ihr Leben
damit verbrachte, zu gebären, zu putzen, zu kochen
und zu weben” (Kellogg 1997: 264).
Nicht ganz so drastisch stellt sich die Situation
aztekischer Frauen für Caecilie Seler-Sachs (1984
[1919]) dar, die zwischen “der breiten Masse des
niederen Volkes” (Seler-Sachs 1984: 105) und den
oberen Schichten unterscheidet. Die “Frau aus dem
niederen Volk” ist nach Seler-Sachs die Erhalterin
der Familie und des Hauswesens, und ihr Los be-
steht im Gebären von Kindern und der Verrichtung
3 Während die eher strukturalistisch orientierten Vertreterin-
nen der frühen feministischen Forschung von einer univer-
sellen Unterdrückung von Frauen ausgingen (vgl. z. B. Ort-
ner 1974; Rosaldo 1974), so unterschieden viele der mar-
xistisch orientierten feministischen Forscherinnen zwischen
klassenlosen Gesellschaften und Klassengesellschaften. In
klassenlosen Gesellschaften seien die Geschlechterverhält-
nisse mit größerer Wahrscheinlichkeit durch Geschlechter-
egalität (Leacock 1981) oder auch Geschlechterkomple-
mentarität (Schlegel 1977; Lenz und Luig 1990) gekenn-
zeichnet, für Klassengesellschaften hingegen seien Frauen-
unterdrückung und Frauenausbeutung charakteristisch (z. B.
Leacock 1981; Schlegel 1977; Sacks 1976; vgl. dazu auch
Silverblatt 1991).
In den 1990er Jahren hat sich die Debatte der feministi-
schen Anthropologie allerdings von den Differenzen in den
Geschlechterverhältnissen zwischen verschiedenen (Arten
von) Gesellschaften über die Differenzen zwischen Frauen
innerhalb einer Gesellschaft hin zu den Differenzen inner-
halb einer Person verlagert. Nach wie vor gibt es aber kaum
Untersuchungen über Frauen-/Geschlechterbeziehungen in
“frühen Staaten”. Eine der wenigen Forscherinnen, die sich
mit dieser Thematik befassen, Irene Silverblatt (1991: 150),
betont, daß es in staatlich organisierten Gesellschaften,
wie z. B. bei den Inka, nicht notwendig eine einheitliche
gender-Struktur gibt.
von Hausarbeit im Dienste des Mannes, in völliger
Abhängigkeit von ihm. Dennoch genießt sie ihre
kleinen Freuden, “darf sich putzen und am Tanze
teilnehmen” (105). Die Frau der oberen Gesell-
schaftsschichten, ist zwar ebenfalls “dem Manne
untertan”, aber innerhalb ihres engen Kreises steht
sie doch mehr oder weniger neben ihm. Sie ist
auch Herrin und als solche “Beschützerin ihrer
Untergebenen” (105). Weiters ist sie sorgfältig
erzogen und unterrichtet. Gesamtgesellschaftlich
gesehen sind Frauen im “Alten Mexiko” rechtlich
dem Manne untergeordnet, dennoch verleiht ihnen
der mexikanische “Kulturstaat” (106) Schutz ge-
gen Schädigungen und Übergriffe.
Diesen Darstellungen stehen nun neuere Un-
tersuchungen (z. B. Kellogg 1995, 1997; Rostas
1997) gegenüber, die mit einem anderen theore-
tischen Konzept zu teilweise völlig anderen Er-
gebnissen kommen.
Um “eine genauere Beschreibung und Ana-
lyse der Rollen, des (sozialen) Status und der
Erfahrungen von Frauen” (Kellogg 1997:263) in
Gesellschaften mit komplexen politischen Institu-
tionen und dauerhaften Klassenhierarchien - wie
der aztekischen - zu ermöglichen, greift Susan
Kellogg (1995, 1997) das von Irene Silverblatt
erstmals 1987 angewandte Konzept der Geschlech-
terparallelität auf. Die Idee der Geschlechterparal-
lelität bei den Nahua erstrecke sich auf “parallele
Sozialstrukturen und kulturelle Institutionen für
Männer und Frauen” (Kellogg 1997:264), wobei
Geschlechterparallelität allerdings nicht Gleichheit
beinhalte. Männer und Frauen nehmen in vielen
Bereichen des Lebens parallele und komplementä-
re Rollen ein, wenngleich - vor allem im Bereich
der Politik - auch ein gewisses Maß an Geschlech-
terhierarchie existiert. “Im großen und ganzen
überwogen diese getrennten, aber gleichwertigen
Aspekte der Geschlechterrollen allerdings die hie-
rarchischen Aspekte” folgert Kellogg (1997: 264).
Sie verweist zwar darauf, daß gesellschaftliche
Klassen als Grundlage für die Hierarchie bei den
Nahua von extrem hoher Bedeutung sind, und
daß die Erfahrungen von Frauen bezüglich ihrer
Arbeit, ihrer täglichen Verrichtungen usw. sicher-
lich sehr unterschiedlich sind, geht aber auf diese
Differenzen leider nicht näher ein. Für sie ist das
Geschlecht “eine tiefe, Vorstellung und Verhal-
ten betreffende Trennlinie im Leben der Nahua”
(1997:268).
In diesem Artikel soll nun der Versuch un-
ternommen werden, unter Berücksichtigung der
vielfachen Differenzen in der aztekischen Gesell-
schaft, zu einer differenzierten Darstellung der
Geschlechterverhältnisse in Tenochtitlän-Tlatelol-
Anthropos 96.2001
Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den Azteklnnen
413
co zu kommen. Ausgangspunkt hierfür ist ein dy-
namischer gender-Begriff, der historischen Verän-
derungen unterworfen ist, und daher auch für jede
Gesellschaft bzw. gesellschaftliche Gruppe neu zu
erarbeiten ist. Die Herstellung von gender im Sin-
ne einer sozialen Geschlechtsidentität erfolgt durch
Rollenzuschreibungen und durch das Ausleben
dieser Rollen entsprechend den gesellschaftlichen
und sozialen Bedingungen und Wertvorstellungen,
manchmal aber auch zu diesen im Widerspruch
stehend. Gender verändert sich im Laufe eines
Lebens bzw. auch der Situation entsprechend. Es
gibt viele Bedeutungen von Frau- bzw. Mannsein
in einer Gesellschaft, sofern diese zwischen den
beiden Geschlechtern Mann und Frau unterschei-
det - wie das im Falle der “Alten Mexikane-
rinnen” der Fall ist - entsprechend dem Alter,
der Erfahrung, der Klasse usw. Gender variiert
entsprechend den Erwartungen, die an das Indi-
viduum herangetragen werden. Andererseits gibt
es immer auch abweichendes Verhalten, das nicht
notwendig mit den Erwartungen und Normen, die
m der Gesellschaft bezüglich der betreffenden gen-
¿fer-Konzepte existieren, übereinstimmen muß.
In der Folge wird der Funktion und/oder Be-
deutung von gender4 in der aztekischen Gesell-
schaft auf verschiedenen gesellschaftlichen Ebe-
nen nachgegangen, nämlich auf der Ebene von
Ökonomie, Politik und Verwandtschaft, auf der
Ebene der Sexualität und auf der symbolischen
Ebene. Allerdings sind vor allem die Differenzen
nach Klassen- und Berufszugehörigkeit auf der
Ebene der Sexualität und auf der symbolischen
Ebene erst in einem künftigen Forschungsprojekt
zu erarbeiten. Aufgrund der bisherigen Datenlage
muß in diesen Bereichen vorwiegend auf die obere
Gesellschaftsschicht eingegangen werden.
Ökonomie, Politik und Verwandtschaft
Teccalli, calpulli und Haushalt
^ei der aztekischen Gesellschaft handelt es sich
bekanntlich um eine Klassengesellschaft mit star-
*er interner Differenzierung. An ihrer Spitze ste-
uen der sogenannte Huey Tlatoani (Oberster Spre-
cher) und sein Vertreter, der Cihuacöatl (Schlan-
§enfrau). Der Huey Tlatoani wird aus einem Rat
^ hier kaum auf die Bedeutung von Sex (biologisches
Geschlecht) - also die körperlichen Merkmale, die zur Un-
terscheidung von Mann und Frau herangezogen werden -
emgegangen wird, verwende ich des weiteren “Geschlecht”
°der “Geschlechterverhältnis” im Sinne von gender (sozia-
les Geschlecht).
Anthropos 96.2001
von vier hohen Würdenträgern heraus gewählt.
Alle Würdenträger gehören bestimmten teccallis
(Herrscherinnenhäusern) an.
Das teccalli ist eine Art Körperschaft zur Ak-
kumulation und Verteilung von Gütern. Ihm ge-
hören eine Reihe miteinander verwandter pillis5
beiderlei Geschlechts an, die entsprechend ihrer
genealogischen Nähe zum Gründer/zur Gründe-
rin des teccalli einen unterschiedlichen Rang ein-
nehmen. Auch mit dem lineage-Gründer/der lin-
eage-Gründerin verwandte macehuallis,6 sowie
Pächterlnnen, die die Ländereien des teccalli be-
arbeiten, gehören ihm an. Die Bedeutung eines
tecuhtli, als Vorsteher des teccalli, ist von der Rolle
seines teccalli in der Gesamthierarchie abhängig.
Weibliche tecuhtlis dürfte es eher nicht gegeben
haben, da diese Titel in Zusammenhang mit kriege-
rischen Erfolgen und Leistungen vergeben wurden.
Außerhalb Tenochtitläns, bei anderen Gruppen des
“Alten Mexiko”, in denen die Ideologie des krie-
gerischen Erfolgs nicht derart ausgeprägt war, sind
weibliche tecuhtlis jedoch nicht auszuschließen.
Alle Einwohnerinnen Tenochtitläns gehören ei-
nem der zwanzig calpullis an, die einerseits als
soziale, andererseits als territoriale Einheit be-
trachtet wurden. Über die Organisation in cal-
pullis erfolgt die Regelung des Landbesitzes, die
soziale Arbeitsteilung, die territoriale Aufteilung
der Bevölkerung sowie die soziale Stratifizierung
(Monzón 1983: 107). Jedes calpulli hat einen ei-
genen Führer beziehungsweise eine Führerin,7 * den
sogenannten calpulleque, der von den Mitgliedern
des calpulli auf Lebenszeit gewählt wird. Zusam-
men mit dem Rat der Alten (huehuetque) regeln
sie die Landverteilung innerhalb des calpulli, die
calpulli-interne Gerichtsbarkeit, und sie vertreten
die Mitglieder des calpulli nach außen (Carrasco
1971:354; Moreno 1964: 80).
Die wichtigste Produktions- und Konsumtions-
einheit und somit von großer Bedeutung in der
Analyse der aztekischen Geschlechterverhältnisse
ist der Haushalt. Zusammensetzung und Größe ei-
ner Haushaltsgemeinschaft sind sehr unterschied-
lich und hängen möglicherweise auch vom Status
5 In der Literatur wird die Bezeichnung pilli allgemein mit
“Adeliger” übersetzt und in diesem Sinn verwendet. Der
Titel pilli kann durch beide Linien, die mütterliche wie die
väterliche, weitergegeben werden (Wolf 1993a; 1993b: 8).
6 Macehualli wird in der Literatur mit “Gemeinfreie” über-
setzt und ist die Bezeichnung für einen Angehörigen eines
calpulli mit Anspruch auf Land aus demselben, der/die
selbst nicht das Recht hat, den Titel pilli zu tragen, aber
persönlich nicht von einem/einer pilli abhängig ist.
7 Weibliche calpulli-Führerinnen werden allerdings nur für
die Frühzeit der Azteklnnen erwähnt.
414
Patricia Zuckerhut
seiner Mitglieder ab. Macehuallis, die in ihrem
calpulli leben, tendieren eher zu neolokaler Re-
sidenz und damit zu Kernfamilienhaushalten. So
ist es leichter für sie, ihre Landrechte geltend zu
machen.8 Angehörige eines teccalli hingegen leben
häufig in joint-family-Verbänden. So können sie
eher die benötigten Arbeitskräfte für den lokalen
tecuhtli bereitstellen (Berdan 1982: 69).
In Tenochtitlän dominieren Mehrpersonenhaus-
halte (Calnek 1972: 111), was sich möglicherweise
durch den eher geringen Anteil der Landwirtschaft
an der Ökonomie der Stadt und dem Aufblühen
verschiedenster Handwerksbetriebe erklärt. Ein ar-
beitsteilig organisierter Haushalt mit vier bis zwölf
erwachsenen Personen ist für einen Handwerksbe-
trieb günstiger als einer mit nur zwei Erwachsenen
und womöglich ein bis zwei Kleinkindern.
Ein Haushalt kann sich aus mehreren Fami-
lien zusammensetzen, die auf sehr unterschied-
liche Weise miteinander verwandt sein können.
Die Grundeinheit besteht normalerweise aus einem
männlichen Haushaltsvorstand, seiner Ehefrau und
deren Kindern. Eventuell kommen dazu die Ehe-
partnerinnen der Kinder und deren Kinder. Manch-
mal gehören auch Geschwister (meist Brüder)
der Haushaltsvorstände und deren Familien zum
Haushalt sowie verwaiste Nichten und Neffen der
Kernfamilie und nicht verwandte Bedienstete und
tlacohtlis.9 Es gibt eine haushaltsinterne Hierar-
chie verbunden mit einer geschlechtsspezifischen
Arbeitsteilung. In der Regel ist der männliche
Haushaltsvorstand als Vater und Ehemann ver-
antwortlich für das Wohlergehen des Haushalts,
also für die Verwaltung des Haushaltsbesitzes und
für die Versorgung der Haushaltsmitglieder. Er
ist Ratgeber und Lehrer seiner Kinder, vor allem
der Söhne, sowie eventuell im Haushalt lebender
verwaister Neffen und Nichten. Er vertritt die
Familie nach außen (Berdan 1982: 74). Die Frau
des Haushaltsvorstands übt in ihrer Eigenschaft
als Ehefrau und Mutter innere Autorität aus.10 Sie
8 Das Nutzungsrecht auf calpulli-Land wird mit der Heirat
vergeben.
9 Fälschlich übersetzt mit “Sklavinnen”. Im Grunde handelt
es sich um Personen, die ihre Arbeitskraft zu einem be-
stimmten Preis - in der Regel für eine bestimmte Menge
Mais - an eine andere Person verkaufen. Diese Personen
haben das Recht weiterhin in ihren Familien zu leben,
ihre Kinder sind keine tlacohtlis, sie haben ein eigenes
Einkommen und können dieses auch dafür nützen, sich
selbst “freizukaufen”. Es gibt aber noch andere Möglichkei-
ten, tlacohtli zu werden, jeweils verbunden mit bestimmten
Rechten und Pflichten, auf die ich hier nicht näher eingehen
will.
10 Spath (1973: 36) findet diese innere Autorität der Frau bei
den heutigen Tarasklnnen bestätigt.
ist zuständig für diverse Tätigkeiten innerhalb des
Hauses11 und für die Erziehung der Töchter (Ber-
dan 1982: 74). In der Rangordnung der Kinder ist
das Alter entscheidend (Lopez Austin 1984: 79).
Leben mehrere verheiratete Brüder zusammen in
einem Haushalt und ist keine Elterngeneration
vorhanden, ist der älteste Bruder der Haushalts-
vorstand (Berdan 1982:66; Carrasco 1971:369).
Stirbt dieser, so folgt ihm der nächstältere Bruder.
Haushaltsvorstände sind zwar in der Regel
Männer, aber es gibt auch vereinzelt weibliche
“Haushaltsvorständinnen”. Während aber Haus-
halte mit einem männlichen Vorstand mehrere
Generationen und Kernfamilieneinheiten umfassen
können, besteht die Haushaltsgruppe einer “Vor-
ständin” meist nur aus einer Kernfamilieneinheit.11 12
Berufsgruppen und gesellschaftlicher Status
Neben der bereits erwähnten Unterscheidung der
großen gesellschaftlichen Klassen pillis (Adelige),
macehuallis (Gemeinfreie) und ev. mayeque (Hö-
rige)13 gibt es in Tenochtitlän-Tlatelolco eine Viel-
zahl verschiedener Berufsgruppen mit sehr unter-
schiedlichem gesellschaftlichem Status. Diese Be-
rufsgruppen sind teilweise sehr unterschiedlich zu-
sammengesetzt in Hinblick auf Klasse, ethnische
Zugehörigkeit und natürlich Geschlecht und Alter,
andererseits gibt es aber auch in sich sehr homoge-
ne Berufsgruppen (vgl. Zuckerhut 2000: 206 ff.).
Auf die innerhäusliche geschlechtliche Arbeits-
teilung wurde im Zusammenhang mit den Haus-
haltsstrukturen bereits hingewiesen. In diesem
dualen Konzept, in welchem dem Mann die Au-
ßenaktivitäten und der Frau die innerhäuslichen
Arbeiten zugewiesen werden (vgl. dazu Berdan
1982: 74 bzw. Sahagün 1989/1: 415 f.), zeigen sich
jedoch sehr deutlich die Unterschiede zwischen
Theorie und Praxis. Selbst in der Landwirtschaft,
11 Vgl. zum Beispiel Lopez Austin (1984: 79), der den wich-
tigen ökonomischen Beitrag der Frau im Familienleben be-
tont. Zu den diesem Idealbild widersprechenden Praktiken
siehe unten.
12 Berdan 1982: 69, 74; Carrasco 1978: 33; Harvey 1986: 288;
Rojas 1986:44.
13 Diese Begrifflichkeit des europäischen Feudalsystems wur-
de auch von vielen späteren Autorinnen übernommen. Vor
allem zwischen mayeque - die von den Azteklnnen selbst
nicht als eigene Kategorie wahrgenommen wurden - und
den Hörigen gibt es jedoch grundlegende Unterschiede-
Mayeque unterstehen nicht der Gerichtsbarkeit ihres Grund-
herren/ihrer Grundherrin; sie können nicht mit dem Land,
das sie bearbeiten, zusammen verkauft werden u. a. (vgl-
dazu Hicks 1974, 1976). Die tlacohtlis dürfen nicht mit
den mayeque verwechselt werden.
Anthropos 96.2001
Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den Azteklnnen
415
die dem Ideal nach nur vom Mann ausgeübt wird,
ist die Situation nicht ganz so klar. So heißt es von
der Frau aus dem Volk, daß sie rüstig und stark für
die Feldbestellung sei (Sahagün 1952:53). Auch
die Ernte sei Aufgabe der Frau bzw. des “kaum
mannbaren Mädchens” (1952: 5).
Darüber hinaus gibt es eigene Außenaktivitä-
ten der Frauen. So gibt es eine geschlechtliche
Arbeitsteilung innerhalb bestimmter Berufsgrup-
pen: bei den hoch angesehenen amantecas (Fe-
derarbeiterinnen) sind die Frauen für das Färben
von Federn und Kaninchenhaar zuständig und
eventuell auch für das Aufkleben und Aufnä-
hen der Federn und Haarbüschel selbst (Sahagün
1989/11:581). Weiters gibt es eigene Berufsgrup-
pen, die Frauen Vorbehalten sind. Ein wichtiger
Beruf, der vor allem von Frauen ausgeübt wird,
ist zum Beispiel die Salzherstellung (Lombardo
de Ruiz 1973: 169; Rojas 1986: 138). Einerseits
angesehen, andererseits verachtet scheint der Beruf
der ahuianime, übersetzt mit “Prostituierte”, zu
sein, der Frauen Vorbehalten sein dürfte, die sich
jedoch äußerlich und von ihren Verhaltensweisen
her grundlegend von anderen Frauen unterschei-
den: sie schmücken und schminken sich sorgfäl-
tig; sie gehen alleine aus - mit hoch erhobenem
Kopf und sie suchen sich den Mann aus, der
ihnen am besten gefällt (González Torres 1989).
Männer wie Frauen sind im Markthandel tätig
(Rojas 1986:232). Auch am Fernhandel betei-
hgen sich Frauen, wenngleich sie nicht reisen
und daher möglicherweise in ihren Aufstiegs-
möglichkeiten eingeschränkt sind (Acosta Saig-
nes 1977: 447). Frauen wie Männer sind Ärztln-
nen (Sahagün 1989/11: 597, 606) und Priesterlnnen
(Zuckerhut 2000:244 f.) - die oberste Priester-
hierarchie ist jedoch den Männern Vorbehalten
(Sahagün 1989/1: 193-196, 229).
Frauen wie Männer üben also wichtige, hoch
angesehene Berufe aus. Die Positionen mit dem
höchsten Prestige sind aber an kriegerische Er-
folge geknüpft (Berdan 1982:34; Piho 1972:
320) - wobei diese Möglichkeit nur Männern offen
steht.
Alter und Erfahrung spielen für den gesell-
schaftlichen Status einer Person für Männer wie
Ihr Frauen eine große Rolle. Die rituelle Macht
einer Person nimmt mit dem Alter zu (López
Austin 1984: 288). Daher handelt es sich bei Ärz-
mrten, Hebammen, Heiratsvermittlerinnen u. a.,
also Personen mit gesellschaftlich wichtigen und
angesehenen Berufen, die medizinische und re-
gióse Kenntnisse erfordern, aber auch rituelle
flacht, in der Regel um ältere Personen (Zuckerhut
2000: 248 ff.).
Wthropos 96.2001
Ältere Leute haben auch mehr Erfahrung als
jüngere und daher auch mehr Mitspracherecht.
Es kann z. B. bei den Händlerinnen Vorkommen,
daß die Erfahrung eines Händlers/einer Händlerin
höher gewertet wird als das Prestige des Reisens.
So sind die Vorsteherinnen der Händlerinnen Alte,
das heißt Personen, die nicht (mehr) reisen, aber
schon über ein hohes Ausmaß an Erfahrung ver-
fügen.14 Diese Vorsteherinnen werden von einem
Rat der Alten, also den alten, erfahrenen Frauen
und Männern, in ihrem Amt unterstützt und bera-
ten. Die “alten Frauen und Männer” (huehuetque),
sind allgemein besonders angesehen. Sie haben
in verschiedenen wichtigen Angelegenheiten ein
Mitspracherecht und gelten als wichtige Ratgebe-
rinnen (Carrasco 1971:359, 1976: 173; Zantwijk
1985: 143). Neben zu leistenden Aufgaben (bzw.
dem Erwerb von Reichtum) und Ritualen ist für
den Aufstieg in der Hierarchie eine gewisse Er-
fahrung und somit eben auch ein gewisses Alter
erforderlich. Junge Männer und Frauen stehen da-
her auch gesamtgesellschaftlich am unteren Ende
der Hierarchie (innerhalb ihrer jeweiligen Klasse/
Berufsgruppe). Vor allem Männer - aber auch
Frauen - können sich aber im Laufe ihres Lebens
“hinaufarbeiten”.
Eine zentrale Rolle für das Prestige eines Indi-
viduums spielen dessen Verdienste - bei Kriegern
ausgedrückt in der Anzahl der von ihnen ge-
machten Gefangenen, bei Händlerinnen und Hand-
werkerinnen ausgedrückt in der Anzahl gekaufter
Sklavinnen, die zu bestimmten Anlässen geopfert
werden, und die damit in Zusammenhang stehen-
den aufwendigen Gastmähler. Da die spezifischen
“Gefangenen” der Frauen15 nicht geopfert werden
und die Opferung von Sklavinnen weniger Prestige
einbringt als die der am Schlachtfeld gemachten
Gefangenen, sind Frauen in ihren Möglichkei-
ten, Prestige zu erwerben eingeschränkt (Erdheim
1973: 101). Da sich auch die höchsten Würden-
und Entscheidungsträger des Regierungssystems
im Krieg bewähren müssen - wobei diese Ver-
dienste erst durch die entsprechenden Gastmähler
eine Statuserhöhung bewirken -, sind Frauen aus
diesen Funktionen ausgeschlossen. Zwar gilt der
tlatoani, der “oberste Sprecher” als “Vater und
Mutter des Volkes”,16 und sein Stellvertreter trägt
die Bezeichnung cihuacöatl - “Schlangenfrau” -
14 Reisende Händler - nur Männer reisen - genießen im
allgemeinen mehr Ansehen als nichtreisende (Erdheim
1978:215; Katz 1966: 75).
15 Eine Frau wird vermittels der Geburt eines Kindes zur
Kriegerin; das neugeborene Kind gilt als Gefangener der
Frau (Sahagün 1989/1:409, 413-431).
16 Bollinger 1981:94; Nash 1980: 138; Sullivan 1980:229.
416
Patricia Zuckerhut
tatsächlich haben Frauen aber nicht die Möglich-
keit, eine dieser Funktionen einzunehmen. Zum
engsten Beraterkreis des tlatoani, zum Rat der Vier
- aus dem heraus der tlatoani ernannt wird
haben nur Personen Zugang, die einerseits mit
diesem eng verwandt sind, sich aber andererseits
durch große kriegerische Leistungen hervorgetan
haben. Dennoch gibt es sehr wohl Stadtstaaten
im “Alten Mexiko” in denen Herrscherinnen nicht
ausgeschlossen sind (Caso 1960: 20 f.).
Differenzen nach Geschlecht und
Verwandtschaftsstatus in der Vererbung
Es gibt eine Vielzahl von Möglichkeiten, Land-
rechte weiterzugeben, die zum Teil unabhän-
gig vom gesellschaftlichen Status wahrgenommen
werden können.17 Susan Kellogg (1988:55 ff.),
die neunundzwanzig Testamente aus der frühen
Kolonialzeit (1546-1606) aus dem Raum Tenoch-
titlän-Tlatelolco auswertet, präzisiert diese Anga-
ben: landwirtschaftlich genutzter Boden wird eher
von Männern hinterlassen, während Frauen eher
urbanes Eigentum, oft chinampas (die mit Garten-
bau verbunden sind), weitergeben.
Primäre Ansprüche auf ein Erbe haben Kinder
und Geschwister, nicht die Ehefrauen beziehungs-
weise Ehemänner. Dabei ist allerdings zwischen
dem sogenannten huehuetlalli (altem Land), das
heißt ererbtem Land, und dem tlalcoualli (ge-
kauftem Land), bei dem es sich in vorspanischer
Zeit vor allem um politische Arrangements handelt
(Kellogg 1988:78), zu unterscheiden. Während
huehuetlalli kaum an eine Ehefrau/einen Ehe-
mann, sondern vornehmlich an Kinder, Enkelin-
nen, Enkel, Geschwister, Neffen oder Nichten
geht, wird das tlalcoualli sehr wohl auch an Ehe-
leute weitergegeben.
Oft erben mehrere Personen gemeinsam, wo-
bei eine (meist das älteste Kind) eine gewisse
Kontrollfunktion einnimmt: Diese ist dann für die
Versorgung der im Haushalt lebenden Geschwi-
ster, Neffen, Nichten u. a. verantwortlich. Wird
das Land an die Söhne einzeln aufgeteilt, dann
haben die Töchter Anspruch auf Land als Mitgift
(Rodriguez-Shadow 1991: 156).
Auch hinsichtlich der Weitergabe von Resi-
denzrechten gibt es die oben angeführten Möglich-
keiten. Vor allem im Falle eines “Alten Hauses”
(.huehuecalli) beruht das Residenzrecht einer Frau
17 Vgl. Berdan 1982:71; seine Hauptquelle sind Testamente
aus der frühen Kolonialzeit, die mit hoher Wahrscheinlich-
keit vorkoloniale Muster widerspiegeln.
auf ihrem Status als Mutter der mit ihr lebenden
Kinder, und nicht auf dem als Witwe (Kellogg
1988:68).
Die Weitergabe von Tributrechten ist auf pillis
beschränkt, da macehuallis von dem Recht auf
Tributeinhebung ausgeschlossen sind. Neben der
Weitergabe vom Vater an die Söhne (oft verbun-
den mit dem Nachweis kriegerischer Fähigkeiten
durch die Söhne) können Tributrechte laut Berdan
(1982: 72) auch von Männern an ihre Gattinnen
weitergegeben werden. Möglicherweise ist auch
hier der Status einer Frau als Mutter, nicht der
als Ehefrau, die Grundlage. Frauen verfügen oft
über Tributrechte aus dem Mitgiftsland. Tribut-
rechte sind strenggenommen allerdings an be-
stimmte Ämter gebunden, wie zum Beispiel an
das Amt des Richters.18 Bei den Tributrechten
von Frauen und anderen Personen, die nicht in
einer derartigen Funktion tätig sind, dürfte es sich
also vor allem um die Erträge der von mayeque
bearbeiteten Felder handeln.
Symbolische Ebene
Ideologie der Geschlechter nach dem herrschenden
männlichen Diskurs
Bei Sahagün (1952: 4 ff.)19 * werden die Geschlech-
ter nach Altersstufen differenziert. Kleine Kinder
18 Unter einem Tributrecht im engeren Sinn wird hier das
Recht Abgaben von macehuallis zu fordern verstanden.
Das Mitgiftsland wird aber möglicherweise von mayeque
bearbeitet.
19 Die Informanten von Sahagün - seine Aufzeichnungen sind
eine der wichtigsten Quellen in diesem Zusammenhang
- sind ausschließlich adelige Männer. Die Struktur des
Sahagünschen Textes über Alter und Geschlecht korrespon-
diert mit dem mittelalterlichen Modell von Bartholomeus
Glanville, einem in der frühen Renaissance sehr häufig
gelesenen Autor. Charakteristisch für dieses Modell ist die
Gegenüberstellung des guten und des schlechten Menschen.
Der Teil der Arbeit, der dem Modell von Glanville folgt,
bezieht sich auf die koloniale Welt. Es werden auch Ämter
und Situationen erwähnt, die in der vorkolonialen Epoche
nicht existierten. Die Überschriften und ihre Ordnung wur-
den wahrscheinlich von Sahagün vorgegeben. Andererseits
gibt es im Sahagünschen Text dennoch Elemente von
großem Wert, in denen sich ein Denken vorspanischen
Ursprungs finden läßt (López Austin 1984: 319 f.). Die hier
folgende Darstellung kann also nur einen ersten Versuch
darstellen. Genauere Analysen müssen folgen. Die Dualität
im altmexikanischen Denken, und damit in Verbindung
stehend die zwischen Mann und Frau, wurde allerdings
auch von anderen Autorinnen festgestellt, zum Beispiel von
López Austin. López Austin (1984:327) verweist darauf,
daß - wie auch hier festgestellt wird - diese Dualität im
(re-)produktiven Alter besonders ausgeprägt ist.
Anthropos 96.2001
Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den Azteklnnen
417
und sehr alte Leute werden bei ihm kaum ge-
schlechtlich differenziert, während die Unterschie-
de zwischen Männern und Frauen im reproduk-
tionsfähigen Alter entsprechend den Idealbildern
der geschlechtlichen Arbeitsteilung am größten
sind. Die Informanten Sahagüns betonen vor allem
Werte der Produktion und im Falle der erwach-
senen Frau die sexuelle Ehre.
Das gesellschaftliche Ideal des Krieges
An der Entstehung eines Kindes - von der Zeu-
gung bis zur Geburt - sind lt. Vorstellung der
Azteklnnen beide Geschlechter beteiligt. Die Zeu-
gung erfolgt durch die Vermischung zweier Flüs-
sigkeiten, der des Mannes (oquichyotl) und der
der Frau (cihuäyotl) (Lopez Austin 1884: 190).
Die Schwangerschaft hat neben den menschlich-
körperlichen auch göttliche Ursachen (Rodriguez-
Shadow 1991: 159). Darüber hinaus sind beide
Elternteile für das Wohlergehen des ungeborenen
Kindes verantwortlich, weshalb auch Vater und
Mutter bestimmte Tabus einhalten müssen.
Gilt ein Mann praktisch bei seiner Geburt als
Krieger, so wird eine Frau erst vermittels der
Geburt eines Kindes zur Kriegerin. Die Frauen
leisten ebenso wie die Männer ihren heldenhaften
Beitrag zur Gesamtmission des Sonnenvolkes -
sie “fangen” die Krieger. Der Status einer Frau
bestimmt sich daher vermutlich nicht nur durch ihr
Alter, ihre Herkunft u.ä., sondern vor allem auch
durch die Anzahl der von ihr geborenen Kinder,
sPrich, der von ihr gemachten Gefangenen (vgl.
dazu auch Zantwijk 1985: 112). Die Schwanger-
schaft ist dementsprechend vor allem erfreulich
ünd feierlich (Sullivan 1966:63). Die Geburt ist
aber auch die “Stunde des Todes” (Rodriguez-
Shadow 1991: 166; Übersetzung der Autorin). Die
Brau, die ein Kind gebiert, gilt als Krieger, der in
die Schlacht zieht. Das Kind ist ihr Gefangener.
Es wird von der Hebamme mit Kriegsgeschrei be-
grüßt. Die Frau wird wegen ihrer Tapferkeit gelobt.
Me wird als Adler und Jaguar, also als tapferer
Krieger, bezeichnet und mit Cihuacöatl-Quilaztli,
der ersten Gebärerin, verglichen.20
Berdan 1982:81; Rodriguez-Shadow 1991:168; Sahagún
1989/1:409, 413 ff.; Seler-Sachs 1984: 15 ff.; Sullivan
1966:63.
Die Konstruktion von Geschlecht nach einem
dualistischen Konzept
Das weitere Vorgehen nach der Geburt die Nabel-
schnur betreffend hat besondere Bedeutung was
die Konstruktion der Geschlechter betrifft. Abge-
sehen von unterschiedlichen Reden an neugebo-
rene Knaben und neugeborene Mädchen, werden
hier die ersten geschlechtsspezifischen Unterschei-
dungen gemacht. Denn der Ort, an dem die Na-
belschnur vergraben wird, verweist auf die spätere
Bestimmung von Frau und Mann.
Die Nabelschnur eines Mädchens wird in der
Nähe des Herdes, also im Zentrum des Hauses,
dem Ort des Feuergottes, dem Ort, der die ver-
schiedenen Welten miteinander verbindet, vergra-
ben. Die Frau gehört demnach ins Haus, “so wie
das Herz in den Körper” (Sahagün 1989/1: 415 f.;
Übersetzung der Autorin). Sie soll das Haus nicht
verlassen - ein Anspruch, dem nur pilli-Frauen
gerecht werden können. Ihre Aufgabe ist es zu
arbeiten, das heißt Mais zu mahlen, sich um Essen
und Trinken zu kümmern sowie zu spinnen und zu
weben (Sahagün 1989/1: 416).21 In diesem Zusam-
menhang ist die zentrale Bedeutung des Herdes als
Ort der Verbindung der verschiedenen Ober- und
Unterwelten, also als Ort der direkten Verbindung
zu den Göttern, zu nennen.
Von der Nabelschnur des Knaben berichtet
Sahagün (1989/1: 414 f.), daß sie getrocknet und
Kriegern, die in die Schlacht ziehen, mitgege-
ben wird. Die Krieger sollten sie an einen Platz
bringen, an dem gekämpft wird, und dort be-
graben. Die Hebamme betont beim Durchtrennen
der Nabelschnur, daß der Platz des Mannes nicht
das Haus ist. Seine Welt ist das Schlachtfeld,
seine Aufgabe ist der Krieg. Er muß die Sonne
mit dem Blut der Feinde versorgen und die Er-
de, “Tlaltecuhtli”,22 mit den Körpern der Feinde
ernähren. Ähnlich wie bei den Frauen ist auch
dieses (kriegerische) Idealbild eher den pillis Vor-
behalten. Die Mehrheit der Männer ist zumindest
nach der Heirat gezwungen sich anderweitig zu
betätigen.
Die Rollenzuweisungen an Mädchen und Kna-
ben werden beim Ritual der Namengebung noch
verstärkt. Dieses findet ca. vier Tage nach der
21 Die prestigereiche Aufgabe der Frau Gefangene zu machen,
sprich Kinder zu gebären, wird allerdings bei Sahagún nicht
erwähnt.
22 Tlaltecuhtli erscheint hier als männliche Gottheit. Im
“Diccionario de mitología y religión de Mesoamérica”
(González Torres 1991: 175) wird sie allerdings als “Herr
und Dame der Erde” bezeichnet.
Anth
lropos 96.2001
418
Patricia Zuckerhut
Geburt statt und wird von der Hebamme durchge-
führt.23 Das Kind wird dabei “Unserer Mutter”, der
Wassergöttin Chalchiuhtlicue, gewidmet. Je nach
Geschlecht erhalten die Kinder entweder einen
kleinen Schild aus Teig sowie einen kleinen Bogen
und vier Pfeile, die die Himmelsrichtungen reprä-
sentieren bzw. ein Symbol des Berufs des Vaters
0Codex Mendoza 1938: 89) oder Besen, Arbeits-
korb, Spindel (Codex Mendoza 1938: 89), Spinn-
wirtel und Webholz. Kinder aus reicheren Familien
erhalten zusätzlich noch ihrem Geschlecht entspre-
chende Kleidungsstücke.24
Im Unterschied zu vielen anderen Gesellschaf-
ten finden sich bei den Azteklnnen keine beson-
deren Initiationsriten im Zusammenhang mit der
Pubertät. Der Übertritt in den Status des Erwach-
senendaseins erfolgt mit der Heirat, im Alter zwi-
schen 16 und 20 Jahren. Bei Knaben ist der Über-
gang nicht ganz so plötzlich wie bei Mädchen. Mit
ihrem Eintritt ins telpochcalli (Junggesellenhaus)
bzw. ins calmecac (Tempelschule) beginnen ihre
kriegerischen Aktivitäten, die, wenn sie erfolgreich
sind, mit sichtbaren Veränderungen des Status
(ausgedrückt im Haarschnitt) einhergehen.
Ebene der Sexualität
Die Sexualität gilt als göttliches Gesetz, als wert-
volle Gabe der Gottheiten an die Menschen. Die
Sexualität ist notwendig, wenngleich im Sexual-
leben - wie auch sonst - das Gebot der Mäßi-
gung gilt (Hinz 1978: 118, 130 f.; Lopez Austin
1984: 328, 351).
Vor allem junge Männer dürfen ihre nur be-
grenzt vorhandene Samenflüssigkeit nicht vergeu-
den - weder durch Masturbation noch durch nächt-
liche Samenergüsse, noch durch ein vorzeitiges
ausschweifendes Sexualleben -, da sie ansonsten
später nicht mehr in der Lage sind, ihre Frau zu be-
friedigen. Die Frau, die im Unterschied zum Mann
ihre Sexualflüssigkeit nicht nach außen abgibt,
ist hingegen unersättlich. Sie hört auch im Alter
nicht auf, Lust zu verspüren. Ist der Mann aber
nicht mehr in der Lage seine Frau zu befriedigen,
dann entwickelt die Frau womöglich eine affektive
Abneigung gegenüber ihrem unfähigen Mann und
begeht Ehebruch. Die Unfähigkeit des Mannes
seine Frau sexuell zu befriedigen ist die einzige
mehr oder weniger akzeptierte Entschuldigung für
23 Je nach den Zeichen der Geburt wird dieser Zeitraum nicht
immer genau eingehalten.
24 Berdan 1982:83 f.; Codex Mendoza 1938:89; Sahagün
1989/1: 432 ff.; Seler-Sachs 1984: 26 ff.
den Ehebruch der Frau (Hinz 1978: 119; López
Austin 1984: 331 ff.).
Allgemein gilt jedoch, daß es für eine Frau in
ihrem Leben nur einen Mann geben soll (López
Austin 1984: 340 f.),25 wenngleich, vom juristi-
schen Standpunkt aus gesehen, eine Wiederverhei-
ratung nach Scheidung oder Verwitwung möglich
ist.
Ehebruch wird streng bestraft (Hinz 1978: 114)
- bei der Frau in jedem Fall, beim Mann nur dann,
wenn er ihn mit einer verheirateten Frau begeht
(López Austin 1984: 329). Bei Männern werden al-
so Beziehungen zu anderen (unverheirateten) Frau-
en toleriert, wenngleich sie durch ein Übermaß an
sexueller Betätigung ihre Potenz aufs Spiel setzen
bzw. im Falle von außerehelichen Beziehungen
ihre Familie der Gefahr von Krankheit aussetzen
(López Austin 1984: 329).
Männliche pillis sowie männliche macehuallis,
die sich im Krieg ausgezeichnet haben, haben
darüber hinaus die Möglichkeit, legal mit mehre-
ren Frauen gleichzeitig verheiratet zu sein (López
Austin 1984: 330). Die offizielle Heiratszeremonie
wird jedoch nur bei der ersten Frau durchgeführt.
Die Reproduktion - eine Verpflichtung für je-
des Individuum - ist auf formalisierte dauerhafte
Beziehungen beschränkt (López Austin 1984: 340,
344).
Zusammenfassend läßt sich sagen, daß, obwohl
Sexualität etwas Positives, von den Gottheiten
Gegebenes ist, in sexueller Hinsicht Frauen - und
hier vor allem pillis - gegenüber den Männern
stärkeren Restriktionen ausgesetzt sind. Mäßigung
gilt jedoch allgemein - für Männer und für Frauen
- als ein positiver Wert, ebenso wie sexuelle
Enthaltsamkeit eine Reinheit erzeugt, die in ver-
schiedenen rituellen Zusammenhängen notwendig
ist (Hinz 1978: 132 f.; López Austin 1984: 348).
Zusammenfassung
Wenn wir nun wieder zu unserem Ausgangspunkt
zurückkommen - auf der einen Seite die Darstel-
lung aztekischer Frauen als völlig unterdrückte
Wesen und auf der anderen Seite Kelloggs Anwen-
dung des Konzepts der Geschlechterparallelität auf
die Azteklnnen -, so läßt sich feststellen, daß vie-
les für Kelloggs Vorstellung von getrennten,
25 Die Familie des zu verheiratenden Mannes wählt - meist
auf sein Bestreben hin - ein Mädchen aus. Das Mädchen
muß zu der Heirat seine Zustimmung geben, auch wenn es
bei den Verhandlungen selbst nicht anwesend ist.
Anthropos 96.2001
Geschlechterverhältnisse bei den Azteklnnen
419
aber gleichwertigen Aspekten der Geschlechterrol-
len bei den Azteklnnen spricht. Der hierarchische
Aspekt der aztekischen Gesellschaft - der sich
auch darin niederschlägt, in welchen Bereichen
Männer und in welchen Bereichen Frauen do-
minieren kommt bei Kellogg jedoch zu kurz.
Ebenso wird von ihr zu wenig auf den Widerspruch
zwischen der vorherrschenden Geschlechterideolo-
gie und den tatsächlichen Praktiken eingegangen.
So gibt es bei den Azteklnnen die Ideologie
der Geschlechterkomplementarität, gegründet auf
einem dualen Geschlechterkonzept, entsprechend
dem dualen Denken der “Alten Mexikanerinnen”.
Die Unterschiede zwischen den Geschlechtern im
reproduktionsfähigen Alter sind in diesem Konzept
am größten. Bei Säuglingen und kleinen Kindern
Werden noch keine Differenzierungen getroffen
- wenngleich die Grundlagen für ihre späteren
Geschlechtsrollenidentifikationen bereits bei ihrer
Geburt gelegt werden. Alte Menschen haben all-
gemein ein höheres Prestige. Alte Frauen und
Männer spielen vor allem als Ratgeberinnen in
allen gesellschaftlichen Bereichen (in der Familie
wie im Altenrat des calpulli und bei den Händle-
rinnen) eine wichtige Rolle. Darüber hinaus finden
sich in der Praxis vielfältige Überschneidungen
und Durchkreuzungen von relativer und absoluter
Verwandtschaftszugehörigkeit, relativem und ab-
solutem Alter in einer Haushaltsgemeinschaft, Be-
ruf, Klassenzugehörigkeit, Verdiensten usw. ent-
sprechend den unterschiedlichen gesellschaftlichen
Positionen von Individuen. Im Bereich der Sexua-
lität werden jedoch klare Unterschiede zwischen
Männern und Frauen getroffen - bedingt durch die
ünterschiedliche Richtung der Sexualflüssigkei-
ten -, die sich auch im Alter nicht auflösen.
Gesamtgesellschaftlich gesehen, muß - trotz
der vielfältigen und wichtigen Funktionen, die
Pfauen innehaben -, von einem Ungleichgewicht
der Geschlechter zugunsten der Männer gespro-
ehen werden. So sind die höchsten Positionen
lrri Staat Personen Vorbehalten, die sich im Krieg
ausgezeichnet haben, deren Gefangene im Rahmen
von Verdienstfesten geopfert wurden, und die einer
•^stimmten Klasse und innerhalb dieser Klasse ei-
ner gesonderten Gruppe angehören. Da diese Form
dos Krieges ausschließlich von Männern durchge-
ührt wird, sind auch diese Ämter zumindest bei
den Azteklnnen Männern Vorbehalten.
Die oberste Priesterhierarchie ist ebenfalls
ersonen männlichen Geschlechts Vorbehalten,
Wenngleich Frauen sehr wohl wichtige Prie-
sterlnnenämter innehaben können und allgemein
lrn religiösen Bereich eine wichtige Rolle einneh-
men.
Nicht so klar stellt sich die Geschlechtersitua-
tion bei den Händlerinnen und den verschiedenen
Gruppen von Handwerkerinnen dar. Von einem
System der Geschlechterparallelität, mit eigenen
Frauen- und Männerbereichen bzw. Institutionen,
kann jedoch auch im ökonomischen Bereich nur
teilweise gesprochen werden. Zwar gibt es ein dua-
les Geschlechterkonzept und daraus resultierend
eine ideale geschlechtliche Arbeitsteilung ebenso
wie reine Männer- bzw. Frauenberufe, aber es gibt
auch viele Berufe, die beiden Geschlechtern offen-
stehen, in denen unter Umständen die Differen-
zierungen nach anderen Kriterien wie z. B. Alter
und/oder Erfahrung, ethnischer Zugehörigkeit (wie
bei den Händlerinnen) verlaufen.
Geschlechterkomplementarität findet sich auf
der Mikroebene — dem Haushalt - jedoch auch
hier sind die (Haushalts-)Vorstände eher Män-
ner, wobei nicht jeder Mann automatisch auch
Haushalts Vorstand ist bzw. Aussicht darauf hat,
es zu werden. Die Unterschiede zwischen den
Haushalten und innerhalb eines Haushalts sind hier
ebenfalls zu berücksichtigen.
Aufgrund der Komplexität der aztekischen Ge-
sellschaft und damit auch der Differenzen in den
Geschlechterverhältnissen konnte hier nur ein sehr
allgemeiner Überblick zu dieser Thematik gegeben
werden. Es zeigt sich jedoch, daß die Handlungs-
fähigkeit von Personen im allgemeinen und von
Frauen im besonderen mit dem Alter zunimmt.
Alte Frauen werden - ebenso wie alte Männer -,
weniger aufgrund ihres Geschlechts als vielmehr
aufgrund ihres Alters (entsprechend ihrer sozialen
Positionen) definiert. Deutlich wurden auch die
Widersprüche zwischen dem Idealbild (der Herr-
schenden), nach dem gender konstruiert wird, und
den vielseitigen gesellschaftlichen Praktiken des
alltäglichen Handelns in Ökonomie, Politik und
Verwandtschaft. Es kann also weder von einer tota-
len Frauenunterdrückung bei den Azteklnnen noch
von Geschlechterparallelität gesprochen werden,
da beide Modelle der Komplexität der aztekischen
Vorstellungen und Praktiken nicht Rechnung tra-
gen.
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An-
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UNI VERSITÄTSVERLAG FREIBURG SCHWEIZ
EDITIONS UNIVERSITAIRES FRIBOURG SUISSE
Anthropos
96.2001: 423-432
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type
Cross/Parallel Distinction
David B. Kronenfeld
Abstract. - Trautmann and Barnes (“Dravidian,” “Iroquois,”
and “Crow-Omaha” in North American Perspective. 1998)
contribute important new evidence to the debates concerning
the validity and usefulness of Morgan’s data, the interpretation
°f Iroquois-type systems, and the relationship of Iroquois-type
systems to other types. However, they also offer some conclu-
Sl°ns and interpretations which do not follow from their data
ar>d they significantly misinterpret some of the assertions of
Kronenfeld (Morgan vs. Dorsey on the Omaha Cross/Parallel
Contrast: Theoretical Implications. 1989) to which they are
responding. The present response to their work addresses the
theoretical issues which are posed by their new findings and
conclusions, their disagreements with Kronenfeld, and their few
misinterpretations. [Lewis Henry Morgan, kinship terminolo-
^les and social forms, Iroquois-type systems, Dravidian-type
systems, historical changes in kinship systems]
avid B. Kronenfeld, Ph. D., Prof, of Anthropology, Univer-
Slty of California at Riverside. - Research interests include
c°gnitive anthropology, the semantics of natural language,
s°cial organization, ethnicity, and kinship. His approach to
s°cial and terminological issues reflects an underlying concern
^th the cognitive coding and social distribution of relevant
nowledge; in this work he joins a concern with functional
an<I historical questions to an appreciation of the explicitness
eifered by formal analytic techniques. His current research
°cus concerns culture as the system of distributed cognition
^jhich enables the intellectual as well as the economic division
0 labor. Ethnicity is proving a fruitful topic for exploring such
gestions. - Publications include: Plastic Glasses and Church
athers. Semantic Extension from the Ethnoscience Tradition
xford 1996) and numerous articles on kinship, semantics,
and society. - See also References Cited.
^artially in response to my delineation (1989) of
systematic errors in Morgan’s 1871 compendi-
jii of kin terminologies, Trautmann and Barnes
v have offered an impressive and exciting
contribution regarding Morgan’s own research and
Dravidian- and Iroquois-type kin terminologies in
North America. Their work clears up many -
even, most - of the specific historical questions
that I posed concerning Morgan’s original data
and his processing of that data in my comparison
of Morgan’s Omaha description with Dorsey’s
(Kronenfeld 1989).1 In their discussion they go
on to consider the nature of relevant alternative
forms of the parallel/cross distinction, to examine
the distribution of these across North America,
and to offer an historical explanation of the re-
lations among terminological systems exhibiting a
Dravidian-type (“Type A”) parallel/cross distinc-
tion, an Iroquois-type (“Type B”) distinction, and 1 * * 4
1 I want to take advantage of this opportunity to correct some
typographical errors that crept into my Figure 4 (Kronenfeld
1989: 82):
For male ego: mMMZSS (m+f+fof-m-m in the Romney
notation) should be unassigned (i.e., blank) instead of the
18/19 with which it is shown.
For female ego: fMMBSSS (f+f+fom-m-m-m), Morgan’s
No. 190, should be 27 instead of blank.
fMMBSSD (f+f+fom-m-m-f), M’s No. 192, should be
4 instead of blank.
fMMZDD (f+f+fof-f-f), M’s 197/198, should be 11/10
instead of blank.
fMMZDDS (f+f+fof-f-f-m), M’s 200, should be 22
instead of blank.
fMMZDDD (f+f+fof-f-f-f), M’s 202, should be 6 in-
stead of blank.
The errors came in after I had done my analysis (while
the table was being copied and restructured for the article)
and so did not affect the analysis. I do apologize for any
inconvenience they may have caused anyone.
424
David B. Kronenfeld
skewing. In so doing, they take issue with some
of my claims - and in some cases misconstrue
those claims. In this essay I wish to respond
to their specific conclusions regarding Morgan’s
work and the presence of Iroquois-type terminol-
ogies in North America and to clarify how their
contribution relates to the issues I raised in 1989.
Trautmann and Barnes’ Conclusions
Trautmann and Barnes summarize their study as
leading “to three principal conclusions, concern-
ing,” respectively, “the integrity of Morgan’s eth-
nographic record, the ethnology of kinship in
North America, and the relevance of it to other
parts of the world” (1998: 53).
1. With regard to their first “conclusion,” the
integrity of Morgan’s data, Trautmann and Barnes’
paper (39-48) represents an important example
of the application of careful historical research
to important anthropological issues. Since I had
questioned the integrity of Morgan’s data on indi-
rect grounds, relating to internal consistency and
external comparisons (Kronenfeld 1989: 91-93), I
am particularly gratified to see direct evidence that
Morgan did indeed “clean up” his data patterns
(44-46). The information (46 f.) on how he filled
in his large Table II is quite useful as a cor-
rective for any future kin terminological research
which might use Morgan’s data, as well as greatly
interesting in its own right as an explication of
how one of our major disciplinary ancestors went
about his work.2 In general the use Trautmann and
Barnes make of Morgan’s notes and schedules is
impressive both for what they actually find3 and
for the careful work and thought that produced the
findings; their specific “series” argument (49 f.)
for how Morgan constructed his erroneous data
“patterns” seems convincing. The question of how
we are to read Morgan’s data now seems to have
been dealt with definitively.
2 Particularly notable is Trautmann and Barnes’ delineation
of Morgan’s heuristic use of successive versions of his
schedules (15). Such insights give one renewed respect for
Morgan’s intellectual powers and for the systematic and
careful way in which he approached his task.
3 What they have found about Morgan’s original data and
what he did to that data (as discussed throughout the body
of their paper) far exceeds any expectations I had regarding
either what evidence might exist or what that evidence
might show - both regarding the specific issues I raised
about his possible emendations to his Omaha material and
regarding the broader issue of what we are to learn about
kinship terminologies from his “Systems of Consanguinity
and Affinity...”
Trautmann and Barnes have found (48), as I
had suggested (1989), that Morgan had indeed
generalized the specific parts of his Omaha data
which I saw as embodying an Iroquois-type cross/
parallel feature from something outside his actual
data schedules, and that the relevant parts of the
terminological pattern were not in the schedules.
Trautmann and Barnes’ evidence (54) regarding
the actual presence of an Iroquois-type cross/par-
allel feature in North America (addressing the
question of whether Morgan found it or imposed it)
is most welcome. When I wrote my article on Mor-
gan and Dorsey, I had been unsure about the status
of Iroquois as a type exhibited in Morgan’s data.
My findings regarding Morgan’s Omaha data had
thrown his Iroquois-type material into question; on
the other hand, Morgan’s detailed knowledge of
the Iroquois people themselves made an imposition
on his Iroquois material (similar to that he made
on Omaha) seem unlikely. My provision of a
scenario by which the Iroquois might have come
to acquire an Iroquois-type cross/parallel feature
(1989:96 f.) shows that I was not prepared to
rule out the possibility that Morgan’s description
of the Iroquois system itself was accurate. My
sense was that the probability of Morgan’s being
right about the Iroquois-type cross/parallel feature
that he implied for neighboring groups depended
significantly on the probability that he was right
for the Iroquois people themselves; nonetheless I
thought (and still think) that, given Morgan’s prob-
lems with Omaha, we cannot be certain about any
particular one of his ethnographic cases without
significant independent corroboration.
2. I would like to turn next to Trautmann and
Barnes’ second conclusion, that regarding North
American ethnology. They present a set of four
linked conditions regarding parallel/cross distinc-
tions and skewing in North America (54 f.):
(1) Type B is the ground from which unilineal4 sys-
tems, whether Crow or Omaha in type, arise; that is,
the direct precursors of the unilineal systems in North
America are systems with crossness of Type B. (2) The
relation of systems with Type A crossness to systems
with unilineal equations (i.e., Crow-Omaha type) is
4 While skewing does, to my mind as to many others, repre-
sent a foregrounding of lineage relations, it is also true that
many systems exist with strong unilineal descent groups
but without skewing. I have also seen skewing in situations
where the strength (though not the presence) of unilineages
is debatable. For this reason I do not like the practice
labelling systems such as Crow- and Omaha-type ones as
“unilineal”; I prefer simply to speak of them as “skewed
or as having generational skewing.
Anthropos 96.2001
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Distinction
425
mediated by systems with Type B crossness. (3) Type A
systems lie to the north, those with Type B or unilineal
patterns to the south. The latter are associated with larger
aggregations of population. (4) Type B crossness lacks
cross-cousin marriage as a principle of classification and
is associated with the exogamy of cousins.
I have no disagreement with their condition
(3). I lack enough independent knowledge of the
distributions to be able to sustain any particular
claim about the distribution one way or the other,
and I have no theoretic or analytic stake in the
result. I would suggest, though, that the evidence
they cite for this particular condition, outside of
Morgan’s data itself, is thin enough to render any
conclusions quite tentative.
I have no direct quarrel with their condition (4)
either. Certainly an Iroquois-type of cross/parallel
feature is tied in no logical way to any marriage
regularity. The association of “Type B” with exog-
amy of cousins is their call, since they are defining
the type. I would note, though, that if they consider
my Fanti unskewed case to be an example of a
Type B system (see pp. 55 f. I do not consider it as
exhibiting any particular Iroquois-type features),
then it would be a counter case to their mar-
riage association since there is no such exogamy
there. I have not done the comparative work that
Would be required in order for me to venture
an opinion regarding any association of an Iro-
quois-type cross/parallel feature with any such
e*ogamy.
The role of marriage constraints in all of this
d°es present an interesting issue. A Dravidian-type
cross/parallel distinction (in a Dravidian-type sys-
tem) really does require the marriages to be consis-
tent with it if it is to be maintained; such consisten-
tly is logically entailed. That is, any Dravidian-type
system depends systematically on a presupposition
°f cross-cousin marriage (whatever may happen
Mth the occasional specific marriage). An Iro-
quois-type distinction entails no such requirement.
However, at the same time, “lacking] cross-cousin
Carriage as a principle of classification” certainly
does not entail any “exogamy of cousins.” That
ls> cross-cousin marriages are simply irrelevant (in
any formal sense) to Iroquois-type terminologies. I
want to note that one of the continuing - and frus-
trating - aspects of discussions of Iroquois-type
j- Type B”) systems or parallel/cross features has
Deen the lack of any positive characterization of
^hat the type is, does, or matches - as opposed to
What it is not. Given the attention paid to such sys-
tems/features since Lounsbury’s initial delineation
G956, 1964), and including the volume (Godelier
et al. 1998) in which Trautmann and Barnes’ paper
Anth
appears, the reasons for that lack seem worthy of
exploration. Note also that our traditional dichoto-
mization of cross-cousin marriage into “enjoined”
vs. “banned” (or even a trichotomization into
“prescribed,” “preferred,” or “proscribed”) leaves
out the potentially significant option of “permitted,
without any injunction pro or con” - the option
that I clearly encountered in my Fanti work, where
cross-cousin marriage was permitted but assuredly
not preferred. Note too what was made clear in
the debate between Needham and Lounsbury on
cross-cousin marriage (Needham 1962; Lounsbury
1962) - that a terminological presupposition of
cross-cousin marriage is not equivalent to a cultur-
al preference or prescription for such a marriage;
that is, the presupposition only means that non-
cousins, by virtue of the marriage, get assimilated
to cross-cousin status.
The sense that Omaha- or Crow-type systems
(Trautmann and Barnes’ “unilineal” ones) might
be associated with a weakening of marriage ties
among lineages is one that I raised in my Morgan/
Dorsey paper. What I myself see in Iroquois-type/
Type-B is a weakening of moieties (or compa-
rable supra-lineage level unilineality) (Kronenfeld
1989: 102 f., note 10), and thus an attenuation of
any social units to which a consistent pattern of
cross-cousin marriages could systematically relate.
My Fanti unskewed case would seem not to
be an example of Type B in any interesting sense
since it involves only the minimal cross/parallel
distinctions needed for skewing an otherwise gen-
erational pattern. The cross/parallel calculations in
Fanti (in general) utilize a Dravidian-type feature
definition, and not an Iroquois-type one (see Kro-
nenfeld 1980a: 599). The Fanti ways of talking
about terminological assignments (see Kronenfeld
1980b) make clear that they see a man’s niblings
as distinguished from his children because of their
position as his heirs, and not as part of any wider
social pattern. An uncle (wofa) was on at least
one occasion explicitly described to me as a father
(egya) from whom one could inherit - which
squares nicely with my sense of the basically
generational or Hawaiian-type nature of the Fanti
terminology.
In my various analyses of the Fanti (especially
1980a, 1980b) I have shown that the Fanti un-
skewed system has no parallel/cross calculation,
either in the minds of Fanti speakers or from an
analytic perspective. The apparent Type B (Iro-
quois) parallel/cross that Trautmann and Barnes
note (55 f.) for that system is, as I have said, an
epiphenomenal by-product of the fact that the set
of lexemes, which has to serve for the skewed
•ropos 96.2001
426
David B. Kronenfeld
system as well as the unskewed, involves a father
(Fa, FaBr,.. .)/uncle (MoBr, ...) distinction in G+1
(and, reciprocally, a Child/male speaker’s nibling
distinction in G1) which is needed as the basis
for skewing in the skewed system but which gets
taken simply as a father’s side vs. mother’s side
distinction in the unskewed system. The absence
of any G° distinction obviates Lounsbury’s reason
for preferring a cross/parallel distinction vs. a side
of the family one in his Iroquois paper (1964).
The restriction of the child/nibling distinction to
male ego’s reaffirms that what is at issue there is
the reciprocal of the father/uncle distinction (with
its connection to skewing), and not any wider
parallel/cross concern.
Given the preceding, if one still decides to take
the Fanti unskewed system seriously as an example
of an Iroquois-type (or Type B) system, then one is
led to some interesting speculative hypotheses. As
I said, what drives the relevant Fanti lexeme-set
distinctions is skewing, and the terminological
categories needed for that operation; the absence
of any mother/patemal aunt distinction rules out
lineages per se as the basis. This logical and
computational priority of the skewed system over
the unskewed one (in a system for which, unlike
the cases of Morgan’s examples, we have had
the opportunity to explore the kin terminological
calculations and conceptions of living speakers
in some detail) poses the possibility of historical
priority as well. That is, if one takes the Fanti
unskewed system as an example of Iroquois-type
(Type B) parallel/cross calculation, then one would
have to consider the possibility that at least some
systems of that type derive from skewed (Crow-
type or Omaha-type) terminologies - or represent
what might be left when the social conditions
needed to support skewing break down. Such a
scenario would require, to get to the normal Iro-
quois-type case, some substitution of a cousin term
(which the Fanti lack) for the cross-relatives whom
one was ceasing to skew (into other terminological
categories).
Thus, to my mind, taking the Fanti unskewed
system as an example of Type B would not
strengthen arguments for the historical priority of
Type B over Type A. It would, instead, take us to
an alternative base - from which Type B would
still have to be seen as a* kind of degenerate or
“fall back” situation.
The Fanti unskewed system is not as unusual
as I once had thought. Gould (2000: 265, 287 f.)
assigns it to a distinct type (which he labels “Chey-
enne”) “Cheyenne ... is distinguished by Morgan
as having the same kin terms for cross-cousins as
for siblings ..., and correspondingly by Dole ... as
combining features of the Generational and Seneca
types [but] ... while widely distributed throughout
the world, has not been recognized as a distinct
type ...” Gould is a mathematician, and his types
are defined by productive structural equations. He
has not looked for nor detailed any social or
historical concomitants, and so we cannot directly
apply his findings to our present discussion, but
his structural result does raise the possibility that
an historical or processual understanding might
perhaps require further subdivision (or refinement)
of the “Iroquois-type” or “Type B” terminological
system.
Continuing with Trautmann and Barnes’ eth-
nological conditions, I see no direct evidence in
support of their condition (1), and so do disagree
with their condition (2). That is, the geographic
location of Type B systems and skewed ones (from
p. 52) does not much contribute to any conclusion
that Type A systems pass to lineal only via Type
B, let alone force it. The nature of the rules, and of
the formal information I presented in my Morgan/
Dorsey paper, do show that Dorsey’s Omaha does
employ a “Type A” (or Dravidian-type) cross/par-
allel distinction - and thus show it to be a skewed
version of a Type A system; any hypothetical
B ancestor would seemingly have had to have
first gone through an A phase before getting to
the Omaha-type version presented by Dorsey. The
reliance of Dorsey’s Omaha on a Type A (vs. Type
B) cross/parallel distinction is a logical fact, not an
historical one, but it is a logical fact that surely has
historical implications.
A specific question raised, but left unanswered,
by my discussion in the Morgan/Dorsey paper
concerned whether or not there exists any evidence
(anywhere) of an Iroquois-type of cross/parallel
feature (cf. Trautmann and Barnes’ Type B cross-
ness) actually being used as the basis for skew-
ing.5 I still do not see such evidence in Traut-
5 The word “basis” seems to carry a kind of ambiguity which
it is perhaps useful to put on the table. Trautmann and
Barnes take the term in an historical sense to refer to
the context or situation (regarding the type of “crossness’
exhibited by relevant systems in the area) from which
the condition of interest (skewing in the terminologies of
Omaha and related peoples) seems to have arisen, while, in
my writing, I take the term in a formal deductive sense to
refer to a logical precondition or axiom for the condition
in the terminologies in question.
That is, I am saying that skewing applies to “cross” rel-
atives, and that for the terminologies in question (Dorsey s
Omaha, and others considered to be like it) the definition
of crossness that correctly distinguishes kintypes which get
skewed from those which do not is a Dravidian-type one
Anthropos 96.2001
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Distinction
427
mann and Barnes’ paper, their claim (54 f.) not-
withstanding. An Iroquois-type basis for skewing
strikes me as cognitively confusing (for reasons
to be discussed later), and hence I expect that the
relevant terminological regularities would be hard
to learn, remember, and apply. Thus, while I do not
rule out the possibility, I do suggest that it seems
unlikely.
The broader version of the preceding particular
issues, and the version that interests me more,
concerns the conditions that lead to (or enable)
a system’s exhibiting one or another type of
cross/parallel distinction - and thus what the pres-
ence of one or the other terminological feature
can tell us about the society and/or culture of the
users of the terminological system in question. I
did suggest in my Morgan/Dorsey article that I
could find social factors that could provide an
intrinsic basis for the presence of a Dravidian-type
of cross/parallel feature, while I could only find
extrinsic social and historical reasons that might
produce an Iroquois-type of feature. On that basis,
I now suggest that there are two inferences that
We can make if we identify a terminology as
genuinely having an Iroquois-type cross/parallel
distinction:* I * * * * 6 1) The people in question did not
(at the point in time when the terminology was
collected) have moieties (whether explicit or im-
plicit), and 2) either they had had moieties and
(or, in Trautmann and Barnes’ parlance, Type A) and not
an Iroquois-type one (or Type B).
The question of the relationship between these two
kinds of bases (historical and logical) remains. It seems
to me that the default presupposition has to be that the
unskewed system from which some given skewed system
developed historically would have to have exhibited the
same kind of crossness as its skewed descendent. Any hy-
pothetical scenario that had the ancestral system exhibiting
a different kind of crossness from the descendent one would
have to embody some principled natural basis for the shift.
I do not mean that such a shift is automatically ruled out,
but its plausibility is dependent on the reasonableness of
the proffered shift scenario; it is with such considerations in
mind that I have elsewhere (1989: 97-94) tried to suggest
ways in which an unskewed system with a Dravidian-type
cross/parallel feature could under certain social conditions
convert to an Iroquois-type feature. Finally, hard historical
evidence (for some particular system) of an actual shift
from an earlier unskewed terminology with Iroquois-type
(or Type B) crossness to a later skewed one with Dravid-
ian-type (or Type A) crossness would be exciting - and
would force us to seek the principles by which such a shift
occurred.
6 Later in this paper I will explain what I mean by the
“intrinsic” vs. “extrinsic” distinction. By “suggest” I mean
that certainly none of this has been proven. By “genuinely”
I mean where (or to the degree that) we can rule out
erroneous reporting on the part of the ethnographer.
Anthropos 96.2001
a Dravidian-type of cross/parallel feature at some
earlier point in the past or they were emulating
(whether directly themselves or indirectly via some
intermediary links) some other people who did
have moieties and the Dravidian feature.
One should also note that Trautmann and
Barnes’ indicated geographical distribution is to-
tally consistent with any hypothesis, such as mine,
which posits an Iroquois-type cross/parallel dis-
tinction (their Type B crossness) as representing
some kind of breakdown from a Dravidian-type
model.
They speak of growth in population density in
the southern part of the North American area they
consider. They are aware, in their discussion (55),
of the existence in South India and Sri Lanka
of Dravidian-type/Type A systems in areas of
great population density, and consider the factors
at work in their North American scenario to be
specific to that situation. I would suggest that if the
posited population growth took place in such a way
as either to confuse lineage or moiety membership
or to break up regular marriage exchange between
such groups, then there would exist the conditions
which I have suggested would necessitate a change
from a Dravidian-type system (for a group that has
such) to an Iroquois-type system (if members of
the group wished to maintain their basic termino-
logical paradigm).
The social conditions which Trautmann and
Barnes cite are not inconsistent with such a social
breakdown - and their discussion implies an earlier
Dravidian-type state replaced by a later Iroquois-
type state. Hence, my only actual disagreement
with them, at the level of their specific histori-
cal claims, concerns whether the development of
skewed terminologies would have pre- or post-
dated such a change from Dravidian-type/Type A
to Iroquois-type/Type B. Historical factors, rep-
resented by the political, cultural, economic, and
military pressures faced by the Iroquois during
the two centuries preceding Morgan’s work with
them, could be imagined to have produced great
social dislocation and rearrangement - including,
possibly, the realignment of kin groups and/or
the breakdown of marriage exchange patterns.
Meanwhile, there is, I gather, ethnohistorical evi-
dence7 * that Iroquois remember themselves as hav-
ing had (in the not too distant past) something like
the kind of exogamous moieties which we consider
to be consistent with a Dravidian-type of cross/par-
7 See Fenton 1978:310; Eggan 1966: 104 f.; and consider
Morgan 1851: 79 and Eggan 1972: 5.
428
David B. Kronenfeld
allel feature.8 These historical and ethnohistorical
considerations lead me to suggest that the Iroquois
shift from a Dravidian-type feature (Type A) to an
Iroquois-type one (Type B) was quite recent - and
much more recent than the changes which would
have led the Omaha and neighboring peoples to
adopt a skewing rule.
3. Regarding their third conclusion, the rele-
vance of their conclusions to other parts of the
world, first, I agree heartily that we need more ter-
minological descriptions by ethnographers who are
sensitive to the two contrasting types of cross/par-
allel feature. Second, I have already offered some
reservations concerning their interpretation of my
Fanti material from Africa. Third, I do want to
offer a brief observation on the worldwide con-
clusion - that Type A North American hunting
bands have little in common with Type A South
Indian agricultural castes other than their Type
A terminologies - which Trautmann and Barnes
tentatively suggest in a concluding overview of
their paper (55). I agree that, in speaking of
features of kinship terminologies, we are speaking
of specific entities which can vary independently
of much else in culture. However, I do think that
the relevant groups are likely to have a bit more
in common than the mere fact of their particular
type of cross/parallel distinction. There has to be
something about their social organization which
makes the pattern of bilateral exchange of spouses
between halves (having unilineal descent rules)
of (more or less) endogamous units a reasonable
thing to maintain. In terms of North American
ethnology, this suggests a bit more complexity
than is normally evoked by the phrase “hunting
bands.”
Other Issues: Social Causes, Reciprocals,
Anthropological Nomenclature, and “Easily
Made” “Mistakes”
I would like to turn next to some specific issues,
apart from their conclusions, which are raised by
Trautmann and Barnes’ paper. First, my analysis of
Omaha (1989) did not use social facts to “explain”
terminological patterns as Trautmann and Barnes
assert (1998:57, note 6; 29); rather, it described
the relationship of the terminological alternatives
8 These historical considerations regarding the Iroquois them-
selves should provide part of the context within which one
interprets the Algonquian evidence regarding Type A that
Trautmann and Barnes cite in their Section V.
to potential social groupings and noted the cogni-
tive use that could be made of that relationship. In
general, my argument is much less purely social
than their note suggests (see Kronenfeld 1989: 87-
90, 95-98). I have also addressed this and related
issues elsewhere (e.g., Kronenfeld 1973, 1975).
My use of terms such as “side” and “we”/“they”
was designed to convey a posited cognitive con-
text, not to assert any kind of overall analytic
primacy; one should see, also, my note (1989: 101,
note 5) regarding how my use of the “we”/“they”
distinction is to be understood.
My second issue concerns the relevance of
reciprocals.9 Trautmann and Barnes’ comments on
the analytic role played by reciprocals (1998: 56,
note 1; 28) illustrate one problem with analyzing
kin terminological patterns as types defined by
lists of terminological equations as opposed to
by rule sets. My view is not that reciprocals
must “in every instance” be “constant” or uni-
form; like Trautmann and Barnes, I am aware -
both in my Fanti work (Kronenfeld 1970: 104-
107) as well as in examples from English (see
Kronenfeld 1989:91) - of inconsistent reciprocal
usage. However, when looked at in the context
of a full systematic analysis, such inconsistencies
either reduce to choices by native speakers among
alternative rule systems (which choices, insofar as
they represent alternative patterns or “ways of cal-
culating,” the speakers themselves can appreciate
and discuss, and do) - or turn out to represent
overtly acknowledged confusion by the speakers
concerning their own system. That is, in actual
cases of inconsistent usage of reciprocals that I
have observed, the native speakers involved were
aware of their inconsistency and, when asked,
explained it by referring to alternative ways of cal-
culating or to their confusion about their system.
Thus, I have not encountered native speakers
who offered as a single system (pattern, or way
of calculating) usage in which reciprocals were
inconsistently treated. I would not claim that such
a pattern is impossible, but, based on my experi-
ence, it does seem improbable. Therefore, while I
9 Reciprocals, or reciprocal expressions, are pairs including
a kin type expression and the same expression looked at
from the other direction - i.e., where “ego” and “alter
have been reversed (as, for example, fFFB and mBSD)-
The analytic issue concerns whether one should expect
the kin terms used for the two versions of the same kin
type be mutually consistent (as, in English, “uncle” and
“niece” for the preceding example) or not (as, “uncle” and
“granddaughter” for our example - where the relationship
among the “uncle,” “niece,” and “granddaughter” categories
have been determined elsewhere in the analysis).
Anthropos 96.2001
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Distinction
429
would agree with Trautmann and Barnes that my
point about inconsistencies in Morgan’s Omaha
reciprocals is “not compelling,” I would maintain
that the inconsistencies noted do represent sig-
nificant probabilistic evidence that something is
wrong with Morgan’s analysis - especially since
he presents the inconsistencies as occurring within
a single system.
My concern with the systematic nature of termi-
nological patterns is not unlike Morgan’s concern
(in the passage quoted by Trautmann and Barnes
on p. 49) when he speaks of finding that his
“work ... proved itself through the correlative re-
lationships.” As Trautmann and Barnes repeatedly
show, Morgan had the right general idea concern-
ing how to pursue the systematic (even, perhaps,
“scientific”) study of kin terminologies; he just,
understandably, did not always discern quite the
right patterns. On the other hand, he did lack our
modern notion that one should note discrepancies
between one’s hypothesized analytic pattern and
the apparent data, and, as we shall see below,
he lacked a good formal device for systematically
describing and organizing the patterns that he did
find.10 *
My third issue concerns our anthropological no-
menclature for terminological types. I agree with
Trautmann and Barnes’ general point regarding
the confusion introduced by our anthropological
use of cultural labels as type labels (30). I am in
sympathy with their reasons for wanting to speak
°f systems with “Type A crossness” or “Type B”
mstead of the more traditional “Dravidian-type” or
‘Iroquois-type” crossness. The use of the name of
a specific society/culture for a type is especially
confusing in a discussion in which one wants to
refer separately to the society and to the type, and
mdeed to examine the fit between the two. And I
am in complete agreement with them concerning
the confusion contributed by the traditional form
°f the classification.
In my own usage, I have found it necessary
t° distinguish between the Iroquois people, the
Iroquois type of system, and the Iroquois type
10 Morgan did confront his data with presuppositions or biases
(as Trautmann and Barnes note; 49 f.), but so, inevitably, do
all of us. Our goal should not be to avoid such bias (after all,
without presuppositions or expectations concerning what to
look for, we are unlikely to see anything at all) but to
try as much as possible to build into our descriptive and
analytic procedures mechanisms whereby nature can tell us
“no” - that is, whereby we can clearly see (are forced to
see) when our expectations are inconsistent with our data or
with what our data reveal about the underlying patterning of
eyents. Explicit, formal statements of expected regularities
°r patterns can represent one such mechanism.
Atlthropos 96.2001
of cross/parallel feature - and to make similar
distinctions for Dravidian. The separation of the
cross/parallel feature from terminological system
type is necessitated by the fact that a cross/par-
allel feature (of one sort or another) is crucial to
skewed terminologies (such as Omaha). Because
of the importance of Dravidian- and Iroquois-type
cross/parallel features, respectively, to Dravidian-
and Iroquois-type systems, I have been reluctant
to lose the mnemonic provided by the name. I am
also reluctant to lose all of the connotative asso-
ciations that anthropologists have come to attach
to the traditional labels. If I were to overcome
my reluctance toward nomenclatural innovation,
I would probably lean toward labels that had
some analytic content, for example “socio-centric”
cross/parallel (i.e., Dravidian-type) as opposed to
“ego-centric” cross/parallel (i.e., Iroquois-type).11
In this context, Trautmann and Barnes’ pref-
erence for “unilineal equations” as the defining
criteria for certain skewed types of kinship ter-
minologies (including Crow- and Omaha-) worries
me for the same reason that Murdock’s labels do
- there are too many different kinds of apples
and oranges that can be lumped under the given
rubric. “Skewing” or “generational skewing” do
seem acceptable as structural labels since they
focus on the immediate feature at issue.
However, going beyond the preceding discus-
sion of what features might or might not suffice
for the labeling of types, I firmly believe that
the proper entities for structural comparison -
either of specific systems with one another or
of specific systems with “type” definitions - are
a combination of the semantic components that
distinguish among (core exemplars of) categories
and the equivalence rules by which the categories
are extended out from the core exemplars. In this
view, “types” of terminological systems would
refer to systems that shared one or another formal
attribute, and a given system, then, might fall into
more than one type if it possessed the defining
attributes of each.
As a final specific response to their paper,
I would like to turn to Trautmann and Barnes’
comment (40) that “errors are easily made” in
“classifying the more remote genealogical posi-
tions.” The comment merits comment in several
respects.
11 I am wary of the idea that one can come up with a
classification scheme (e.g., division into types) for some set
of phenomena that is not specific to some particular analytic
concerns (for reasons I have detailed in Kronenfeld 1985),
and so would prefer to see the analytic concerns explicitly
linked to thq classification scheme.
430
David B. Kronenfeld
First, seeking an explicit set of rules for gen-
erating terminological assignments makes it much
easier for an ethnographer to avoid confusion -
by defining clear expectations and by using sub-
sequent elicitations as tests of specific hypotheses
generated by the expectations. Any lack of fit be-
tween expectations (based on earlier patterns) and
immediate findings poses a research problem that
triggers both a reconceptualization and a search
for both new data and different kinds of data. My
elucidation of the three Fanti patterns of extension
(1973, 1980a) and of the role played by English
loan words in Fanti kinship (1991) came directly
out of such a process. Today we do not have to
repeat Morgan’s mistakes (however excusable they
might have been at the time).
Second, the formal approach offers a similar
benefit to ethnological analysts - by clearly identi-
fying what belongs to one or another pattern (or to
both). It was this use of formally stated rules which
enabled me to find and identify the alternative
definitions of the cross/parallel distinction which
were exhibited in Morgan’s Omaha data by rela-
tives linked to ego through ego’s grandparents vs.
by those linked through ego’s parents (Kronenfeld
1989: 90). Such a formal rule-based representation
of a terminological pattern allows one to extrap-
olate the pattern to additional kin types (beyond
ones initial corpus) with considerably more rigor
and assurance that is implied by Trautmann and
Barnes when they speak of attributing extrapo-
lations to Dorsey’s data which “are consistent
with the overall pattern of the terminology as he
reported it, and as Kronenfeld analyses it” (29).
On p. 29 Trautmann and Barnes point to some
virtues for kinship studies of “plain English” over
“algebra.” In my view kinship “algebra” has no
virtue beyond the precision, clarity, and compact-
ness that it allows. The virtue accrues only when
the “algebra” is applied well to an accurate and
insightful analysis. Good “algebra” applied to a
bad analysis does help one see the weaknesses of
the analysis (or of its analytic presuppositions) but
does not help one understand the terminology in
question. And, while ordinary language (English,
for example) does not provide an ideal vehicle
for precisely representing analytic claims, there
remains no reason why the regularities represented
and the insights gained in a formal analysis cannot
be succinctly and clearly described in English - or
French or any other language.
A third, and very different kind of issue con-
cerns the question: for whom is it “particularly
easy” “to make” the “errors” in question? Is it
easy for the Omaha to confuse the kin types in
question? For Morgan to encounter confusions in
translation? For Morgan himself to confuse the
kin types? Or, for all of us to confuse them?
Questions about potential Omaha confusion would
reduce to straightforward ethnographic questions;
it is possible for native speakers to get confused
about their own terminology (especially if their
system is in flux); I have seen English speakers
get quite confused about the assignment of kin
types to different cousin categories. Questions
about Morgan’s particular confusions would serve
to reveal and define the limits of his understanding.
Questions about confusion on the part of all of
us might reveal limits of the contemporary state
of anthropological understanding, but alternatively
might be seen as revealing something about the
limits either of our knowledge itself or of the
specificity we are capable of attaining in regard
to our knowledge of cultural forms.
Limits on the potential specificity of our knowl-
edge of cultural forms presents us with a fourth
kind of issue regarding correctness. One may ask
a question that grows out of the work of Saussure
and Durkheim: how does one identify (or what
does one even mean by) the “correct” version of
a collective representation, when instances of that
representation vary noticeably among members of
the community in question?
Morgan’s Effect on Subsequent Work
Trautmann and Barnes find no evidence of sig-
nificant errors in Morgan’s Iroquois-type systems,
and they find that “the ethnological discussion
of Omaha-type terminologies in North America
has not been contaminated by Morgan’s errors”
(54). I partially agree and partially disagree with
these conclusions. On the narrow issue of whether
subsequent specialists were significantly misled
by Morgan’s errors (for example, with regard to
Omaha-type systems) Trautmann and Barnes seem
clearly correct; subsequent theorists seem not to
have been noticeably misled by Morgan. Certainly
analysts such as Tax and Lounsbury, when work-
ing on Omaha-type systems that were described by
Morgan, have not followed Morgan’s data where
it differed from other sources or seemed clearly
unreasonable.
However, there is a wider sense in which the
very virtues of Morgan’s work have had a devas-
tatingly negative effect on subsequent work. The
extensive and comprehensive scope of Morgan’s
compendium made any further descriptive work
on North American kin terminologies seem un-
Anthropos 96.2001
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Distinction
431
necessary and a waste of effort. Thus, we have
had no full or detailed descriptions by any authors
of any of the North American systems Morgan
described subsequent to his compendium - and
hence much less good terminological data for
North America than for other areas of traditional
anthropological interest such as Africa or India.
It was this lack of alternative descriptions that
made my attempt to evaluate Morgan’s descrip-
tions in my 1989 Morgan/Dorsey article (98 f.) so
tentative. Contemporary remedies are problematic
since too many of these groups have had their
cultures and languages too heavily impacted by the
dominant Euro-American culture for contemporary
data from them to be very useful as a corrective
to Morgan (even if such data might be quite
interesting in its own right).
Morgan’s negative effect on contemporary the-
oretical understandings is further illustrated by
problems one has in trying to evaluate the claims
that Trautmann and Barnes make concerning the
geographical distribution of systems exhibiting
their Type A vs. their Type B crossness (50).
The difficulty is partly that much of the evidence
for Type B (i.e., an Iroquois-type cross/parallel
feature) comes from Morgan - who has been seen
to have had some relevant biases or blinders (e.g.,
see p. 48).12 As things now stand, after Trautmann
and Barnes’ contribution, the problem does not
concern taking Morgan’s data as evidence for the
Presence in North America of Type B; Trautmann
and Barnes have given us clear corroboration for at
least some cases and some further corroboration is
provided by the weight of Morgan’s own detailed
knowledge of the Iroquois people. The problem,
mstead. concerns accepting his data as convincing
evidence of a lack of Type A in any particular
region. Since Morgan appears to have recognized
n° Type A cases in North America, but since we
*2 It seems worth briefly discussing the specific kinds of
biases or presuppositions that one may be ascribing to
Morgan, especially regarding the Omaha terminology (and
other similar skewed ones). One does doubt that he had a
clear enough vision of the precise difference between the
Dravidian-type cross/parallel feature and the Iroquois-type
feature or that he understood enough about the actual
mechanisms of skewing to have consciously or explicitly
tried to build an Iroquois-type feature into his Omaha data.
On the other hand (as Trautmann and Barnes [1998:50]
show), he did have clear expectations about how termino-
logical uniformities in a chain of descent from some apical
ancestor should follow, and the apical ancestors that he
identified for such chains were those that distinguished the
Dravidian-type feature from the Iroquois-type one - and he
Particularly attended to such chains (lines) where they were
collateral to ego’s grandparents (vs. descended from them).
Anth
know from other sources that such did exist, and
since we know that he did edit and emend his data
schedules, we have to worry that he might have
converted any Type A cases he found into Type B.
There is, additionally, the problem that Trautmann
and Barnes’ claim about the distribution is based
on only a small number of cases - a result of Mor-
gan’s effect of blocking out subsequent descriptive
work - which makes its apparent accuracy vulner-
able to statistical sampling error (that is, errors in
even a small number of cases could easily change
the conclusion).
Even assuming the accuracy of Morgan’s data
for the moment in time in which it was collect-
ed, there still remains the problem of catching
historical change in process. Morgan’s effect of
precluding13 further work means that we have no
later temporal fixes on the systems he examined,
and, to my mind even more importantly, no later
descriptions of other systems from the area that
might not have been as far along in a process
of cultural change - whether population expan-
sion, technological development, acculturation, or
whatever - as the ones that he happened to have
studied. Such temporal data, for instance, would
be needed to evaluate the kind of explanation
for Iroquois-type systems in the area (as broken
down Dravidian-type ones) that I have offered. The
much greater intensity of acculturative pressures
(and pressures toward cultural destruction) in the
southern part of Trautmann and Barnes’ compari-
son region (on which they base their conclusions
regarding the location of Type A and Type B
crossness - 1998: 51 f.) underlines the importance
of temporal (as well as spatial) sampling and of
multiple ethnographic perspectives. This paucity
in the ethnographic record of material on North
American kin terminologies does not represent a
fault of Trautmann and Barnes, nor, even, of Mor-
gan; however, it does represent a serious negative
consequence of his work - in that mistakes in his
work could have a lasting theoretical effect.
Dravidianists appear to have been more im-
mune to (or secure from) Morgan’s influence,
in part because he does not appear to have had
the same weight in Dravidian studies that he had
in North American Amerindian studies, and in
part because relevant data has remained directly
available through the contemporary period.
13 I am speaking of the effect of his impressive body of work,
not of any intention that he had. The problems that his work
has created for subsequent research represent no intention
of his, and no failing on his part - they rather speak to
weaknesses in the anthropological culture that followed
him.
‘ropos 96.2001
432
David В. Kronenfeld
I want to thank Professors Trautmann and Barnes for
sharing their paper with me and for the further thoughts
on the issues involved which they each have generously
offered in further communications. I am grateful to Eu-
gene Anderson, Alan G. Fix, and Daniel A. Kronenfeld
for commenting on early versions of this paper, and I
owe a special debt to Judy Z. Kronenfeld for the rigorous
and critical editing which she provided.
References Cited
Eggan, Fred
1966 The American Indian: Perspectives for the Study of
Social Change. Chicago: Aldine Publications.
1972 Lewis Henry Morgan’s Systems. A Reevaluation. In:
P. Reining (ed.), Kinship Studies in the Morgan Centen-
nial Year; pp. 1-16. Washington: The Anthropological
Society of Washington.
Fenton, William N.
1978 Northern Iroquoian Culture Patterns. In: B. G. Trigger
(ed.), Handbook of North American Indians. Vol. 15:
Northeast; pp. 296-321. Washington: Smithsonian In-
stitution.
Godelier, Maurice, Thomas R. Trautmann, and Franklin
E. Tjon Sie Fat (eds.)
1998 Transformations of Kinship. Washington: Smithsonian
Institution Press.
Gould, Sidney H.
2000 A New System for the Formal Analysis of Kinship.
(Edited and annotated with an introduction by David
B. Kronenfeld.) Lanham: University Press of America.
Kronenfeld, David B.
1970 The Relationship between Kinship Categories and Be-
havior among the Fanti. Ann Arbor: University Micro-
films. [Ph. D. dissertation, Stanford University]
1973 Fanti Kinship: The Structure of Terminology and Be-
havior. American Anthropologist 75: 1577-1595.
1975 Kroeber v. Radcliffe-Brown on Kinship Behavior: The
Fanti Test Case. Man 10: 257-284.
1980a A Formal Analysis of Fanti Kinship Terminology (Gha-
na). Anthropos 75: 586-608.
1980b Particularistic or Universalistic Analysis of Fanti Kin-
Terminology: The Alternative Goals of Terminological
Analysis. Man 15: 151-169.
1985 Numerical Taxonomy: Old Techniques and New As-
sumptions. Current Anthropology 26: 21-41.
1989 Morgan vs. Dorsey on the Omaha Cross/Parallel Con-
trast: Theoretical Implications. L’Homme 29/109: 76-
106.
1991 Fanti Kinship: Language, Inheritance, and Kin Groups.
Anthropos 86: 19-31.
Lounsbury, Floyd G.
1956 A Semantic Analysis of the Pawnee Kinship Usage.
Language 32: 158-194.
1962 Review of Needham 1962. American Anthropologist 64:
1302-1310.
1964 The Structural Analysis of Kinship Semantics. In: Pro-
ceedings of the Ninth International Congress of Lin-
guists. The Hague: Mouton. [Reprint 1969 in: S. A.
Tyler (ed.), Cognitive Anthropology; pp. 193-212. New
York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston]
Morgan, Lewis Henry
1871 Systems of Consanguinity and Affinity of the Human
Family. Washington: Smithsonian Institution. (Smithso-
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1851 The League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee, or Iroquois.
Rochester: Sage and Brother. [Reprinted by Human
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Needham, Rodney
1962 Structure and Sentiment: A Test Case in Social Anthro-
pology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Trautmann, Thomas R., and R. H. Barnes
1998 ’’Dravidian,” “Iroquois,” and “Crow-Omaha” in North
American Perspective. In: M. Godelier et al. (eds.);
pp. 27-58.
Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 433-474
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
Ethnische Grenzen und ethnienübergreifende Identität in Makassar
Christoph Antweiler
To “imagine” a “community” ... would
entail a process of imagining its compo-
nents as well.
(Webb Keane 1997: 37)
Abstract. - Regarding studies on collective identites Southeast
Asia with its cultural diversity is an especially fruitful cultural
realm. Research is proliferating, even more since doi moi in
Vietnam, the “Asian Crisis,” and the fall of Suharto. But many
°f current works are limited by studying only public culture
and printed representations of collective identities. Thus they
are documenting and interpreting official rhetoric, ethnopolitics,
cuhural policies, and intellectual viewpoints. There is a lack
°f empirical investigations of ethnic-level and other collective
1(ientities in the everyday life of ordinary people. Inspired
by the recent violent communal conflicts in certain parts of
Indonesia, this article provides a theoretical and empirical
investigation of intercultural processes in multiethnic contexts
ln Indonesia. A theoretical basis is provided by a critical discus-
Sl°n of current terms and concepts. A typology of dynamics
°f interculturality is proposed. The empirical case is social
cognition and interculturality in the city of Makassar (formerly
Piling Pandang) in Outer Indonesia. One conclusion is that
Historical long-term experiences with migrants and recently
emerging transethnic respectively regional identities might be
Prerequisites for nonviolent conflict regulation in multiethnic
gettings in Southeast Asia in general and indigenous states like
. onesia in particular. [Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Sulawesi,
lnterculturality, identity politics, culturalism, conflicts, region-
alism]
Christoph Antweiler, Dr. phil. (Köln 1987), Habil. (Köln
'"5); Prof, am FB IV - Ethnologie, Universität Trier. -
Interessen: Kognitive Ethnologie, Stadtethnologie, Migration
und kulturelle Evolution. - Regionale Schwerpunkte: Südost-
Und Südasien. - Neuere Publikationen s. zit. Literatur.
Anlaß: “ethnische” Konflikte in Indonesien
und Forschungslücken zu kollektiver Identität
in Südostasien
Nachrichten über Indonesien sind derzeit zumeist
Nachrichten über Gewalt. Als Ursache werden
oft “ethnische” Probleme genannt. Warum sind
aber manche Gebiete Indonesiens vergleichswei-
se konfliktarm im Gegensatz zu den konfliktrei-
chen “Hot Spots” Indonesiens, also Aceh, Irian
Jaya, Ost-Timor (inzwischen unabhängig), aber
auch - ja sogar besonders stark - Jakarta? Der
Beispielsfall hier ist die Provinz Süd-Sulawesi
(Sulawesi Selatan) und besonders ihre Haupt-
stadt Makassar (Ujung Pandang) im östlichen
Indonesien. In Makassar, einer Stadt von heute
über 1,3 Millionen Einwohnern kommen gewalt-
same Konflikte zwar durchaus vor, aber bislang
eher selten. Falls solche Konflikte entstehen, sind
Streitereien zwischen Jugendgruppen, Spannungen
zwischen Vierteln, aber auch Diebstähle, Ehrver-
letzungen und wirtschaftliche Verdrängungspro-
zesse, z. B. im Zentralmarkt der Stadt, die Anläs-
se. Wie in anderen Regionen Indonesiens neigen
die Bewohner dazu, Konflikte jedweder Ursache
schnell als “ethnisch” zu interpretieren, aber den-
434
Christoph Antweiler
noch sind offene interethnische Konflikte bislang
selten.
Bis in die 1960er Jahre gab es aufgrund ei-
ner regionalen Widerstandsbewegung andauernde
Konflikte im ländlichen Süd-Sulawesi. Die inter-
ethnische Komponente war hier jedoch von unter-
geordneter Bedeutung. Die Bewegung unter Kahar
Muazzakkar war prinzipiell gegen die National-
regierung in Jakarta gerichtet und die Konflikt-
linien liefen quer durch die ethnischen Gruppen.
Seit der Niederschlagung dieser Bewegung in den
späten 1960er Jahren ist die Zahl gewaltsamer
Konflikte in Süd-Sulawesi gering. In Makassar
haben aber antichinesische Ressentiments in den
letzten zwanzig Jahren des öfteren zu Ausschrei-
tungen geführt. Die Chinesen in der Stadt sind
auf der Hut: man kann ihre Geschäfte in der
Innenstadt einfach an der Vergitterung erkennen.
Der Innenteil eines der vier chinesischen Tempel
wurde 1997 zerstört und wurde bis heute nicht
renoviert. Diese Konflikte entstehen jedoch in
der Regel aus spezifischen Anlässen heraus, et-
wa Verkehrsunfällen oder Vergewaltigungen. Sie
sind in der Regel von kurzer Dauer. Seit einigen
Jahren siedeln Chinesen auch in den Außenbe-
zirken der Stadt, die sie noch bis in die 1980er
Jahre mieden (karena takut “aus Angst”; vgl.
Antweiler 2000b: 236 ff.). Neuerdings wird das
Chinesenviertel sogar als erste touristische China-
town in Indonesien propagiert und etwas herausge-
putzt.
Es gibt bestimmt keine einfache Antwort auf
die Frage, warum in manchen Regionen Indone-
siens immer wieder Konflikte auftreten und in
anderen selten. Diese Konflikte haben gewöhnlich
mehr als eine Ursache und hinter ihnen steht oft
eine lange Konfliktgeschichte. Auslöser gewalt-
samer Konflikte sind in ganz Indonesien derzeit
häufig kleine Anlässe, wie Verkehrsunfälle oder
Demonstrationen gegen überhöhte Fahrpreise. Ei-
ne allgemeine Verunsicherung und strukturell das
Fehlen von Rechtssicherheit, auch gegenüber Re-
präsentanten des Staats, ermöglichen eine “Kultur
der Gewalt” (Mischkowski o. J.: 4). Der Staat, lo-
kale Regierungen oder die Polizei geben zeitweilig
das Ordnungs- und Gewaltmonopol auf. Nach wie
vor werden Konflikte, z. B. um Land zwischen
Großkonzernen und der lokalen Bevölkerung, vor-
wiegend lokal ausgetragen. Hinter vielen ethnisch
oder religiös eingefärbten Konflikten in Indonesien
stehen aber statt “ethnischer” Gründe grundlegen-
dere Ursachen, die die Suharto-Ara prägten, aber
jetzt noch fortwirken:
- Eine allgemeine Entpolitisierung der öffentli-
chen Debatte und Erziehung unter der “Neuen
Ordnung” (Orde Baru) bis 1998.1 Potentielle Kon-
fliktthemen um Ethnie, Klasse, Rasse und Religion
wurden tabuisiert, insbesondere interethnisch bri-
sante Themen wurden deethnisiert (SAJM-Politik,
anti-sukuisme). Verbunden mit einer hegemonia-
len “Normalisierung” der Wahrheit durch staatlich
verordnete Rituale (Foucault) bedingte dies eine
Passivität, aus der heraus sich jetzt erst langsam
eine offene politische Kultur herausbildet.
- Eine durch die Pancasila-Staatsideologie stark
begrenzte Duldung kultureller Autonomie in nur
wenigen Bereichen, wie Hausbau, Hochzeitsfei-
ern, Trachten und Tänzen (Acciaioli 1985; Tay-
lor 1994). Allgemein wurde Kultur domestiziert
(Schefold 1998) und folklorisiert. Lokale ethni-
sche Kultur wird regionalisiert und regionale wird
nationalisiert. Regionale bzw. Provinztraditionen
werden in Museen, Themenparks und Perfor-
mances konstruiert.1 2 Die Nation wurde zwar trotz
islamischer Dominanz als säkular verstanden; fak-
tisch wurde aber häufig die ethnische oder religiöse
Karte im politischen Machtkampf ausgespielt, z. B.
bei Ämterbesetzungen.
- Die besondere Nationenbildung Indonesiens
als von konservativem Indigenismus geprägtem
Staat. Der Nationalstaat wird nicht primär über
Kultur bzw. Sprache definiert, wie etwa in Thai-
land oder den Philippinen, sondern (neben der
Bahasa Indonesia als lingua franca und aus-
gewählten kulturellen Aspekten) auch über die
Herkunft bzw. Physis seiner Bürger.3 Staats-
bürgerschaft (kewarganegaraan) und Nationa-
lität (kebangsaan) decken sich nicht; es gibt eine
klar abgegrenzte Kategorie von indigenen Perso-
nen (pribumi), die mehr Rechte als “eingewan-
derte” Bürger hat (vgl. Vickers 1999: 388 ff.; Su-
ryadinata 2000:43). Indonesien stellt also eine
besondere Variante von “Ethnostaat” (ethnic state,
indigenous state) dar: trotz javanischer Dominanz
schließt die Verfassung aus, daß eine dominante
Ethnie die Nation ausmacht. Mangels eines vor-
kolonialen ethnischen Kerns (Liddle 1997:282)
wurde eine essentialisierte Kategorie, quasi ei-
ne Makroethnie, die Pribumi Indonesia, imagi-
niert. In ihr wird die Nation integralistisch mit
Nationalcharakter und gemeinsamem Blut as-
1 Schmit 1996; Tirtosudarmo 1997; Liddle 1997, Mackie
1999; zu Schulen Leigh 1999 und Mulder 2000.
2 Hatley 1995, Antweiler 1994, Errington 1998.
3 Präsident Abdurrahman Wahid definierte 1998 das Kon-
zept der indonesischen Nation (Bangsa Indonesia) so um,
daß ausdrücklich kein Bezug auf die Physis gemacht wird-
Dies blieb bislang aber ohne Folgen (Suryadinata 2000: 66)-
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
435
Tab. 1: Konfliktursachen in Indonesien: Süd-Sulawesi im schematischen Vergleich mit anderen Regionen der Peripherie
Indonesiens
Regionale Charakteristika Provinz Süd-Sulawesi (Propinsi Sulawesi Selatan) Regionen mit Spannungen z. B. Aceh, Kalimantan, Maluku, Ost-Timor, Irian Jaya (West-Papua)
Regionale Position zu Java Außeninsel, strukturell benachteiligt Außeninseln, strukturell benachteiligt, Bevölkerung z. T. von Regierung als “troublemaker” angesehen
Javanisierung vglw. gering, da Autonomietradition und starke lokale politische Kultur stark
Bevölkerungsdichte gering, deshalb wenig Landdruck teils hoch, hoher Landdruck
Migration Transmigranten in Teilregionen, daneben viel Emigration viele Transmigranten und unorganisierte Migranten
Allokation von Entwicklungsgeldern Entwicklungsgelder fließen primär ins Zentrum nach Java Entwicklungsgelder fließen primär ins Zentrum nach Java
Rohstoffextraktion wenige Rohstoffe (z. B. Nickel) rohstoffreich, Nutzung durch Nichteinhei- mische (interner Kolonialismus)
Regional bewußtsein sehr stark zwischen und in Regionen unterschiedlich
Tourismus wichtig, aber räumlich konzentriert zumeist gering (Irian Jaya)
koloniale und postkoloniale Geschichte periphere Kolonialstadt, Region nur teilweise beherrscht spät einbezogen in die Kolonie bzw. in den Nationalstaat
“Sicherheit” (keamanan) als zentrales Kulturthema wichtig wegen politischer Unsicherheit insbesondere während der 1950er und frühen 1960er Jahre wahrscheinlich inter- und intraregional un- terschiedlich, bislang aber kaum erforscht
kolonial entstandene ethnische Arbeits- teilung vorhanden, aber früh intensive inter- ethnische Kontakte über Handel, s.u. deutlich
interethnische Stereotype vorhanden vorhanden
Erfahrung mit interethnischem Umgang intensiv (Handel, Emigration, Mischhei- raten, Bilingualität) z. T. erst seit kurzer Zeit
Rolle regionaler Ethnien in indonesi- scher Nation Bugis und Makasar “bedeutende” Ethnien (puncak puncak di kebudyaan di daerah in der Verfassung) aufgefaßt als national wenig bedeutende Ethnien
Machtverhältnisse zwischen Ethnien klare Dominanz der Bugis und Makasar in gesamter Provinz uneindeutig oder keine Ethnie außer den Javanen dominant
ßedeutung des Islam im Tiefland hegemonial sehr unterschiedlich hoch
soziiert. Viele Elemente sind europäischen Ur-
sprungs.4
^ Eine forcierte Orientierung an technologischem
Aufbau” (pembangunan) verbunden mit Exper-
tentum und Management statt an Politik in einer
°ffenen Gesellschaft.5 * Dieser nationalistische de-
4 Darunter finden sich äußerst verschiedene ethnologische,
bürokratische (Anderson 1998), kolonial affirmative, aber
auch konservativ imperialismuskritische (Kahn 1998: 15),
rassistisch-abwertende, aber auch positiv nationalistisch-
rassistische Ideen, etwa die eines spezifisch indonesischen
Genius”, z. B. von Emst Renan (Young 1995).
^gl- Schmit 1996: 185 f.; Berger 1997: 171; Tirtosudarmo
1997, 1999.
Anth
velopmentalism legitimierte die Ordnung und ging
mit einem Zivilisationsverständnis einher, daß “Zi-
vilisation” mit technischem Fortschritt gleichsetzt
(Mischkowski o. J.:8). Damit hängen starke un-
kontrollierte interne Wanderungen sowie die staat-
lich organisierte Binnenmigration (Transmigrasi)
zusammen mit dem Effekt, daß die Außeninseln
javanisiert werden und kulturell einander weitge-
hend fremde Menschen in Gruppen aufeinander-
treffen.
Diese allgemeinen Strukturen können aber nicht
das unterschiedliche Ausmaß von Konflikten in
verschiedenen Regionen erklären. Als Rahmen für
die folgenden Ausführungen zu konfliktrelevanter
‘ropos 96.2001
436
Christoph Antweiler
sozialer Kognition und zu ethnienübergreifenden
Orientierungen wird in Tab. 1 ein Versuch ge-
macht, aus der Durchsicht der Literatur einige
Strukturvariablen herauszufiltern. Hierzu verglei-
che ich Süd-Sulawesi mit Regionen Indonesiens,
die in den letzten Jahren besonders konflikt-
reich waren. In einigen Variablen bestehen kaum
Unterschiede; in anderen sind sie markant. Ein
durch mehrere der Variablen hindurchreichendes
Merkmal der Region Süd-Sulawesi und beson-
ders der Stadt Makassar ist die lange Erfahrung,
die Bewohner mit interkulturellem Umgang ha-
ben. Neben ethnischem Bewußtsein findet sich
in dieser Stadt und eingeschränkter der Region
ein Bewußtsein regionaler Einheit und mehrere
Optionen bzw. “Angebote” ethnienübergreifender
kollektiver Identität. Neben strukturellen politöko-
nomischen Ursachen und situativen Anlässen sind
es oft die Einzelheiten lokaler oder regionaler
Konzeptionen und kollektiver Erinnerungen, die
die Entstehung und den Verlauf von Konflikten
prägen.
Südostasien als Region zeichnet sich für viele
Ethnologen, die hier forschen, durch extreme kul-
turelle Vielfalt und durch die hohe Bedeutung
öffentlicher Kultur aus. Es ist kein Zufall, daß die
Geertzsche Ethnologie der dichten Beschreibung
öffentlicher Kultur hier besonders zu Hause ist.
Entsprechend interpretieren Ethnologen heute z. B.
Fernsehsendungen, Plakate, Performances, Kultur-
parks und Publikationen von Regierungen, Intel-
lektuellen und Nichtregierungsorganisationen (Bo-
wen 1995: 1048; Steedly 1999: 440 ff.). Dies hat
zu faszinierenden Studien geführt, die die histori-
sche Gewachsenheit sowie die Komplexität, Kon-
textualität und Konflikthaftigkeit betonen. Kultu-
ren Südostasiens werden kaum mehr als statisch
und kohärent gesehen, Bedeutungen nicht mehr als
intrinsisch, von allen geteilt und damit als Text
lesbar dargestellt. Akteure werden nicht mehr als
passiv Ausführende gesehen. In einem Überblick
aktueller Studien wertet Bowen es deshalb positiv,
daß: “from the face-to-face communities generally
studied by anthropologists, we have turned in-
creasingly to the political public spheres” (Bowen
1995: 1050). Dieser Trend gilt besonders für Stu-
dien zu kollektiver Identität.6 Dadurch sind viele
6 Vgl. die Sammelbände Souchou (1987), Wessel (1994),
und Kahn (1998) zu kollektiver Identität in Südostasien
allgemein sowie Askew und Logan (1994) zu städtischer
Identität, Picard und Wood (1997) zu Tourismus und Iden-
tität, Hitchcock und King (1997) zu Images von Indonesien,
Winzeier (1997) zu Malaysia und Borneo und Kuhnt-
Saptodewo et al. (1997) zu Nationalismus und Regiona-
lismus.
Studien aber auch recht weit von der Alltagsebene
abgehoben7 * und zudem oft nur locker auf Theorien
kollektiver Identität bzw. Ethnizitätstheorien be-
zogen. Entsprechend ist über die Verbreitung und
Eigenart von kollektiver Identität in der breiten
Bevölkerung immer noch wenig bekannt. Wenig
weiß man über Wahrnehmung, Erfahrung und sub-
jektive Relevanz von Identitätskonstrukten. Nur
empirische Studien von “ganz normalen Bürgern”
können zeigen, welche Alltagsrelevanz kollektive
Identität hat, welches gedankliche Repertoire den
Menschen zur Verfügung steht und besonders wel-
che emotionale Bedeutung bestimmte Konzepte in
der Bevölkerung haben.
Dieser Aufsatz soll erstens zur Theorie kollek-
tiver Identität und besonders der Interkulturalität
beitragen. Zweitens soll die Komplexität inter-
ethnischer Situationen und ihr Konfliktlösungspo-
tential exemplarisch an einem Beispiel verdeutlicht
werden. Für Indonesien wird gefragt, ob es heute
eine Basis gibt für Interkulturalität oder sogar
für Kosmopolitismus, nämlich “... die Anderen
als verschieden und gleich zu bejahen ...” (Beck
2001:6). In Teil 1 wird eine theoretische Basis
erarbeitet, indem neuere Ansätze der Ethnizitäts-
und Interkulturalitätsforschung systematisiert wer-
den und eine Typologie interkultureller Prozesse
vorgestellt wird, die zur differenzierten Analyse
nutzbar ist. Teil 2 stellt Formen interkulturellen
Umgangs und sozialer Kognition am Beispiel der
ethnisch extrem gemischten, aber von wenigen
Ethnien dominierten Stadt Makassar dar. In Teil 3
untersuche ich Kontinuitäten der heutigen inter-
ethnischen Situation zum interethnischen Umgang
im Makassar der Kolonialzeit. Teil 4 beschreibt
gegenwärtige Trends eines aufkeimenden ethnien-
übergreifenden Bewußtseins. Neue Trends kollek-
tiver Identität im Indonesien der Nach-Suharto-
Ära werden schließlich in Teil 5 in die derzeitige
Arena kollektiver Identität eingeordnet, in der ne-
ben alten Dichotomien neue Identitätsangebote so-
wohl auf sub- als auch auf supranationaler Ebene
stehen.
7 Dies wird z. B. explizit von van den Bersselaar (1999: 148)
am von Kahn edierten Sammelband (1998) bemängelt»
gilt aber für viele Beiträge zu kollektiver Identität io
Südostasien; vgl. dagegen z. B. Acciaioli und Nourse
(1994).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
1 Interkulturalität
1.1 Interkultureller Umgang als altes Phänomen
mit neuen Dimensionen und Dynamiken
Weltweit sind heute unterschiedliche, gleichwohl
zusammenhängende, Trends kulturellen Wandels
festzustellen. Einerseits sehen wir eine zunehmen-
de Verknüpfung früher eher voneinander getrenn-
ter Menschen und früher weit weniger mitein-
ander verquickter Gesellschaften. Auf wirtschaft-
licher Ebene zeigen sich Tendenzen weltweiter
Vereinheitlichung in Konsummustern, in zuneh-
mend ähnlichen Arbeitsprozessen und besonders in
Weltweit ähnlichen Strukturen ökonomischer Un-
gleichheit. Verknüpfungen zeigen sich im Finanz-
bereich, bei global operierenden multinationalen
Unternehmen. Aber auch in der zunehmenden Zahl
von transnationalen Bewegungen und Netzwerken
(Umwelt-, Frauen- und Homosexuellenbewegung,
Internet) und transnational agierenden Gruppen,
z- B. den Sikhs. Diese Prozesse werden mit oft
unbedacht verwendeten Metaphern wie der vom
globalen Dorf’ diskutiert. Auf kommunikativer
Ebene gibt es für Mittel- und Oberklassenange-
hörige das global village, aber politisch ist es
zerstritten, es hat keinen Bürgermeister; es ist
hybride und fragmentiert. Dies führt zur anderen
Seite der Medaille.
Andererseits finden wir ein oft militantes Be-
stehen auf kulturellen Grenzen, kultureller Eigen-
ständigkeit, Andersartigkeit bzw. Besonderheit.
Uie kulturelle und politische Vielfalt zeigt sich
deutlich an der stark zunehmenden Zahl formal
unabhängiger Staaten. Außerdem wirken globa-
U Strukturen nicht per se nivellierend, denn sie
Werden im jeweiligen örtlichen Rahmen spezifisch
umgesetzt, in dem sie den eigenen kulturellen
Bedingungen angepaßt werden.8 Eigenständigkeit
°der Andersartigkeit (Alterität) wird nicht nur von
oder für kleine Gruppen oder begrenzte soziale
Einheiten reklamiert. Auch auf der Makroebene
ganzer Kulturräume oder umfassender Zivilisatio-
nen werden Grenzen betont. Durch die zuneh-
^ende Migration, die Revolution im Transport-
wesen und effizientere KommunikationsSysteme
helfen imaginierte oder propagierte Makrokultu-
ren heute mehr denn je tatsächlich aufeinander,
weshalb die Rede vom “Zusammenprall der Zivili-
Stichworte der aktuellen Diskussion, die verschiedene
Aspekte bzw. Sichtweisen dieser Prozesse umschreiben,
sind Fragmentierung, Indigenisierung, spezifische Aneig-
nung, Lokalisierung und Globalisierung.
Anth
437
sationen” oder dem “Kampf der Kulturen” so
populär wird.
Es stellen sich die zwei Fragen. Empirisch (1)
ist zu fragen, ob es sich wirklich um neue Trends
handelt; theoretisch (2) ist problematisch, ob man
sinnvoll von interkulturellem Umgang spricht, oh-
ne Kulturen als Monolithen konzeptualisieren zu
müssen. Der noch junge diachrone Ansatz inner-
halb der kulturvergleichenden Ethnologie liefert
handfeste Daten zur ersten Frage. Sind Kontakte
zwischen “klassischen” ethnischen Gruppen ein
seltenes oder historisch junges Phänomen oder
historisch ein normales Phänomen? Wichtigstes
bisheriges Resultat dieser Historisierung des inter-
kulturellen Vergleiches ist, daß fast alle ethnischen
Gruppen schon lange vor dem kolonialen Kontakt
mit größeren Systemen verknüpft waren. Über
längere Zeit, oft Jahrhunderte, gab es über Händler
und andere Mittler Beziehungen zu den großen
Weltreichen bzw. Wirtschaftssystemen. Nur etwa
5% aller Ethnien waren vom sich ab etwa dem 16.
Jh. entwickelnden kapitalistischen Weltsystem9 in
dem Sinn völlig isoliert, daß sie nur tauschten, also
nicht mittels Geld kauften sowie keine Lohn- oder
Zwangsarbeit leisteten. Infolge der Eingliederung
in das Weltwirtschaftssystem hatten 84% aller un-
tersuchten Gruppen schon in den letzten hundert
Jahren vor ihrer ethnologischen Erstuntersuchung
ihre Subsistenzweise grundlegend geändert (White
1990).
Obwohl Ethnien also schon früher nicht strikt
voneinander abgegrenzt waren und heute eine
weltweite kulturelle “Kreolisierung” (Hannertz
1992:45) zu beobachten ist, existieren dennoch
kulturell abgegrenzte und sich abgrenzende Grup-
pen. Die postmodernistische Betonung kultureller
Diffusität und der Auflösung kultureller Grenzen,
so wichtig sie sind, werfen, da zumeist über-
zogen, zwei zentrale Einsichten der Ethnologie
über Bord. Zum einen ist Kultur im Kern etwas
Kollektives. Zum anderen zeichnet sich Kultur
dadurch aus, daß sie in Gewohnheiten, in Standar-
disierungen des Erlebens, Denkens, Handelns und
Verhaltens besteht (Hansen 2000:43-146). Beide
Aspekte hängen zusammen, beide sind theoretisch
untermauert und entsprechen dem empirischen Be-
fund.
Zweitens ist zu fragen, ob man den Umgang
von Minderheiten mit den sie heute einschlie-
9 Als Überblick zum Diskussionsstand zur Weltsystemtheorie
Wallersteins vgl. Antweiler 1999, zu weiteren Weltsystem-
konzepten und historischen Anwendungen Denemark et al.
2000, zur Anwendung auf Indonesien Schölte (1997:33-
39).
lroPos 96.2001
438
Christoph Antweiler
ßenden staatlich verfaßten Gesellschaften und die
Beziehungen unter Minderheiten in solchen Ge-
sellschaften angesichts der globalen Verknüpfun-
gen und Verquickungen überhaupt noch sinn-
voll als mterkulturellen Umgang bezeichnen kann.
Nach ethnologischen (wie auch soziologischen;
vgl. Auernheimer 1995:75) Befunden ist klar,
daß Mitglieder von Minderheiten auch in mo-
dernen komplexen Großgesellschaften, trotz ih-
rer mehr oder minder intensiven Teilhabe an der
Kultur der Gesellschaft, sowohl (1) in der Außen-
sicht kulturelle Besonderheiten aufweisen, als auch
(2) sich selbst emisch abgrenzen und von anderen
abgegrenzt werden. Beides, also “reale” kulturel-
le Besonderheiten und ethnische Identität, vereint
Menschen in solchen komplexen Gesellschaften zu
“Wir”-Gruppen oder “Wir”-Netzen. Dies gilt auch,
wenn deren Mitglieder einen teilweise unterschied-
lichen Modernitätsgrad und Lebensstil haben, wie
es etwa bei jugendlichen “deutschen Türken” bzw.
“türkischen Deutschen” der Fall ist. Solche kultu-
rell besonderen Gruppen bestehen also neben und
quer durch subkulturelle, bzw. schichten- oder
klassenspezifische Habitusunterschiede im Sinne
Bourdieus (1976) und neben der zunehmenden
Pluralisierung der Lebensstile in modernen Gesell-
schaften. Dies bedeutet ausdrücklich nicht, daß sie
fundamentaler sein müssen.
Die Frage nach der Eigenart kultureller Ein-
heiten und ihrem Verhältnis zueinander stellt sich
international; sie ist aber auch intern in vielen Län-
dern ein virulentes Problem. Wenn nach der ge-
nauen Eigenart der kulturellen Mischungen gefragt
wird, ist ein Bild aus der Chemie hilfreich. Werden
sich Gemenge ergeben, also Aggregate, bei denen
sich die Eigenschaften der Komponenten addieren
oder werden es eher Verbindungen sein, die gegen-
über den Komponenten ganz neue Eigenschaften
haben? Für beide Fälle existieren Beispiele, für
deren Verständnis wir ein terminologisches und
theoretisches Handwerkzeug brauchen.10 *
1.2 “Interkulturalität”: belastete Termini und
Begriffsprobleme
Interkulturalität kann vom Wort her in mehre-
ren Richtungen aufgefaßt werden. Erstens kann
man darunter dasjenige auffassen, was zwischen
zwei oder mehr Kulturen steht, bzw. zwischen
10 Einschlägige Stichworte der aktuellen Diskussion sind
“Hybridität”, “kultureller Synkretismus”, “kulturelle Syn-
these”, “kulturelle Pidginisierung”, “kulturelle Kreolisie-
rung”, “kulturelle Ökumene” und “Third Culture”.
ihnen vermittelt. Das wäre dann “Inter-Kulturali-
tät”. Zweitens kann man spezifische Zwischenkul-
turen, also zwischen zwei Kulturen vermittelnde
Interkulturen, meinen, was eine “Interkultur-alität”
darstellen würde. Ein bekanntes derartiges Phä-
nomen sind Vermittlungs- bzw. Verkehrssprachen;
weniger bekannt, aber ethnologisch gut dokumen-
tiert sind Personen oder Gruppen, die zwischen
zwei oder mehreren Kulturen vermitteln. Beispiele
sind kulturelle Randseiter (marginal men), die als
Vermittler zwischen Angehörigen verschiedener
Gesellschaften (cultural broker) fungieren. Dies
sind oft Missionare oder Händler. Oft sind dies
nicht nur Individuen oder lockere Kollektive, son-
dern Gruppen, die eine eigene distinkte Kultur und
Identität herausbilden. Ein faszinierendes Beispiel
sind die beachcombers, kleine Gruppen von Men-
schen, die an den Stränden von Pazifikinseln lebten
und zwischen Händlern und der Bevölkerung im
Inselinneren vermittelten. Schließlich kann man
mit Interkulturalität Mischungsformen von Kultu-
ren meinen.
Transnationale kollektive Identitäten und hybri-
de individuelle Identitäten stellen für die Theore-
tisierung von Interkulturalität die besondere empi-
rische Herausforderung dar. Im ersten Fall geht
es um Menschen gleicher Kultur, die dauerhaft
verstreut leben aber durch transnationale Netze
eng verbunden sind (“global diasporas”, Cohen
1997). Zu nennen sind hier die Beispiele der Juden
und Armenier und heute vor allem die weltweit
verbreiteten Chinesen und Sikhs. Hier fragt sich
vor allem, welcher Art die transnationale und
jetzt nicht mehr ausschließlich auf ein Territorium
bzw. Heimatland bezogene kollektive Identität ist.
Der zweite analytisch problematische Fall ist die
Identität solcher Menschen, deren Identität sich
in der postkolonialen Zeit aus der Kombination
oder Amalgamierung verschiedener Kulturen er-
geben hat. Dies wird unter “Hybridität” diskutiert
(Werbner and Modood 1997).11
Warum spreche ich von “Interkulturalität” oder
von “interkulturellem Umgang”, statt geläufige-
re Bezeichnungen zu verwenden? Ich vermeide
das Wort “interkulturelle Kommunikation” (z. B-
Rehbein 1985; Jandt 1995), weil es hier auch
11 Problematisch ist, daß das aus der Vererbungslehre stam-
mende Wort “Hybriditität” nahelegt, es würde um Mischun-
gen vorher reiner kultureller Identitäten gehen, auch wenn
das (z. B. bei Homi Bhabha) nicht intendiert ist. Wenn
man hier eine biologische Metapher heranziehen will, wäre
die der (Chromosomen-)Mutation mit den Varianten der
Kombinationen, Deletion, Translokation sowie Transduk-
tion usw. als Metapher genauer und produktiver (vgl. Arce
und Long 2000).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
439
um Prozesse geht, in denen nicht Kommunikation
im Mittelpunkt steht, z. B. Migration, Vertreibung,
Segregation, Tourismus. Ferner erlaubt die Re-
de vom “Umgang” statt von “Kommunikation”
es, zum einen auch Situationen einzubeziehen,
in denen kaum kommuniziert wird, zum anderen
solche, in denen mehr als nur Kommunikation eine
Rolle spielt. Der institutionalisierte Umgang mit
Fremden als “Ausländern” ist ein Beispiel von
Umgang, in den weit mehr hereinspielt als nur un-
terschiedliche Kommunikationscodes. “Interkultu-
relle Interaktion” (Cushner and Brislin 1996) ist
ein passender Begriff, den ich nur wegen der
verwirrenden Dopplung des Wortteils “inter” nicht
benutze.
Auch der Terminus “transkulturelle Kommuni-
kation” ist problematisch, weil dies zwar für ein
Programm oder ein kosmopolitisches Ideal stehen
kann, zur Beschreibung realer interkultureller Um-
gangsmuster aber allzu idealistisch klingt. Außer-
dem legt das “trans” allzuleicht nahe, daß sich sol-
cherart Kommunikation außerhalb des Kulturellen
bewege. Ich vermeide auch die Termini “inter-
kulturelle Verständigung” (Dettmar 1989, 1990),
‘internationaler Austausch” und “interkulturelle
Begegnung”, weil diese Begriffe eine Gleichheit
der Partner suggerieren. Tatsächlich sind die Be-
gehungen im interkulturellen Umgang aber in
aller Regel asymmetrisch; Macht spielt herein -
ui welcher Form auch immer.
Hier wird von inter kulturellem Umgang und
Uicht von inter ethnischem Umgang gesprochen,
*eil sich, besonders in Industriegesellschaften, die
Ethnien kaum als Gruppen oder Organisationen,
sondern als Teilgruppen und Individuen unter-
schiedlicher Kultur begegnen. Selbst das Wort
Interkulturalität” verwende ich nur mit Vorbehalt,
*eil durch die Endung “-ität” die Gefahr der Reifi-
2]erung besteht, d. h. einen komplexen Prozeß es-
Sentialistisch zu verdinglichen. Außerdem besteht
lrnmer die Gefahr, einen neuen “Omnibusbegriff ’
ai|fzustellen, der alles und jedes transportiert und
^amit nutzlos wird, so wie es derzeit den Begriffen
Ethnizität” und “Kultur” droht.
Entscheidende Grundmerkmale zu interkultu-
ydlem Umgang lassen sich aus der Kommuni-
Kationsforschung zu interindividuellem Umgang
Seiten. Zentral ist hier die Einsicht, daß es
^möglich ist, nicht mit anderen umzugehen: “man
ann nicht nicht umgehen”. Kommunikation i.
e- S. kann man zwar abbrechen, Beziehungen als
s°lche jedoch nicht, denn der Abbruch ist selbst
plne Form von Beziehung. Eine zweite wichtige
rkenntnis ist, daß die eigentlichen Probleme der
Kommunikation vor allem in den Verzerrungen
4nth
bestehen, also gerade nicht in Eigenschaften der
Kommunikationspartner selbst liegen, sondern in
ihrer Beziehung, also zwischen (“inter”) ihnen
liegen. Anders gesagt: Beziehungen - und damit
ihre Probleme - lassen sich nicht auf die Eigen-
schaften der Beziehungspartner als solche zurück-
führen. Eine dritte grundlegende Einsicht besagt,
daß Beziehungen schon im interpersonellen Um-
gang oft in irgendeiner Weise, sei es hinsicht-
lich Macht, Einfluß, Interesse, Generationsstellung
oder Artikulationsfähigkeit, asymmetrisch sind.
Schließlich ist die Einsicht der Sprechaktforschung
bedeutsam, daß kommunikative Äußerungen als
Sprechakte anzusehen sind, die auch soziale
Beziehungen zum Partner herstellen und definieren
(Illokution).
Die zentrale Frage im Umgang zwischen An-
gehörigen verschiedener Kulturen (im ethnologi-
schen Sinn), also im interkulturellem Umgang,
kann salopp so formuliert werden: Was an der
Kultur ist schuld, daß der Umgang zu einem
besonderen wird (Tschohl 1984)? Um einer Kultu-
ralisierung bzw. Ethnisierung vorzubeugen, könn-
te man zunächst vorsichtiger formulieren: Was
macht interkollektiven Umgang besonders, etwa
gegenüber dem Umgang zwischen Personen in
einer Kultur, also interpersonalem Umgang? Das
Besondere liegt darin, daß Kollektive merkmalsär-
mer sind als Individuen. Sie können durch we-
nige Standardisierungen charakterisiert sein, wo-
durch die Schnittmenge gemeinsamer Orientierung
schnell gegen Null gehen kann. Ein Individuum
mit nur einer Charaktereigenschaft ist dagegen
kaum vorstellbar, weshalb die hermeneutische An-
nahme der totalen Fremdheit zwischen zwei Per-
sonen viel zu rigide ist (Hansen 2000: 336). Dies
gilt für jegliche Kollektive. Weitere Besonderhei-
ten ergeben sich aber daraus, daß nicht einfach
Menschen aufeinandertreffen, die unterschiedli-
chen merkmalsarmen Kollektiven angehören oder
ihnen zugeordnet werden. In der Regel treffen
Personen aufeinander, die Gewohnheiten des Er-
lebens und Verhaltens aufweisen, welche sie als
Mitglieder von gewachsenen Kollektiven in kultur-
spezifischer Sozialisation internalisiert haben. Es
ist der systemische Charakter von Kultur und
ihre Orientierungsfunktion, ihre Gruppenorientie-
rung im Rahmen des historischen Verhältnisses
mit anderen Gruppen, die jeweils den Umgang
mit Mitgliedern anderer Kulturen strukturieren.
Interkultureller Umgang ist damit viel umfassender
als interpersoneller Umgang und komplexer als
interkollektiver Umgang.
Auch der Begriff Interkulturalität läuft Gefahr,
ethnische Kategorien in einem Zirkelschluß zu
lr°Pos 96.2001
■mm
440
bekräftigen, wenn Vorstellungen der kugelhaften
Verfassung von Kultur mitgeschleppt werden. Des-
halb wurde der Begriff “Transkulturalität” vor-
geschlagen, der bewußt keinen inneren Einheits-
zwang und keine äußere Abschottung annimmt
(Welsch 1995: 39). Unrealistisch erscheint mir dar-
an aber die mit dem Wort “Trans” angedeutete
Auflösung aller kulturellen Grenzen. Um Ethni-
sierung zu vermeiden, müssen reale kulturelle Un-
terschiede und jeweilig besondere Ethnizität in
jedem Fall festgestellt werden, statt schlicht un-
terstellt, konstruiert, kulturalistisch überhöht oder
aber geleugnet zu werden. Dies impliziert, eine
jeweilige Kultur, auch wenn ihr Umgang mit einer
anderen im Zentrum der Betrachtung steht, nicht
als einheitlich (homogen) zu zeichnen, sondern
deren intrakulturelle Vielfalt zu sehen. So dürfen
z. B. Migranten nicht einfach mit der Kultur ihrer
Heimat gleichgesetzt werden.
Zwischenfazit: Auch in Industriegesellschaften
sind Ethnizitäten und Interkulturalität nur zu einem
Teil Produkte strategischer Konstruktion bzw. po-
litischer Ethnisierung. Interkultureller Umgang ist
ein reales Phänomen, da Ethnien als “Wir”-Grup-
pen und “Wir”-Netze zwar nicht klar voneinander
abgegrenzt sind, aber eben auch keine völlig kon-
turlosen Gebilde darstellen.
1.3 Typologie interkultureller Beziehungen
Für ein differenziertes Bild interkulturellen Um-
gangs sind mehrere analytische Unterscheidungen
wichtig. Im folgenden erläutere ich vier analyti-
sche Differenzierungen, von denen sich die ersten
drei auf die psychische Dimension und die Hal-
tungen bei interkulturellem Umgang und die vierte
auf den politökonomischen Kontext beziehen:
a) Gegenstände, z. B. andere Gruppen, auf die sich
Weltbilder beziehen;
b) Sichtweisen der Umgangspartner auf das Ver-
hältnis zwischen den Partnern;
c) zentrierte Perspektiven auf fremde Menschen
(-gruppen);
d) Beziehungsformen zwischen Gruppen.
Diese analytischen Unterscheidungen sind für
die Forschung wie für die Anwendung gleicher-
maßen wichtig, werden aber gerade in einem po-
litisierten Forschungsfeld wie diesem allzuleicht
übersehen. Im Hinblick auf Anwendung kann man
mittels solcher analytischen Hilfsmittel einerseits
fragen, welche Umgangsweisen, Perspektiven und
Beziehungen für welche gesellschaftlichen Ziele
nützlich sind und andererseits Instrumentalisierun-
gen kritisch hinterfragen.
Christoph Antweiler
Bezüglich (a) der Referenten von Weltbildern,
die interkulturellen Umgang beeinflussen, kann
man die folgenden Bildmotive unterscheiden:
- Bild von der eigenen Gruppe (Eigenbild), oft
als Eigenstereotyp (Autostereotyp),
- Bild über eine andere Gruppe oder mehrere
andere Gruppen (Fremdbild), oft als Fremd-
stereotyp (Heterostereotyp) und
- Bild der Beziehung zwischen Eigen- und
Fremdgruppe bzw. mehreren anderen Gruppen
(Beziehungsbild), ebenfalls oft in stereotyper
Form (Interaktionsstereotyp).
Wir wissen aus der oben skizzierten Ethnizitäts-
forschung, daß es meist ausgeprägte Bilder zu
allen drei Aspekten gibt, weil sie sich in enger
Verquickung miteinander bilden.
Hinsichtlich (b) der Sicht der Intergruppenrela-
tion, also der Einschätzung, die zwei Gruppen über
ihr Verhältnis haben, gibt es aus der Sicht einer
jeweiligen Gruppe zwei Grundmodelle (Tschohl
1984):
- ein Fremdheitsmodell, das besagt, daß die an-
dere Gruppe der eigenen unähnlich bzw. fremd
oder unvertraut sei (vgl. Bargatzky 1992) und
- ein Gleichheitsmodell, das annimmt, daß ei-
ne (oder mehrere oder gar sämtliche) anderen
Gruppen der eigenen gleich oder ähnlich bzw.
ihr vertraut sind.
Nach den Befunden der Ethnizitätsforschung ist
zu vermuten, daß das Fremdheitsmodell bei wei-
tem verbreiteter ist als das Gleichheitsmodell. Ein
aktuelles Beispiel hierfür ist die Meinung bzw.
Alltagstheorie vieler Bürger hierzulande (und auch
Wissenschaftler; vgl. Kalpaka und Räthzels Kritik
[1988: 32]), die Ausländerfeindlichkeit sei mit der
“Fremdheit” der Ausländer zu erklären. Die Sicht
der Fremdheit vs. Ähnlichkeit anderer Gruppen
hängt mit individuellen Umgangserfahrungen zu-
sammen, aber auch mit Annahmen, die das Indi-
viduum über seine Gruppengenossen macht, die
systematisch verzerrt sein können. Irrtümliche An-
nahmen über Ideen, Gefühle und Handlungen von
Angehörigen der eigenen Gruppe werden als “plu-
ralistische Ignoranz” untersucht. Ein für interethni-
sehe Beziehungen sehr relevanter Ausdruck sol-
cher Ignoranz der eigenen Gruppe ist, daß Indi-
viduen oft denken, ihr eigenes Verhalten anderen
gegenüber würde von ihren Gruppengenossen kon-
trolliert (censorious peers). Also sind sie vorsich-
tig: der Einzelne fürchtet breite Ablehnung seitens
seiner Gruppenmitglieder, wenn er mit Fremden
interagiert, obwohl dies tatsächlich nur wenige
ablehnen würden. Der Effekt der pluralistischen
Ignoranz, ist, daß die Beteiligten selbst eine tat-
sächliche Annäherung in den Intergruppenbezie-
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
441
hungen “konservativ unterschätzen” (Banton and
Mansor [1992: 610 f.] am Bsp. von Chinesen in
Malaysia). Dies verweist auf den Zusammenhang
der dualistischen “Wir vs. Sie”- Sichtweise mit
der von der Eigengruppe ausgehenden Perspektive.
Diese Perspektive ist aber nicht die einzig mögli-
che.
In Bezug auf (c) die Perspektive auf andere
Menschengruppen können folgende drei Sichtwei-
sen der Akteure bzw. Gruppen unterschieden wer-
den:
- Mitglieder einer Wir-Gruppe betrachten die der
Fremdgruppe aus der eigenen Perspektive. Das
ist die klassische ethnozentrische Sicht.
- Die Wir-Gruppe betrachtet Menschen anderer
Gruppen nach deren eigenem Selbstmodell. Das
ist eine xeno- bzw- heterozentrische Perspekti-
ve. Dies entspricht am ehesten den ethnologi-
schen Bemühungen, die Eigen- bzw. Innensicht
(emic view) untersuchter Menschen ins Zentrum
zu stellen und könnte als “direkter ethnologi-
scher Ansatz” bezeichnet werden.12
~~ Angehörige der Wir-Gruppe legen eine inter-
aktionistische Haltung zugrunde; nicht die ei-
gene oder andere Gruppe als solche, sondern
die Beziehung zwischen beiden, also das Inter,
steht im Fokus. Diese Metaperspektive könnte
man als “distanziert ethnologischen” bzw. “an-
thropologischen” Ansatz sehen (leicht verändert
nach Tschohl 1984).
Wir wissen aus der Ethnozentrismusforschung,
daß die erste Perspektive fast universal verbreitet
lst (Antweiler 1998 als Übersicht). Ethnologen
konnten in Einzelfällen aber auch dokumentieren,
daß nicht nur individuell je nach Partner und
Situation unterschiedliche Aspekte von Ethnizität
aktualisiert werden, sondern daß es auch in einer
Gruppe unterschiedliche Umgangsregeln bzgl. je
yerschiedener Fremdgruppen geben kann.
Praktisch und politisch relevant werden die drei
Perspektiven dadurch, daß sie sich für verschiede-
ne Ziele unterschiedlich gut eignen. Die ethnozen-
ddsche Perspektive ist sicherlich zur Durchsetzung
der Interessen der Eigengruppe von Nutzen. Die
Sicht der Fremdgruppe nach deren Eigenmodell
eignet sich dagegen gut, wenn sich die Eigengrup-
Pe selbst ändern will, eine zumindest denkbare
Möglichkeit. Die interaktionistische Perspektive
Schließlich ist besonders dann von Nutzen, wenn
*2 Ich setze hier die Bezeichnung “ethnologisch” (und entspre-
chend “anthropologisch”) bei der folgenden Perspektive in
Anführungszeichen, um sie von explizit wissenschaftlichen
ethnologischen Ansätzen zu unterscheiden.
Anth
beide Gruppen eine Gemeinsamkeit, etwa in ihren
Interessen, haben.
Empirische Befunde zeigen, welche strategi-
sche Bedeutung eigene Sichtweisen zusammen mit
Zuschreibungen an andere beim interethnischen
Umgang haben können. Bei Interessenkonflikten
zwischen Ethnien werden Ansprüche der eigenen
Gruppe oft als “strukturell notwendig” apostro-
phiert, etwa mit einer Notlage begründet. Ansprü-
che der Konkurrenten dagegen werden gerne auf
deren besondere Motive oder deren “Charakter”
zurückgeführt und können damit leicht abgetan
werden. Wenn beide in Konflikt stehenden Ethnien
Strukturelles als Begründung für eigene Ansprü-
che anführen, achten Dritte, die Frieden stiften
wollen, vertrackterweise ebenfalls vor allem auf
vermeintlich besondere Eigenarten oder etwa die
religiöse Richtung der Konfliktparteien, statt auf
die Form der Beziehung zwischen ihnen (Horo-
witz 1985: Kap. 4; Ross 1990: 101). Das ist eine
charakteristische ethnozentrische Argumentations-
form im interkulturellen Umgang; sie lädt ein zu
Zuschreibungen und damit zur Verwendung von
Feindbildern.
Damit haben wir einige kognitiv-emotive Grund-
merkmale und Formen interkulturellen Umganges.
Die zentrale Frage ist nun, unter welchen struk-
turellen Rahmenbedingungen sich interkultureller
Umgang abspielt. Ebensowenig, wie man Vorur-
teile einfach durch Aufzeigen der Fakten beheben
kann, führen interkulturelle Begegnungen und der
Abbau kultureller Grenzen per se zum Abbau von
Fremdbildern. Das zeigen viele Erfahrungen und
hier liegt wohl das Hauptproblem der Diskussion
um interkulturelle Erziehung, was ihre praktische
Umsetzung betrifft. Dettmar (1989: 260 ff.) zeigte
z. B. folgende mögliche Auswirkungen der Begeg-
nung von deutschen und Afrikanern in Hamburg:
(1) Spannungen und Beziehungsabbruch durch
Kategorisierungen; (2) Aufrechterhaltung vorhe-
riger Bilder trotz persönlicher Beziehungen, und
- in Einzelfällen - (3) Relativierung früherer
Vorstellungen über den Begegnungspartner.
Entscheidend ist der Rahmen von Dominanz
und Unterordnung, der die Situation der betei-
ligten Gruppen strukturell bestimmt und damit
die Umgangssituation insgesamt formt. Salopp ge-
sagt: Wer hat das “Heimrecht”, wer ist gedulde-
ter Gast? Innerhalb von Intergruppenbeziehungen
könnte man mit Dettmar (1989:73, 345-348; in
Erweiterung von Bateson 1985) folgende Bezie-
hungsmuster unterscheiden:
- In einer komplementären Beziehung zwischen
zwei Gruppen A und B ergänzen sich beide
auf einer höheren Ebene. Auf tieferer Ebe-
‘ropos 96.2001
442
Christoph Antweiler
ne konkurriert man, auf höherer sind Respekt
und Zusammenarbeit möglich. Ein klassisches
ethnologisches Beispiel bietet die Relation von
Segmenten in segmentären Gesellschaften.
- In einer antagonistischen Beziehung zwischen
A und B sind die Interessen fundamental und
unabänderlich verschieden, wie z. B. in der
(idealtypischen) kolonialen Situation zwischen
Kolonisierten und der Kolonialmacht. Anta-
gonistische Konstellationen bergen die Gefahr
immer größerer Konfrontation (komplementäre
Schismogenese, Bateson 1985: 105 f.).
- In einer symmetrischen Beziehung von A und
B schließlich besteht kein Dominanzverhältnis
zwischen den Gruppen. Sie haben Ziele, die
aufeinander bezogen sind, aber diese gehen in
verschiedene Richtung.
In der empirischen Analyse solcher Bezie-
hungsmuster und ihrer Auswirkung auf einzelne
ethnische Identitäten sehe ich die zentrale Er-
gänzung der Untersuchungen zum Ethnozentris-
mus durch die neuere Ethnizitätsforschung. In
der Erforschung interkulturellen Umgangs durch
Ethnologen sollte das jeweilige Beziehungs- und
Machtverhältnis zwischen Gruppen, Mehrheiten
und Minderheiten viel mehr berücksichtigt wer-
den, als das bislang der Fall ist. Auch die Be-
ziehungen verschiedener Minoritäten zueinander
(politische Repräsentanz, Verhältnis zu Majori-
tät, Subdominanzen) können eine erhebliche Rol-
le spielen. Hierin liegt eine Herausforderung an
die Ethnologie, wenn sie sich stärker komplexen
Gesellschaften widmet. Damit komme ich zu mei-
nem Beispiel: Interkulturalität in einem komple-
xen, multiethnischen und dynamischen Kontext im
städtischen Indonesien.
2 Soziale Kategorien und interkultureller
Umgang in Makassar
2.1 Rappocini: ein ethnisch gemischtes Viertel
einer “peripheren Metropole”
Makassar13 ist eine in diesem Jahrhundert schnell
gewachsene Hafenstadt von heute 1,3 Millionen
13 Seit Ende 1999 trägt die Stadt wieder den Namen Makassar,
den sie früher über Jahrhunderte trug. Von 1972 bis Ende
1999 hieß die Stadt offiziell Ujung Pandang. Um Verwechs-
lungen zu vermeiden, schreibe ich den Namen der Stadt
durchgehend als “Makassar” (mit zwei s); dagegen den
Namen einer der dominierenden Ethnien als “Makasar” (mit
einem s). Die Sprache der Makasar wird hier entsprechend
als “Makasarisch” bezeichnet. Ich folge damit Caldwells
gut begründetem Vorschlag (1992: 5 f.); vgl. auch Anm. 15.
Einwohnern (vgl. Abb. 1 und 2).14 Hier leben
etwa zwei Drittel der städtischen Bevölkerung
der Provinz Süd-Sulawesi. Als Provinzhauptstadt
ist sie politisches Zentrum mit vielen regionalen
und städtischen Behörden. Entsprechend prägen
Amtsgebäude das Bild der Stadt und Staatsbeam-
te das soziale Leben. Es gibt in Makassar und
seinem Umland kaum Industrie; die Regierung
ist der größte Arbeitgeber und die Laufbahn des
Beamten das verbreitete Berufsziel junger Leute.
Funktional hat sie die Stellung einer regionalen
Primatstadt, da die nächstgrößere Stadt Pare Pare
sehr viel kleiner ist. In Hinsicht auf Ostindone-
sien bildet Makassar einen Verkehrsknotenpunkt
und Umschlagplatz. Außerdem ist die Stadt das
Zentrum höherer Ausbildung für den ganzen Osten
Indonesiens. Das macht sie nicht nur zum Ziel
von Migranten aus der Region selbst, sondern
auch von vielen Schülern und Studenten aus ganz
Ostindonesien.
Als Faktoren der Urbanisierung spielen in Ma-
kassar in erster Linie die Konzentration der Ad-
ministration und der Hochschulen, bessere Trans-
portmöglichkeiten und das urbane Image eine tra-
gende Rolle, während die Industrialisierung noch
sekundär ist. Das resultiert in einer “peripheren
Verstädterung” (Chtouris, Heidenreich und Ipsen
1993; vgl. auch Mai 1984 für Kleinstädte Nord-
Sulawesis). Diese Verstädterungsform weicht in-
sofern von den gängigen Urbanisierungsmodellen
ab, als daß der Immobilienmarkt familiengebun-
den und lebensweltlich orientiert ist, daß z. B.
bei der Preisbildung außerökonomische Faktoren
bedeutsam sind. Allgemeiner gesagt subsumieren
sich hier Tradition und Moderne gegenseitig. Mo-
derne Kultur und Konsumformen entwickeln sich
auf dem Hintergrund traditioneller Familienformen
und klientelartiger Beziehungsmuster und im Rah-
men einer eher lokalen Vergesellschaftung. Eine
derartige Verstädterung findet sich vor allem in der
sog. Dritten Welt, aber auch in Europa, etwa bis in
die letzten Jahre hinein in Madrid und Rom und
14 Das Wort “Makassar” wird in der Literatur sehr uneinheit-
lich verwendet, so daß es Verwirrungen darüber geben kann-
Mit der Bezeichnung “Makassar” (bzw. “Makasar”) werden
in der Literatur vier verschiedene Dinge bezeichnet (vgl-
Mattulada 1991: 15-20): erstens eine ethnische Gruppe
als kulturelle, bzw. sprachliche Einheit bzw. als kollektiv6
Identitätseinheit; zweitens das hauptsächlich von Angehö-
rigen dieser Gruppe bewohnte Königreich (kerajaan) bzW-
Sultanat Gowa (Goa); drittens das frühere Handelszentrum
an der Küste und spätere Zentrum der Vereenigten Oostin-
dischen Compagnie (VOC) als Kolonialstadt; viertens heiß1
schließlich auch ein Stadtteil der Stadt Ujung Pandang bis
heute “Kreis Makassar” (Kecamatan Makassar).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
443
Untersuchungsgebiet
Straße (1. Ordnung)
Straße (2. Ordnung)
0 200 400 600 800 1000 m
Entwurf: C. ANTWEILER
Kartographie: T. JARMER
Abb
• 1: Makassar (Ujung Pandang): Übersicht der zentralen Stadtteile und Lage des Untersuchungsgebiets im Stadtteil Rappocini.
Anth
lroPos 96.2001
444
Christoph Antweiler
Demographie
• Einwohnerzahl: 1.107.267 (1996)
• Fläche: 19 km2 (Kotamadya Makassar 175.77 km2)
• Bevölkerungsdichte: 4.259 Personen / km2 (1984)
• Haushalte: Anzahl 118.284; durchschnittlich 5,41 Personen/Haushalt
• Bevölkerungszunahme: 5.5% (1971-1980), 1.5% (1980-1984); 2.92% (1980-
1990), damit heute stärkere Zunahme als in javanischen Städten
Stadttyp
• Sekundärstadt, Regionalstadt, große Provinzstadt
• metropolitan geprägte multiethnische Stadt
• innerhalb Indonesiens: Stadt auf einer “Außeninsel” (Outer Islands, Outer Indo-
nesia)
Heutige Funktionen
• Hafenstadt, Handelsstadt
• Regionalmetropole, Primatstadt (primate city) für die Provinz Süd-Sulawesi;
Bewohner stellen 65% der urbanen Bevölkerung der Provinz (1971: 57%);
Verwaltungs-, Wirtschafts- und Ausbildungszentrum; auch für die Provinz Süd-
ost-Sulawesi (Sulawesi Tenggarah)
• Verkehrsknotenpunkt nach Ostindonesien (Hafen, Flughafen)
• Zentrum höherer Bildung für ganz Ostindonesien (Hochschulen und Universitä-
ten)
Historische Funktionen sowie regionale und internationale Einbettung
• vorkolonial zu kleinem maritimem Handelsstaat (maritime petty state) Gowa-Tal-
loq innerhalb einer politisch instabilen Region gehörig
• Entrepot-Hafen im interinsularen und internationalen Handel
• periphere niederländische Company Town der VOC in kolonial nur teils durch-
drungener Region
• späte Integration in die indonesische Nation; Region mit früher latenter Neigung
zur Sezession
Potentielle und angestrebte zukünftige Funktionen
• wirtschaftliches Zentrum Ostindonesiens (in Rivalität mit Surabaya in Ost-Java)
• Tourismuszentrum Sulawesis (in Konkurrenz zu Tana Toraja in Süd-Sulawesi und
Manado in Nord-Sulawesi)
Interethnischer Umgang und Ethnizität
• Dominanz der vier großen Ethnien Süd-Sulawesis (Bugis, Makasar, Mandar,
Toraja)
• ethnisch kaum segregierte Siedlungsweise
• teils ethnisch bzw. regional segregierter informeller Sektor
• Zentrum einer propagierten “Kultur Süd-Sulawesis” (Kebudayaan Sulawesi Selar
tan)
• sporadisch aufflammende, als interethnisch wahrgenommene Konflikte
Wirtschaft
• Informeller Sektor dominant für die Grundversorgung
• Dienstleistungssektor dominiert im informellen wie im formellen Bereich
• Regierung als größter Arbeitgeber, Beamter (pegawai negeri) als verbreitetes
Berufsideal
Modernisierung
• entstehende Mittelschicht
• Stadtplanung gegen informellen Sektor (upgrading)
• internationale Hotels
• Entwicklungsprojekte (z. T. mit Unterstützung der Weltbank)
Abb. 2: Makassar/Ujung Pan'
dang: Strukturdaten und urbane
Charakteristik (Antweiler 2000b:
206, aktualisiert).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
445
bis heute in Athen. Ein entscheidender Punkt ist
jedoch die Einsicht, daß die periphere Lage nicht
mit inaktiver oder nur reaktiver Orientierung der
Bewohner gleichzusetzen ist. Die Außeneinflüsse,
die von den Zentren oder Metropolen kommen,
werden lokal verarbeitet (vgl. Heersink 1995, bes.
5 ff., 247, über die Insel Selayar als einer Periphe-
rie in der Peripherie).
Wie leben die Menschen verschiedener kultu-
reller Herkunft, unterschiedlicher Bildung und ver-
schiedener Berufe heute zusammen? Dies zeige ich
jetzt anhand der städtischen Nachbarschaft namens
Rappocini (Abb. I).15 Das Gebiet liegt außerhalb
des dicht bebauten Stadtkerns und noch vor 25
Jahren gab es hier fast nur Naßreisfelder und darin
einzelne kleine kampung. Heute leben hier über
70.000 Menschen verschiedener Herkunft. Auch
die wirtschaftliche Lage ist sehr gemischt. Einige
bewohnen große Häuser mit verzierten Zäunen
und Vorgärten, andere leben dicht daneben in
armseligen Hütten. Außer der Hauptstraße, die das
Viertel an die Innenstadt anbindet, gibt es fast nur
schmale Wege. Sie waren früher in jedem Monsun
überflutet, aber in den 80er Jahren wurden viele
Wege durch ein von der Weltbank finanziertes
Projekt asphaltiert.
Rappocini ist typisch für viele Stadtteile Makas-
sars, in denen die Menschen nicht mehr räumlich
getrennt in ethnisch geprägten kampung leben.
Schon um 1980 lag der höchste Anteil, den eine
einzelne ethnische Gruppe in einem Stadtviertel
bildete, bei 80%. Hier in Rappocini sind so-
gar gut ein Viertel der Ehen ethnisch gemischt.
Nur die Chinesen leben (noch) nicht unter den
anderen Gruppen, sondern nebeneinander in ih-
ren Wohn- und Geschäftshäusern, die in der er-
sten Zeile an der Hauptstraße aneinandergereiht
Slud. Sie siedeln erst seit etwa zehn Jahren hier.
dahin wohnten sie ausschließlich in einem
Viertel der Innenstadt, wo sie seit Jahrhunderten
ansässig sind. Sie sagen, sie hätten bis vor kur-
zem “Angst” gehabt, weil das Leben in Rappo-
ClIji früher gefährlich war, besonders, wenn man
keine Verbündeten in Rappocini hatte, das noch
ueute “Texas-Gegend” (daerah Texas) genannt
3 Die dem folgenden Teil zugrundeliegenden Daten sammelte
lch während einer einjährigen stationären Feldforschung
Von Februar 1991 bis Januar 1992. Ich wohnte mit meiner
Hau und unserem zu Beginn der Feldaufenthalts 7monati-
§eni Sohn ein Jahr bei zwei Familien (beide gemischteth-
nisch) innerhalb derselben Nachbarschaft. Bislang folgten
fünf weitere Aufenthalte in den Jahren 1992, 1996, 1997,
D99 und 2000, die in diesen Aufsatz eingingen, um neue
Trends zu beschreiben.
A.nth
wird. Die Menschen verschiedener Kultur begeg-
nen sich täglich auf den Wegen, in den kleinen
Kindergärten und Schulen, bei Stadtteilfesten und
bei Veranstaltungen der lokalen Nachbarschafts-
gremien (Organisasi Rukun Tetangga). Ein Haupt-
motor der Begegnung zwischen den Ethnien sind
auch die arisan, die “rotierenden Sparclubs” der
Frauen. Vordergründig geht es um gemeinsames
Sparen, aber das Gespräch über gemeinsame Pro-
bleme ist mindestens genauso wichtig (Antweiler
2000a).
Enge Kontakte zwischen Menschen verschiede-
ner Kultur ergeben sich in der Stadt auch durch Ar-
beitsverhältnisse. Dazu ein Beispiel. Ein alter Ma-
kasar will seinen Sohn gut verheiraten. Er benötigt
Geld für die große Hochzeit und den Brautpreis.
Also verkauft er das Grundstück, auf dem sein
jetziges Haus an der Straße in guter Lage steht,
an einen chinesischen Geschäftsmann. Der will
mit seinem Geschäft aus der dichten Innenstadt
hierher ziehen, wo er auf Kunden hofft, die auf
dem Weg von der Innenstadt von oder ins Umland
hier vorbeifahren. Der Makasar selbst kauft ein
Stück Land ganz in der Nähe, das aber etwas
zurückgesetzt von der Straße liegt und deshalb viel
billiger ist. Dort baut er mit befreundeten Arbeitern
verschiedener Ethnien ein Haus für seinen Sohn,
in dem er auch selbst bis zum Tod leben wird.
Noch während das alte Holzhaus nach und nach
abgebaut wird, weil einige Teile wieder verwendet
werden, beginnt der Chinese, die Gräben für das
Fundament seines ruko (kombiniertes Geschäfts-
und Wohnhaus) auszuheben. Als Bauarbeiter heu-
ert er Tagelöhner an, Bugis und Makasar, die
täglich mit dem Fahrrad von z.T. weit entfernten
Ortschaften aus dem Umland der Stadt kommen.
Trotz alltäglichem und häufig intensivem Umgang
sind deutliche Kategorien zur Unterscheidung der
Mitmenschen gängig. Diese werden im Folgenden
untersucht.
2.2 Emische Kategorien biographischer und
somatischer Ungleichheit
Altersunterschiede und körperliche Merkmale von
Personen werden in Rappocini deutlich benannt.
In der Einteilung nach Altersstufen werden in der
Bevölkerung meist Kategorien verwendet, die in
Indonesien auch im offiziellen Kontext Verwen-
dung finden. Durch die allgegenwärtigen Formu-
lare der Behörden und aus dem Fernsehen kennen
die Menschen moderne Kategorien und verbinden
sie mit den althergebrachten. 6 bis etwa 11jährige
heißen danach “Kinder” (anak-anak), 12 bis etwa
lropos 96.2001
446
Christoph Antweiler
16jährige bezeichnet man als remaja (“Jugendli-
cher”, “Adoleszent”), etwa 17 bis 25jährige als
pemuda (wörtl. “Jugend”, bzw. “junger Mann”).
Als “erwachsen” (dewaso) gelten Personen etwa
ab 30 Jahren. Andererseits werden junge Leute
auch ab dem Zeitpunkt, wenn sie sich selbst er-
nähren können, als Erwachsene angesehen. Die
Bezeichnungen remaja und pemuda werden aber
im Alltag nicht häufig gebraucht. Dagegen wird
anak in viel weiterem Sinn als nur für Kinder
gebraucht, nämlich wenn in einem Gespräch die
Altersgleichheit herausgestellt werden soll oder
aber der Sprecher seine Vertrautheit mit den ge-
meinten Personen betonen will. So werden etwa
Jugendliche ganz allgemein anak-anak genannt,
von vertrauten Nachbarn spricht man als “hiesige
Kinder” (anak di sini) und schließlich werden auch
größere Gruppen allgemein als anak bezeichnet.
Äußerliche körperliche Merkmale führen oft
zu Zuschreibungen, die kategorial, ja geradezu
kategorisch ausfallen. Langhaarige etwa gelten
vielfach als Menschen, die sich nicht an Normen
halten, also undiszipliniert sind (orang nakal).
Als Beispiel werden gern die Fahrer von Fahr-
radrikschas (becak) genannt. Außerdem hält man
“Langhaarige” für potentielle Diebe. Wenn es nicht
Diebe seien, handele es sich bei Langhaarigen am
ehesten um “Künstler” (seniman). Dazu ein Bei-
spiel: Ein junger deutscher Mann lebte über Jahre
immer wieder längere Zeit bei einer Familie in
Rappocini. Bis heute besteht ein freundschaftliches
Verhältnis zu der Familie. Aber er hat lange Haare.
Sein Gastgeber vertrat mir gegenüber nichtsdesto-
trotz die obigen Vorstellungen über Menschen mit
langen Haaren.
In Makassar leben derzeit nur etwa 200 Men-
schen aus westlichen Ländern, die hier arbeiten
(.expatriates) und nur wenige Touristen, weil sie
meist nur eine Nacht bleiben und dann ins To-
rajaland weiterfahren. In Rappocini wohnen nur
eine Handvoll westlicher Entwicklungsexperten.
Dennoch bilden “Weiße” eine Kategorie in der
einheimischen Sicht der Sozialstruktur. Aber sie
haben darin aus mehreren Gründen eine Sonder-
stellung. Sie werden entweder “Westmenschen”,
bzw. “Westler” (orang barat) oder “Weiße” (orang
putih) genannt und oft einfach Mister16 gerufen,
16 Nigel Barleys (1994) Bericht einer Reise nach Süd-Sulawe-
si trägt in der deutschen Übersetzung den Titel “Hello Mi-
ster Puttymann”. Dies ist eine Verballhornung des Grußes
an männliche wie auch weibliche Touristen: “Hallo Mister”.
Putih bedeutet “weiß” in der Bahasa Indonesia. Das sonst
in Süd-Sulawesi gängige orang bulé (bulai) ist in Makassar
selten zu hören.
egal ob es sich um eine Frau oder einen Mann
handelt. Seltener unterscheidet man in orang Ame-
rika und orang Eropa\ denn viele Menschen den-
ken, Europa sei ein Teil der Vereinigten Staaten
oder den USA nahe gelegen.
Während des einjährigen Feldaufenthaltes und
auch bei den späteren Wiederbesuchen gab es
kaum einen Tag, an dem nicht auf unsere weiße
Haut angespielt wurde. Dies irritierte mich und
meine Frau immer wieder. Fast alle Äußerungen
darüber waren positiv. Weiße werden für schön
und “sauber” (bersih) gehalten, weil sie eine so
“helle” (terang) und “feine” (halus) Haut hätten.
Schwarze Hautfarbe (hitam) dagegen gilt als “nicht
gut”; man sagt, sie sähe schlecht aus (kelihatan
jelek)', ja schwarze Haut sei “dreckig” (kotor).
Der Körpergeruch von “Weißen” wird dagegen
als abstoßend empfunden. Dies gelte um so mehr,
weil diese stark schwitzten und man meint, Weiße
würden sich nur selten waschen, was im Wider-
spruch zu ihrer sauberen Haut steht. Diese Vor-
stellungen wurden von meinen Gesprächspartnern
durch Erlebnisse mit Touristen illustriert. In die
Kategorie der “Westmenschen” gehören aber auch
die Japaner. Diese Kategorie der orang barat zeigt
exemplarisch die Mischung mehrerer Merkmale,
die solche Kategorien oft kennzeichnet:
- äußerlich-körperliche Merkmale des einzel-
nen Menschen (Hautfarbe und Hauttyp sowie
Körpergröße);
- die dominante Rolle der Heimatgesellschaften
der Weißen in der Geschichte (“Weiße”, ob
Niederländer oder Japaner, als Kolonialisten
und Eroberer) und
- die heutigen Kennzeichen und die weltwirt-
schaftliche Rolle der Herkunftsländer der “Wei-
ßen” (Industrienationen mit “westlicher Kul-
tur”, wozu Japan gehört).
Mit einem Erlebnis möchte ich verdeutlichen,
wie Körpermerkmale, vor allem die Hautfarbe und
Kleidung zusammengenommen zu einer werten-
den Einstufung anderer Menschen(gruppen) füh-
ren: Im Zimmer des Hauses der Familie, wo
meine Frau, mein damals 7 Monate alter Sohn
und ich 1991/1992 ein Jahr lebten, lag ein Buch
über die Eipo, eine ethnische Gruppe im Osten
Indonesiens in Irian Jaya. Es wurde mir für eine
Buchbesprechung zugeschickt. Das Buch enthält
viele Photos, die die dort lebenden Menschen
zeigen. Ibu, die Familienmutter und Pak, ihr Mann,
hatten das Buch wohl schon öfter gesehen; eines
Tages aber sahen sie es aufgeschlagen und blät-
tern darin herum. Als sie die Photos der dun-
kelhäutigen und zudem unbekleideten Menschen
sahen, kommentierten sie dies spontan mit: “Die
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
447
Tab. 2: Ethnische Zusammensetzung der Übergangszone (zone zone transisi; 41 Stadtteile,
1977); Daten aus Tantu (1982: 84, Tab. xvi; umgerechnet)
ethnische Kategorie minimale / maxima- le % pro lingkungan durchschnittliche % pro lingkungan kumulative % der Durchschnitte
Makasar 0 bis 76% 42,4% 42,4%
Bugis 0 bis 79% 35,1% 77,5%
Toraja 0 bis 29% 6,7% 84,2%
Mandar 0 bis 17% 1,7% 85,9%
sonstiges Süd-Sulawesi 0 bis 8% 0,2% 86,1%
sonstiges Indonesien 0 bis 32% 12,3% 98,4%
Chinesen und Europäer 0 bis 17% 1,5% 99,9%
sind Tiere” (mereka binatang). Ibu sagte: “Sie
sind fast wie Affen” (hampir sama monyet). Ich
machte eine fragende Miene, ohne zu kommen-
tieren und Ibu sagte weiter: “(Sie sind) dumm,
dumm, weil sie keine Kleidung tragen” (bodoh,
bodoh, karena tidak pakai baju) und “Warum sie
nur keine Kleidung tragen?” (kenapa mereka tidak
mau pakai baju?). “Außerdem haben sie eine so
dunkle Haut”. Schwarze Hautfarbe (hitam) be-
zeichnet Ibu als “nicht gut” (tidak baik)\ sie sähe
schlecht aus (kelihatan jelek)\ ja schwarze Haut sei
“dreckig” (kotor). Weiße seien schön und “sauber”
(■bersih), weil sie eine so “helle” (terang) und
“feine” (halus) Haut hätten. Die Penisköcher, die
sie dann noch auf einigen Photos sahen, quittierten
sie nur noch mit einem abschätzigen Lächeln.
Beide zeigten in ihrer Mimik deutliche Ableh-
nung, ja geradezu Abscheu bis Ekel. Bald legten
sie das Buch weg. Hier im Beispiel deutet sich
an, daß eine Verquickung kultureller mit somati-
schen Kategorien in Süd-Sulawesi sehr verbreitet
ist.
2.3 Lokalisierung nationaler Kulturpolitik: suku,
budaya und agama
Inwiefern wird in Makassar und insbesondere in
der untersuchten Nachbarschaft ein kultureller Plu-
ralismus zumindest kognitiv aufrechterhalten (vgl.
Barth 1983) und wie werden verschiedene kultu-
relle Ausrichtungen sozial integriert (vgl. Eriksen
1992b)? Wie werden Konzepte kultureller Grenzen
und kultureller Einheit, die national propagiert
Werden, im lokalen Kontext Makassars umgesetzt?
Für diese Fragen ist zunächst die tatsächliche
ethnische Zusammensetzung von Bedeutung. In
Makassar treffen zwar verschiedene ethnische Tra-
ditionen aufeinander, aber die ethnischen Gruppen,
die ihre historische Basis in der Region Süd-
Sulawesi haben, dominieren die Region und die
Stadt deutlich (Robinson and Mukhlis Paeni 1998).
Außerdem beschäftigt viele Bewohner der Stadt
die Frage, ob “noch die Makasar” oder “schon
die Bugis die Majorität” bilden. Offizielle Daten
zur ethnischen Zusammensetzung der gesamten
Stadt existieren, wie gesagt, nicht, wohl aber ältere
Surveydaten zu dem an die unmittelbare Innenstadt
anschließenden Ring von 41 der damals lingkun-
gan (“Gegenden”) genannten Stadtteile, den in der
indonesischen Literatur sog. “Übergangszonen”
(zone zone transisi17 *). In diesem Gebiet, das, wie
Luftbilder zeigen, 1977 einen ähnlichen Charakter
hatte wie die untersuchte Nachbarschaft in Rappo-
cini heute, machten die Ethnien aus Süd-Sulawesi
zusammen knapp 86% aus (Tab. 2).
Rappocini gilt bei den Bewohnern wie bei an-
deren Bürgern Makassars als ethnisch “gemischte
Gegend/Siedlung” (daerah bzw. kampung hetero-
gen). Einer meiner Assistenten verglich den Stadt-
teil mit dem großen Freizeitpark in Jakarta, in dem
die “Vielfalt der indonesischen Kultur” anhand der
einzelnen Provinzen und ihrer “typischen” Häuser
präsentiert wird (Taman Mini Indonesia Indah). Im
Alltag hört man in Gesprächen die Bezeichnun-
gen der hier lebenden ethnischen Gruppen, also
Makasar, Bugis, Mandar, Toraja, Timor und Cina
(nie das offizielle Tionghoa) sehr häufig. Dabei
wird manches Mal orang (“Mensch”) vor den
jeweiligen Namen der Ethnie gesetzt, während
bei Menschen aus Sulawesi sehr oft die regionale
17 Die Verwendung dieses Terminus geht wahrscheinlich auf
die transition zone im Zonenmodell der Stadt nach Burgess
zurück, in der vor allem neu zugewanderte Menschen leben.
Anthropos 96.2001
448
Christoph Antweiler
Abb. 3: Sprachgebrauch in einem
ethnisch gemischten Haushalt,
nach Beobachtungen 1991/92
(Normalschreibung = ethnische
Identität der Person; Großschrei-
bung = im Normalfall verwen-
dete Sprache; in Klammern =
untergeordnete Verwendung).
Herkunft aus der Gegend X” (... dari daerah
x) nachgestellt wird.
Viel seltener werden die formal üblichen in-
donesischen Wörter für “Volksgruppe”, “Ethnie”,
bzw. “ethnische Gruppe” verwendet (vgl. Len-
hart 1994). Allenfalls bangsa (“Nation”, “Rasse”)
hört man noch des öfteren. Viel seltener dagegen
reden die Menschen von suku (etwa “erweiterte
Familie”, “Volk”) und dem noch formelleren su-
kubangsa.18 Dies mag dadurch zu erklären sein,
daß auf politischer Ebene ethnische Gruppen her-
untergespielt werden (zur Rolle in Indonesien als
patrimonialem Staat vgl. Brown 1994). Oft äu-
ßerten sich Gesprächspartner im Viertel, charak-
teristischerweise vor allem Beamte, negativ über
ethnischen Eigensinn (sukuisme, kelompok-kelom-
pok) bzw. Kommunalismus oder Ethnozentrismus
(auch main suku, wörtlich: “Ethnie spielen” ge-
nannt). Ähnlich ist auch das Wort kesukuan z. B.
negativ belegt und bezeichnet “Cliquenmentalität”
(vgl. Echols and Shadily 1989/90: 531). In diesem
Zusammenhang erwähnten die Gesprächspartner
gerne sehr bald, daß sich die ethnische Eigen-
ständigkeit der einzelnen ethnischen Gruppen “hier
mehr und mehr verliert”.
Hierzu tragen die traditionell häufigen Mische-
hen bei, die in der Stadt besonders verbreitet
sind. Ein Viertel der Haushalte in der untersuch-
ten Nachbarschaft (RT) sind ethnisch gemischt,
obwohl nur jeweils das Ehepaar und nicht die
im Haushalt wohnenden Bediensteten, Bekannte
18 In indonesischen ethnologischen Arbeiten zur Region Süd-
Sulawesi tauchen daneben auch der Begriff Etnis (Muchlis
et al. 1984/85: 86) und der Terminus Group Ethnisk (sic!,
Mattulada 1991: 15) auf.
oder Freunde berücksichtigt wurden. Die ethni-
sche Vermischung ist neben dem allgemein hohen
interethnischen Umgang in der Stadt ein Grund
dafür, daß das Indonesische die in den Haushalten
normalerweise gesprochene Sprache ist. Ich ver-
deutliche das (nach einer Idee von Sanjek 1977)
in Abb. 3 anhand des Haushaltes, in dem ich
mit meiner Familie das erste halbe Jahr des Feld-
aufenthaltes lebte. Deutlich wird, daß die lokalen
Sprachen entweder nur untergeordnet verwendet
werden (in Klammern), oder in der Kommunika-
tion mit der Mutter der Frau, die Bahasa Indonesia
nicht gut spricht und zwischen dem Ehepaar, wenn
es allein miteinander ist (und auch dies nicht
durchgängig).
“Kultur” (budaya19) wird in der öffentlichen
Diskussion wie in Deutschland auf Kunst, Tän-
ze und Kleidung bezogen. Meist wird sie aber
ethnisch abgegrenzt, etwa in der Rede von der
“Kultur der Mandar” (budaya Mandar). Oft wird
sie aber auch auf bestimmte Provinzen, Inseln
oder Siedlungen bezogen. Es findet z. B. eine
Veranstaltung statt, auf der die “Kultur von Bima”
(,budaya Bima) vorgestellt wird. Hier wird Kultur
nicht auf eine ethnische Gruppe, sondern auf eine
Insel bezogen. Wenn ausdrücklich die traditionelle
Kultur, ihre Regeln und die UnVeränderlichkeit
gemeint sind, sprechen die Bewohner von tradi-
si oder adat, wobei letzteres eine umfassendere
Bedeutung hat. Auch dies wird auf eine ethnische
Gruppe allgemein bezogen, etwa adat Bugis, oder
auf bestimmte Regionen oder Orte, etwa wenn
19 Richtig kebudayaan, aber ich verwende die Worte hier und
im folgenden so wie sie im Alltag in Rappocini meist
gebraucht werden.
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
449
davon die Rede ist, “dies die Tradition von Ma-
jene (im nördlichen Süd-Sulawesi) ist” (itu tradisi
Majene).
2.4 Emische Essentialismen und Modelle von
Ungleichheit
Ethnische Identität und Eigenschaften ethnischer
Gruppen sind Themen, die bei den Bewohnern
Makassars immer auf Interesse stoßen. Ethnische
Kategorien waren und sind im ländlichen Süd-
Sulawesi traditionell so vielfältig wie sie umstrit-
ten waren (Volkman 1994). Im urbanen Leben
werden heute solche Fragen in Alltagsgesprächen
immer wieder berührt und auch gern explizit
besprochen. Im folgenden beschreibe ich die
Einstellungen, die im Begegnungsfeld Makassars
bezüglich einzelner ethnischer Gruppen in der
Bevölkerung selbst bestehen.20 Hier geht es also
bezüglich der Angehörigen einer jeweiligen Ethnie
um Eigenstereotype oder um Vorstellungen über
eine Gruppe seitens der Mitglieder anderer Ethnien
(Fremdstereotype).
Die folgende Darstellung basiert (1) auf Auf-
zeichnungen von Gesprächen, die ich verteilt
über ein Jahr (1991/92) mit Angehörigen ver-
schiedenster ethnischer Gruppen, sowohl mit Be-
wohnern des Viertels als auch mit Menschen in
anderen Gebieten Makassars geführt habe. Außer-
dem ziehe ich (2) Kommentare von Befragten
heran, die sie während Kartenstapelsortierungen
ipile sortings)21 über Ähnlichkeiten und Unter-
schiede der ethnischen Gruppen machten. Zu-
nächst beschreibe ich die Eigen- und Fremd-
bilder der jeweiligen Ethnien; dann analysiere ich,
Welche Rolle die Ethnizität der Person, die ei-
ne Einstellung hat, spielt und welche Vorstellun-
gen über relative Ähnlichkeit und Verwandtschaft
zwischen den einzelnen Ethnien bestehen.22
20
21
22
Eine kurze Charakterisierung der Bugis, Makasar, Mandar,
Toraja und der Chinesen aus ethnologischer und histo-
rischer Sicht findet sich in Antweiler (2000b: 148-161).
Dort werden auch Images und Stereotypen besprochen, die
in ethnologischer Literatur über die Makasar und Bugis
immer wieder auftauchen, z. B. “mutige Seefahrer”, “feu-
dale Herrscher und ihre Vasallen”, “Freiheitssuchende” und
“fanatische Moslems” (vgl. Toi et al. 2000: 1). Diese Bilder
reflektieren teilweise die in Süd-Sulawesi vorherrschenden
Eigenimages und Fremdstereotype, die im folgenden dar-
gestellt sind.
Zu Für und Wider dieses und anderer kognitionsethnologi-
scher Verfahren siehe Antweiler (1993).
Vgl. dazu die Analyse interethnischer Meinungen in Yog-
yakarta von Schweizer (1980).
Makasar
Makasar schätzen sich selbst als stark (kuat) und
mutig (berani) ein und sagen z. B., sie hätten
“einen großen Körper” (badan besar). Hierin deckt
sich ihr Eigenbild mit dem Fremdstereotyp, das
andere von ihnen haben. Ein Beweis für den Mut
der Makasar war für viele Bürger der Stadt z. B.,
daß einige Makasar 1991 mit einem traditionellen
Holzschiff nach Madagaskar segelten. Makasar
berufen sich gerne auf ihren Mut im Zusammen-
hang mit ihrer kriegerischen Tradition. Makasa-
rische Jugendliche etwa bitten mich in das Haus
ihrer Eltern, um mir stolz einige Kurzschwerter
(keris, kris) zu zeigen. Sie stellen eines davon
als besonders wertvoll heraus, da an ihm das
Blut von drei Menschen klebe. In vielen Häusern
von Makasar in Rappocini hängen im Gästeraum
Bilder, die die heroische Vergangenheit der Ma-
kasar beschwören. Makasar sagen von sich etwa,
daß “die Leute hier fanatisch im Islam und be-
züglich der Gegend/Region” (orang di sinifanatik
Islam dan daerah) seien. Viele Makasar halten
sich als den Bugi übergeordnet, was im Gegen-
satz zur Einordnung seitens aller anderen Gruppen
steht. Früher sagten Kinder aus Mischehen zwi-
schen Makasar und Bugis: “Ich bin Makasar-Bu-
gi(s)”; heute nennen sie sich fast immer umgekehrt
Bugi(s)-Makasar. In der holländischen Zeit wur-
den die Makasar mit der Bevölkerung Sulawesis
schlechthin gleichgesetzt. Wenn einer sagte: “Ich
bin ein Bewohner von Celebes, antwortete ein
Holländer etwa mit “Ach so, Sie sind ein Maka-
sar”. Ihre wirtschaftliche Unterlegenheit läßt das
Fremdbild der Makasar manchmal zum Eigenbild
werden, etwa, wenn sie selbst andere Ethnien für
ökonomisch fähiger (lebih mampü) als die Maka-
sar halten.
Über die Makasar gibt es bei weitem die ver-
breitetsten, pointiertesten und negativsten Stereo-
type. Das wichtigste Bild, das man von den Ma-
kasar hat, ist das von heißblütigen Menschen, mit
denen der Umgang oft in Konflikten endet. Sie
seien “ein heißes Volk” (suku panas)\ sie hätten
“viele bzw. starke Gefühle” (banyak emosi, ba-
nyak sentimen, perasaan kuat). Sie wären “sehr
hart im Kopf’ (kepala keras sekali)\ sie wür-
den “eine Angelegenheit heiß machen” (membikin
panas keadaan) bzw. “können Gefahren/Krisen
erzeugen” (bisa bahaya). Dies gelte besonders
dann, wenn es um Ehre und ihre mögliche Be-
schämung (siriq) gehe. In einem solchen Fall,
wenn sie “gestört” würden {kalau diganggu), wie
man sagt, würden sie “nicht lange nachdenken”
(.tanpa pikir panjang)', ihr “Blut (würde) schnell
^nthropos 96.2001
450
Christoph Antweiler
aufwallen” (cepat naik darah), weil sie “Rachege-
fühle” (perasaan dendam) hätten. Dies sei manch-
mal “der Anfang einer Katastrophe”. Ihnen sei
Ansehen, bzw. Prestige wichtig (tinggi gengsinya),
sie wollten “nicht verlieren” {tidak mau dikala)\
sie seien “fanatisch” (fanatik; meist aber auf ihren
Islam bezogen). Ein Toraja verdeutlichte mir seine
Erfahrungen mit makasarischen Freunden. Wegen
ihres “ausgeprägten Egos” (egonya tinggi) würden
“kleine Probleme schnell groß werden”. Obwohl
sie enge Freunde wären, wollten sie ihm jedesmal
Angst machen, sonst seien sie nicht zufrieden.
Man müsse “immer auf der Hut sein” (hati-hati
terus), weil es auch lange nach einem konflikt-
auslösenden Ereignis noch zu Gewalt kommen
könne.
Dies sei der Charakter (watak) bzw. die tief-
liegende, nicht änderbare Haltung (sifat) der Ma-
kasar. Zurückzuführen sei diese auf die Tradi-
tionen (tradisi) bzw. auf den “Abstammungsfak-
tor” (faktor turunan, nenek moyang): “das ist von
früher” {ini dari dulu).23 Makasar “befolgen das
Adatmuster” (ikut pola adat) besonders strikt, sagt
man. Manche zitieren zur Erklärung dieser Hal-
tungen ein Sprichwort, das als das Motto der
Makasar gelten könne: “Lieber im Blut sterben,
als auf dem (Reis-)Feld verenden” (lebih baik mati
berdarah, daripada mati di lapangan). Einerseits
gelten Makasar als stark, bzw. “mächtig” (kuasa),
ja als “Kampfhähne der Region” (jago daerah24).
Als “Krieger” hätten sie es geliebt, in den Streit-
kräften zu arbeiten. Viele Bewohner Rappocinis
wissen auch, daß die Heimatregion der Makasar
eine in der Geschichte Süd-Sulawesis besonders
“mächtige Region” {daerah kuasa) war. Manchen
gelten die Makasar allerdings auch als “politisch”
(orang politik).25 Wegen ihrer Emotionalität und
Kraft werden sie gefürchtet. Sie “schlagen ger-
ne”. Ferner gelten sie als lebhaft und laut (sie
“schreien”; berteriak). Vor allem das und ihr Al-
koholgenuß macht sie für andere “grob” (kasar).
Letzteres kann aber durchaus auch positiv im Sinn
23 Dieses Bild der Makasar ähnelt dem Typ des “emotionalen
Akteurs”, der impulsiv-spontan ist, bzw. dem des “tradi-
tionalen Akteurs”, der ziellos seinen Gewohnheiten folgt,
bei Max Weber (vgl. Portes 1972: 270 f.). Beide handeln
in dem Sinne nicht zweckrational, daß ihre Kalküle nicht
ausschließlich zielbezogen sind.
24 Makasar galten in der Geschichte als “Kampfhähne des
Ostens” (Reid and Reid 1988). Dies wird in der Bevölke-
rung aber gelegentlich auch für Bugis reklamiert.
25 Das ist die gängige Umschreibung für “kommunistisch”.
Seit der “Neuen Ordnung” unter Suharto nannte man viele
Aspekte dessen, was ehemals politik hieß, im offiziellen
Rahmen, z. B. in Dokumenten, “Aufbau” (pembangunan).
von stark aufgefaßt werden und dem Selbstbild
entsprechen. Man befürchtet bei Makasar Kon-
flikte, weil sie “Geschichten suchen” {cari cerita)
und “Streit suchen” {cari berkelaian). Manchmal
gelten sie einfach als “unzuverlässig” {tidak me-
netapkan janji), “schlecht” bzw. “falsch” {jahat),
sie “lügen gerne” {suka bohong), sie sind Diebe
(pencuri), sind “rücksichtslos” {nekat) oder nicht
“ehrenhaft” (jujur). Oft wird erzählt, daß Makasar
auch von hinten Feinde ermordeten, etwa Zuschau-
er bei Feierlichkeiten. Es wird aber auch positiv
herausgestellt, daß sich Makasar mit anderen Men-
schen anderer Gruppen mehr “vermischen” {lebih
bergaul), als das bei Mitgliedern anderer Ethnien
der Fall ist.
Viele Stereotype über die Makasar werden im
Zusammenhang mit der Frage geäußert, warum die
Makasar wirtschaftlich weniger Erfolg haben als
andere Ethnien. Makasar gelten als arm und oft
als dreckig. Es wird z. B. herausgestellt, daß sie
oft keine Toilette hätten. Jeder weiß, daß sie im
Schnitt deutlich ärmer sind und daß fast alle Fahrer
der Fahrradrikschas, also die, die eine dreckige und
harte Arbeit verrichten, Makasar sind. Man sagt,
sie hätten ein “niedriges ökonomisches Niveau
{tingkat ekonomi lemah) und sie seien wirtschaft-
lich “Randfiguren” {marginal). Man sagt etwa, sie
seien “noch Arbeiter (bzw. Hilfskräfte)” {masih
buruh), weil sie “als Händler unfähig” {kurang
mampu berdagang', i. Ggs. zu Bugis) seien. Ma-
kasar hätten ein Minderwertigkeitsgefühl” {rasa
minder)', Makasar seien arm, aber gleichzeitig
“überheblich” {sombong). Dies hänge damit zu-
sammen, daß Makasar aus ihrem Ehrgefühl heraus
nicht jede Arbeit übernähmen. Es ist bekannt,
daß Makasar z. B. keine Hühnerbrühe mit Fleisch-
klößchen {bakso), ein beliebtes kleines Gericht,
verkaufen, da sie das als “dreckige” Arbeit emp-
finden. Auch wollten sie nur ungern Kranken-
schwester oder Arzt werden, weil man dabei mit
Körperausscheidungen in Berührung kommt. Die
Makasar gingen davon aus, daß solche Arbeiten
von Javanern gemacht werden könnten. Man sagt,
Makasar wollten direkt hoch hinaus, statt klein
anzufangen und sich hochzuarbeiten. Sie würden
nicht sparen und Geld nicht zählen {tidak perhi-
tungan)', es zähle bei ihnen “nur dieser Tag” {ini
hari saja)', “sie benützen ihre Ratio nicht” {tidak
mengunakan ratio). Wenn sie genügend verdient
hätten, würden sie “aufhören zu arbeiten” {berhenti
kerja): “schon genug, nach Hause (gehen)” {su-
dah cukup, pulang) bzw. “abhauen” {lari). Dem
entspricht die ländliche Aussage, Makasar würden
“die Reisernte speichern und dann schlafen und
(Glück) spielen”. Weitere Formulierungen sagen,
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
451
daß Makasar nicht an die Zukunft denken würden
(,tidak ada perspektif, tidak pikir masa depan) und
allgemein weniger ökonomisch denken würden,
etwa im Vergleich zu Chinesen und Bugis. Sie
meinten, schon alles zu wissen und würden des-
halb wenig lernen wollen. Sie “lieben es, Geld
beim Einkäufen auszugeben”; “einen Tag suchen
sie Arbeit, den nächsten gehen sie einkaufen”. Ma-
kasar gelten als wenig produktiv, sondern eher nur
Vorhandenes konsumierend (konsumptif), für man-
chen sind sie einfach “faul” (malas berkerja)\ sie
“wollen nicht arbeiten, sondern lieber genießen”
{tidak mau pergi kerja, mau santai) oder seien “un-
fähig” {tidak sanggup) bzw. hätten “kein Talent”
{kurang bakat). Wenn sie arbeiten, wollten sie im
Gegensatz zu den Handel treibenden Bugis eher
ein Handwerk ausüben, wo man “mit dem Material
kämpfen” könne. Da die Makasar gleichzeitig aus
Prestigegründen große Feste feiern würden, seien
sie schnell verarmt. Andererseits würden sie auch
wenig an solchen Aktivitäten teilnehmen, welche
die Menschen nachbarschaftlich integrieren {integ-
rasi), aber ihnen auch wirtschaftlich helfen, wie
den Sparvereinigungen {arisan). Dies liege daran,
daß sie dann eingezahltes Geld bei Bedarf nicht
sofort mobilisieren könnten, was sie beschäme. Als
ein Beispiel für die Überheblichkeit der Makasar
und deren Prestigebedürfnis nannte ein Chinese
seinen makasarischen Nachbarn, der statt eines
nützlichen Hofes einen schönen Garten vor sein
Haus gesetzt habe. Viele der Eigenschaften der
Makasar werden auch damit erklärt, daß diese
besonders dem Glücksspiel frönten {main judi)
Und viel Alkohol tränken {minum\ balloq\ Mak.;
Palmschnaps). Beides wird besonders den Fah-
rern von Fahrradrikschas {tukang becak) zuge-
schrieben. Chinesen empfehlen etwa, den “Um-
gang (mit Makasar) zu meiden” {jangan bergaul),
Weil sie “immer bitten/betteln” {minta-minta terus)
bzw. sich “immer etwas erhoffen” (mengharap).
Außerdem würden sie zu außerehelichem Ge-
schlechtsverkehr neigen. Der Beruf des Fahrers
einer Fahrradrikscha ist, neben der Armut, ein
allgemeiner ethnischer Marker für Makasar, ob-
wohl tatsächlich nicht alle der vielen Tausend
Rikschafahrer Makasar sind, sondern etwa 20%
yon ihnen Bugis.
Rugis
^ugis halten sich für fähige Händler {mampu pe-
^a§ang) und haben einen Stolz als Seefahrer. Sie
sind sich dessen bewußt, daß sie in weiten Teilen
Indonesiens sehr erfolgreich sind. Auf Kalimantan
Anth
stellen sie heute ca. 80% und in Balikpapan ca.
70% der Bevölkerung; ca. 60% der Einwohner
Kendaris sind Bugis. Sie wissen, daß ihr Anteil in
Makassar ständig steigt und sie schon über 50%
der Einwohner stellen. Auch der Name der Stadt
Makassar sei ja buginesisch, stellen sie stolz fest.
Bugis, so sagen sie selbst, befolgten das Motto:
“Wenn für die Kinder genug da ist, denke an'
die Enkel” {kalau cukup untuk anak, pikir lagi
cucu), womit sie eine ähnliche “Denkweise” {pola
pikir) wie die Chinesen hätten. Sie “wollen weiter
arbeiten” {mau kerja terus) und halten sich für
“leidensfähig” {tahan menderita). Einige sagen
von sich, daß sie “nicht an den (Heimat-)Boden
gebunden” seien {tidak terikat pada tanah), ja sie
hätten z.T. “das Dorf vergessen” {lupa kampung)
und würden kaum noch zurückkehren. Wie bei
den Makasar dreht sich bei Bugis viel um das
Lebensthema malu (Verlegenheit, Schüchternheit,
Beschämung, Schande).
Bugis werden im allgemeinen für “moderner”
{lebih maju) als andere Ethnien eingeschätzt, vor
allem als die Makasar, gegenüber denen sie “er-
folgreicher” {lebih berbunga) seien. Dies hänge
damit zusammen, daß sie, vor allem im Unter-
schied zu den Makasar, als Händler {orang pe-
dagang) tätig seien. Sie wollten auch nicht et-
wa Handwerker {tukang) sein, sondern Vorarbei-
ter (mandor). Dies wiederum läge daran, daß sie
schon immer ökonomische Rationalisten {orang
ekonomi, bzw. ekonomilah) waren und daran,
daß sie Ausbildung hoch bewerten. Allgemein
gelten Bugis als “fleißig” (rajin) und “ausdauernd”
{tekun). Es wird gesagt, “sie suchen Titel” {cari
sarjana; sarjana\ “Gelehrter”). Also förderten sie
ihre Kinder in der Schule, damit diese später
einen hohen Rang {cari pangkat) erreichten. Ins-
gesamt würden sie an die Zukunft denken {pikir
masa depan) und es bei Mißerfolgen “noch mal
versuchen” {coba lagi), was sie besonders von
den Makasar unterscheide. Im Vergleich zu diesen
seien sie vorsichtig bzw. “ängstlich” {punya takut).
Da sie andererseits eindeutig weniger wirtschaftli-
chen Erfolg als die Chinesen haben und weniger
kreditwürdig sind {kurang dipercaya), gelten sie
als “schon durchschnittlich” {sudah sedang). Bugis
heiraten nach allgemeiner Vorstellung noch sehr
endogen, “innerhalb der Familie” {antar famili),
und haben eine ländliche Basis: sie sind “noch
ländlich” {masih di lingkungan). Eine andere For-
mulierung spielt darauf an, das viele Bugis-Fa-
milien Boden auf dem Land besitzen, der ein
Hintergrund ihres städtischen Reichtums ist: “Bu-
gis haben eine Hoffnung auf dem Lande” {Bugis
punya harapan di pedalaman) bzw. “(Sie) haben
'ropos 96.2001
452
Christoph Antweiler
noch eine andere Hoffnung, weil sie Reisfelder auf
dem Dorf besitzen” (punya harapan lain, karena
ada sawah di kampung). Bezüglich der interethni-
schen Beziehungen, einem besonders in der Stadt
Makassar wichtigen Thema, werden die Bugis als
“integrative Menschen” (orang integrasi) einge-
stuft. Andererseits gelten sie als individualistisch
und geizig (kikir). Ein Marker der Bugis ist neben
ihrem Beruf als Händler der Goldschmuck, den
die Frauen gerne sichtbar tragen und mit dem sie
handeln.
Mandar
Die Mandar haben insgesamt im Vergleich zu den
anderen Gruppen ein weniger deutliches Profil in
Makassar, auch wenn sie in bestimmten Stadt-
teilen eine historisch prominente Rolle gespielt
haben, z. B. in Lette und Mariso an der Küste
nahe dem Hafen. Dieses undeutliche Profil liegt
unter anderen daran, daß sie von Nicht-Mandar oft
unter die Bugis subsumiert werden. Man weiß in
Makassar aber allgemein über die Mandar, daß sie
gute Seefahrer sind und ihre Heimat (Mandar,
Majene, Mamuju) “weit weg von Makassar” ha-
ben. Von einigen werden sie für “mutig im/zum
Handel” (berani dagang) gehalten. Anders als im
allgemeinen lokalen Diskurs über Ethnien werden
Mandar, wenn von ihnen als einzelner Gruppe
geredet wird, eher isoliert gesehen, als daß sie mit
anderen Ethnien verglichen werden.
Toraja
Die Toraja werden in Makassar nach dem Akro-
nym für ihre Heimatregion “Tanah Toraja” auch
oft “Tator” genannt. Sie reklamieren oft für ihre
Ethnie, daß ihr “Sozialgefühl” (rasa sosial, pe-
rasaan sosial) besonders hoch sei. Sie erzählen
besonders häufig von gegenseitiger Hilfe (kerja
sama) und betonen, daß Toraja hierin “nicht be-
schränkt” (tidak diikat) seien. Außerdem betonen
sie ihre Fähigkeiten, die sie auf ihre hohe Bildung
zurückführen. Auch die würde dadurch gefördert,
daß Toraja generell ärmere Familien ihrer Ethnie
z. B. durch Schulgeld und Kleiderspenden unter-
stützten. Toraja halten sich für “zäh” (ulet). Sie
betonen die Bedeutung der traditionellen Werte
für sich (traditionelles Haus, Erbregeln, Stieropfer)
und fühlen sich in Makassar “weit weg von ihrer
Heimat”. Somit fühlen sie sich im zeitweiligen
Status von Wanderern (merantau). Von den lokalen
Ethnien setzen sie sich darin ab, daß sie selbst
eine weitreichende Perspektive hätten, ein “weites
Denken” (pikiran jauh).
Toraja gelten als “ruhig” (sabar), bzw. friedlich
und ehrenhaft (jujur), was oft auf ihren christlichen
Glauben zurückgeführt wird. Man hält sie auch
für “standfest/mutig” (tahan); man sagt, sie för-
derten die Sicherheit einer Siedlung. Sie sind da-
für bekannt, daß sie besonders gerne konzentriert
bis segregiert zusammen wohnen, “wenige (nach-
barschaftliche) Beziehungen (eingehen)”, (kurang
hubungan), was einige auf den Minderheitenstatus
ihres christlichen Glaubens (doktrin Kristen) in
einer sonst fast ausschließlich islamischen sozia-
len Umwelt (mayoritas Islam) zurückführen. Von
den Toraja nimmt man allgemein an, daß sie die
geringsten Bindungen zur Stadt entwickelt haben
und letztlich wieder “ins Dorf zurück wollen”.
Man sagt etwa: “Wenn sie pleite sind, gehen
sie ins Dorf (zurück)” (kalau uang habis, pergi
kampung). Toraja gelten allgemein als zum Han-
del wenig befähigt; sie hätten dafür keine Ader
(tidak bisa dagang, kurang jixva dagang). Sie wä-
ren eher Handwerker (tukang), z. B. Schuhmacher,
Schlosser oder Schmiede. Viele Toraja hätten ein
“Beamtendenken” (pikiran pegawai) und eine gute
Ausbildung.
Viele Menschen in Süd-Sulawesi wissen von
den Toraja, daß diese wegen ihrer aufwendigen
Totenfeiern und, weil sie ihre traditionellen Häuser
(tongkonan) nur in ihrer Heimat bauen dürfen,
an die Herkunftsregion Tanah Toraja gebunden
sind. Manchen gelten Toraja wegen dieser teuren
Totenfeste als “verschwenderisch” (pemborosan,
pembuang uang, “Geldverschwender”). Strenger
Islamgläubige befürchten, daß der Ansiedlung von
Toraja in einer Nachbarschaft allzu leicht das
Glücksspiel folge. Toraja sind in Makassar oft
arm und arbeiten häufig als Hausangestellte (pem-
bantu). Das begründet für die ganze Gruppe in
der Sicht vieler Menschen einen niedrigen Status
der Toraja. Erkennen kann man Toraja an der
Wohnungsausstattung mit christlichen Symbolen
oder Kunsthandwerk, das die vier typischen Far-
ben der Toraja (schwarz, weiß, rot, gelb) zeigt-
Toraja bauen auch oft traditionelle Elemente, wie
etwa ein halbes Dach eines traditionellen Hau-
ses (tongkonan), an ihre sonst modernen Häu-
ser. Außerdem hört man sie viel singen oder
erkennt Haushalte von Toraja am Gebell der Hun-
de, die sie gerne zur Bewachung der Häuser
halten und die gleichzeitig anderen bisweilen
Angst machen.
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
Jawa, Orang Jawa
In Makassar sehen sich Javaner26 selbst und gelten
auch anderen als ruhige unauffällige Menschen.
Allgemein meint man, daß die meisten von ih-
nen hart arbeiten und daß sie oft arm sind. Sie
werden aber auch für sehr intelligent gehalten.
Man sagt z. B. “Wir (Leute von Süd-Sulawesi)
sind ihnen unterlegen”, bzw. “Wir verlieren (gegen
sie)” (kami kalah). Man hält Javaner weiterhin
für weniger moralisch als die lokalen ethnischen
Gruppen, bzw. sogar für unmoralisch (tuna su-
sila). Gesprächspartner sagten mir z. B. oft, alle
Prostituierten (“Damen ohne Ehre”, wanita tuna
susila, WTS) seien aus Java (oder aus Manado in
Nord-Sulawesi). Man erkennt Javaner in erster Li-
nie an ihrer Tätigkeit, die meist im Straßenverkauf
oder in Gelegenheitsarbeiten besteht. Die in der
Stadt herumziehenden Verkäuferinnen von tradi-
tioneller Medizin (jamu) stammen ausschließlich
aus Java und sind an ihren sarung zu erkennen.
Javanische Frauen sind ferner daran zu erkennen,
daß sie ihre Kinder fast immer in Tüchern (kain)
tragen.
Cina, Orang Cina, Tionghoa
Das Eigenbild der Chinesen besagt, daß sie “wirt-
schaftlich fähig” (mampu ekonomi, ekonomilah)
sind und durch sie “etwas, wo immer es läuft,
groß wird” (di mana jalan akan besar). Dies
wird damit in Zusammenhang gebracht, daß sie
sich gegenseitig unterstützen und außerdem eine
schnelle Auffassungsgabe haben (cepat bergerak),
daß sie energisch bzw. aktiv (lincah) und “zäh”
(ulet) seien. “Das mit den Chinesen ist eine lange
Geschichte” sagte ein Informant. Sie werden ins-
gesamt einheitlich als Fremdgruppe wahrgenom-
^en. Das zeigt sich schon daran, daß die meisten
Gesprächspartner keinen Unterschied zwischen in-
donesischen Chinesen (offiziell Cina WNI, Warga
^egara Indonesia) und Chinesen ohne indone-
Slschen Paß machen, von denen es offiziell in
Makassar 12.819 Personen gibt.27 Außerdem wer-
den Chinesen unisono als “reiche Leute” (orang
kaya) bezeichnet, obwohl viele von ihnen in
Ich differenziere hier nicht zwischen Javanen als ethnischer
Gruppe und Javanern als Bewohnern Javas, da diese Un-
terscheidung in der Bevölkerung Makassars nicht gemacht
wird.
Laut Angaben für 1990 auf einem Schild in der Immi-
grationsbehörde; dort sind in der Rubrik “Fremde” (orang
asing) als einzige Chinesen aufgeführt.
Anth
r°pos 96.2001
453
Makassar de facto in sehr einfachen Verhältnissen
leben.
Die Wahrnehmung der Chinesen ist sehr ambi-
valent. Man schätzt an Chinesen, daß sie fleißig
(.rajin) sind und daß der Handel mit ihnen “leicht”
ist (gampang dagang). Außerdem, daß sie an die
Zukunft denken und dem Geld Wertschätzung ent-
gegenbringen (hargai uang; gengsi uang), auch
in kleinen Mengen. Sie würden “Geld (wirklich)
nutzen für Investitionen” (uang dipergunakan, in-
vestasi). Mit gemischten Gefühlen wird wahr-
genommen, daß sie so “sparsam” (hemat) und
“arbeitstrunken” (mabuk kerja\ entsprechend dem
englischen workaholic) sind. Sie hätten besondere
Fähigkeiten und Kenntnisse (ada ketrampilan), be-
sonders aber die Fähigkeit, “schnell einen Gewinn
zu machen” (cepat mendapat untung). Sie hätten
z. B. ein Gefühl für strategisch gute Bauplätze für
ihre Geschäftshäuser nach der Devise “Wo viele
Leute entlang laufen, da wird es gut laufen” (Di
mana banyak orang jalan, di sini akan menjadi
jalan). Sie seien so fähig und geschickt, daß ande-
re ihnen “nicht widerstehen können” (tidak bisa
menghadapi), außerdem könnten sie nicht rich-
tig “überwacht” (pengamatan) werden (was auf
Ängste vor ihnen hinweist). Weiterhin ist allge-
mein bekannt, daß Chinesen sich untereinander
in starkem Maße helfen. Chinesen würden “in
der eigenen Gruppe bleiben” (kelompok-kelom-
pok)\ sie vermischten sich nicht mit anderen; sie
hätten “geringen Umgang” mit anderen (kurang
bergaul); ihre “Beziehungen (zu anderen seien)
nicht eng”. Sie gelten also im allgemein als stark
nach “innen” orientiert (di dalam), “sich ab-” bzw.
“andere ausgrenzend” (membatasi diri, eksklusif),
was als “unsozial” (kurang sosial, tidak ada pi-
kiran sosial) empfunden wird. Sie würden am
Gemeinschaftsleben “nicht partizipieren” (kurang
partisipasi). Andererseits könnten sie wegen ihres
wirtschaftlichen Erfolges und ihrer Geschäftigkeit
ein Viertel “lebendig machen” (bikin ramai, kasih
ramai), was sehr geschätzt wird. Negativ wird
dagegen häufig festgestellt, daß Chinesen nur un-
tereinander heiraten wollten. Außerdem wirft man
ihnen vor, daß sie mit der Regierung Zusammen-
arbeiten (“sie haben viele Verbindungen”, punya
banyak hubungan) und bevorteilt sind, weil sie
staatliche Hilfsgelder, z. B. im Rahmen der Fünf-
jahrespläne der Entwicklung, abschöpfen könnten,
die eigentlich für andere bestimmt seien. Mit-
glieder anderer ethnischer Gruppen erkennen Chi-
nesen meist schon an ihrer Physiognomie oder
ihrer Sprache. Teilweise erkennt man sie auch
an ihrer Kleidung, z. B. die älteren Männer in
kurzen Shorts und Unterhemden, die Frauen an
454
Christoph Antweiler
freizügiger Kleidung. Weiterhin wohnen sie oft
in typischen zweistöckigen Geschäftshäusern, die
in der Innenstadt fast immer stark vergittert sind.
Außerdem fallen die kleinen Altäre auf oder der
Geruch von Räucherstäbchen.
2.5 Situative Ethnizität und segmentäre kognitive
Struktur
Die beschriebenen Eigen- und Fremdbilder werden
in Makassar besonders im Zusammenhang mit
sozialen Vergleichen zwischen Eigen- und Fremd-
gruppen gebildet. Das deckt sich mit allgemeinen
Erkenntnissen aus der Ethnizitätsforschung seit
Barth (1969; zusfsd. Eriksen 1992a). Es fällt auf,
daß viele der Fremdbilder, aber z.T. auch die
Eigenbilder sehr stereotyp ausfallen. Bei fast allen
Gruppen zeigt sich, daß die Bilder der eigenen
und fremden Gruppe nicht nur beschreibend sind,
sondern fast immer eine mehr oder minder ex-
plizite Bewertung beinhalten. Dies deckt sich mit
den Erkenntnissen der vergleichenden Ethnozen-
trismusforschung (Antweiler 1998).
Eine Vielfalt von verschiedenen Formulierun-
gen inhaltlich gleicher Stereotype stützen die Bil-
der, die man sich von einer Gruppe macht. Das
zeigen besonders die Stereotype zu den Makasar.
Weiterhin werden diese Bilder durch kausale Be-
gründungen für die angenommenen Eigenschaften
gefestigt. In der Innensicht wird fast immer ange-
nommen, daß den ethnischen Gruppen als ganzen
bestimmte Eigenschaften inhärent sind.28 Häußg
werden Ethnien einander dichotom gegenüberge-
stellt und behauptet, eine Ethnie sei “weit von der
anderen entfernt” (X jauh dari Y). Die Eigenbilder
stimmen z.T. mit dem Fremdbild anderer überein,
wie sich besonders bei den Makasar zeigt. Die
Fremdbilder, die gegenüber einer Gruppe X sei-
tens einer anderen A bestehen, werden auch von
Mitgliedern anderer Gruppen B, C, ... gegenüber
der Gruppe X gehalten (vgl. allgemein Ehrlich
1979 und bzgl. interethnischer Stereotypen unter
Studenten Schweizer 1980 zu Yogyakarta). Beson-
ders im Fall der Makasar einerseits und der Bugis
bzw. der Chinesen andererseits wird die Bewer-
tung am wirtschaftlichen Erfolg der Mehrheit ihrer
Mitglieder festgemacht. Ein zweites Kriterium,
daß die Bewertung leitet, insbesondere, aber nicht
28 Auch bei solchen deutlichen primordialistischen emischen
Vorstellungen sollten wir als Ethnologen kulturrelativistisch
bleiben, sie ernstnehmen und sie nicht vorschnell als instru-
mentalistisch zu interpretieren versuchen (vgl. Gil-White
1999).
nur der Makasar, ist die selbst reklamierte oder
von anderen zugeschriebene heroische Rolle in der
Geschichte Süd-Sulawesis, bzw. die Bedeutung
des Ehrgefühls im Alltag.
Das bisher Gesagte zeigte, wie eng Menschen
verschiedener kultureller Herkunft im Alltag mit-
einander verquickt sind, aber auch, daß sie trotz
dieses intensiven Umgangs sehr strikt zwischen
einzelnen sozialen und auch ethnischen Kategorien
unterscheiden. Außerdem wird sehr genau beob-
achtet, welchen Ethnien wirtschaftlich erfolgreiche
Menschen angehören und es wird oft darüber
geredet, wie wohl die ethnischen Mehrheitsver-
hältnisse in der Stadt derzeit sind und wer wen
“verdrängt”. Ferner sind, wie oben gezeigt, auto-
und fremdstereotype Bilder über die einzelnen
Ethnien verbreitet. Hier zeigt sich ein allgemei-
nes Muster von Ethnizität im politischen Kon-
text: essentialistische Konzepte kollektiver Identi-
tät werden ergänzt durch Konzepte interpersoneller
Beziehungen, z. B. ihrer Egalität und Hierarchie
(Handelman 1977: 187 ff., Govers and Vermeulen
1997).
Den ethnologisch festzustellenden und ethnisie-
rend überhöhten Grenzen zwischen den Gruppen
steht die Tatsache gegenüber, daß sich die Kulturen
der Makasar und Bugis einander - trotz Unter-
schiede in der Sprache (Noorduyn 1991) und der
sozialen und politischen Organisation29 - in man-
chen Aspekten ähneln. Dies gilt z. B. bezüg-
lich Mythologie, Verwandtschaftssystem, Konzep-
ten politischer Autorität, Statusorientierung, Presti-
gedenken und Ehrvorstellungen und vor allem dem
Islam, der historisch eine gemeinsame Identität
bewirkte (Rössler 1997:276). Ich habe versucht,
diese Ähnlichkeiten in Abb. 4 in notwendigerweise
vergröbernder Form zusammenzufassen. Der si-
tuative Charakter von Ethnizität zeigt sich deutlich
in der Verwendung der Konzepte seitens der Be-
wohner der Region. Wenn Makasar und Bugis sich
mit dritten vergleichen, sehen sie selbst zunächst
ihre Gemeinsamkeiten gegenüber den Unterschie-
den zu anderen, z. B. zu den meist christlichen
Toraja. In Konkurrenz- oder Konfliktsituationen
sehen sie sich aber als zwei klar getrennte Ethnien
an. Es gilt quasi das “sizilianische” Prinzip: “Ich
29 Neben der unterschiedlichen Sprache existieren weitere
markante Unterschiede zwischen beiden Gruppen. So steht
der zentralistischen Organisation mancher Bugis-Gemein'
schäften die föderale Struktur einiger makasarischer Herr-
schaftsgebilde gegenüber. Ferner ist die Sozialstruktur der
Bugis stärker von Patron-Klient-Systemen bestimmt als die
der Makasar (vgl. Antweiler 2000b: 152-155 und Toi et al-
2000: 2).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
455
Abb. 4: Ethnienübergreifende
Strukturmerkmale der großen Eth-
nien und politökonomische Kon-
tinuitäten in Süd-Sulawesi (zusf.
nach Antweiler 2000b: 162-183).
^bb 5: Segmentäre Ebenen der
Identität in Süd-Sulawesi 1: Eth-
nische Inklusion und Exklusion.
Irl k Segmentäre Ebenen der
entität in Süd-Sulawesi 2: Re-
lQnale Inklusion und Exklusion.
1. Teilweise gemeinsame Mythologie bzw. Kosmologie, z. B. Konzept und Sym-
bolik von ursprünglichen Herrschern bei Bugis und Makasar (to manurung / tu
manurung).
2. Islam, lange, wenn auch “verspätete” Islamisierung (außer der Mehrheit der
Toraja).
3. Stratifizierte Gesellschaften: sozialer Rang und persönliches Ansehen wichtig.
4. Statuserhaltung und -erhöhung wichtiges kulturelles Thema (“social location”).
5. Konkurrenzbeziehungen und Aufstiegsmotiv (bei Bugis allerdings sozial stärker
eingeschränkt).
6. Bilaterales (nonunilinear) kinship-System, starke bilateral gebildete, korporate
km-Gruppen.
7. Gruppenbasis in lockerer, loser Verwandtschaft (“kinship-by-choice”).
8. Interethnische Zusammenarbeit und politischer Opportunismus.
9. Interethnische, oft strategisch motivierte Heiraten der höheren Schichten (cari
kawin).
10. Überlokale Herrschaftsgebilde (supralokal herrschende Eliten).
11. Politische Instabilität der Region (Rivalität der Königreiche, Rivalitäten nach der
Unabhängigkeit).
12. Ehre-, Scham- und Schande-Vorstellungen (siriq, malu).
13. Patron-Klient-Verhältnisse in der Wirtschaft (punggawa-sawi), bei Bugis beson-
ders autark.
14. Suche nach physischer Sicherheit (keamanan) als regionalweites Migrationsmotiv.
15. Geringe Ortsgebundenheit: Handelsseefahrt, Auswanderung (merantau) und in-
nerregionale Migration.
Unterscheidungs-
Kriterien
Makasar
Wohlstand,
Bugis wirtschaftliche
Cleverness, Migration
Makasar + Bugis vs. Toraja + Mandar Glaube (Islam vs. Christentum) -
Makasar
Bugis
Mandar
+Toraja
restliche
etwa 45
Ethnien der
Provinz
kulturelle Differenz,
interethnische
Heiraten
Unterscheidungs- kriterien
Stadtteil restliches Rappocini 1 ' Makassar Makassar vs. jüngere Sozialgeschichte ländliches Modernität, Süd-Sulawesi Dynamik
Makassar vs. Surabaya Stadtrivalität bzgl. (in Ost-Java) Ostindonesien
„ , , /i , , Peripherie vs. Zen- Sud-Sulawesi vs. Java/Jakarta y ^ trum, Dominanz Süd-Sulawesi vs. Ostindonesien Regionalhauptstadt (Intim) vs- Peripherie
Süd-Sulawesi vs. Manado Moral / Religion (Nord-Sulawesi) (Süd-Sulawesi) vs. (ganz Sulawesi) kaum existente Vergleichsebene
456
Christoph Antweiler
gegen meinen Bruder, wir beide zusammen gegen
die Eltern, unsere Familie gegen die Nachbarn
usw.” (Abb. 5 und 6; angeregt durch Orywal
1986: 74-78 und Jenkins 1997: 41).
Das Ambiguitätsverhältnis besonders zwischen
Bugis, Makassar und Mandar offenbart sich des
öfteren in öffentlichen Diskussionen. Besonders
intensiv und aufschlußreich waren diese in der
Zeit der einjährigen Feldforschung 1991/1992. An-
laß war die erwähnte Fahrt eines in tradierter
Weise gebauten Holzschiffes namens “Amanna-
gappa” von Süd-Sulawesi nach Madagaskar. Das
ganze Jahr waren die lokalen Zeitungen voll von
dieser Diskussion. Vordergründig drehte sie sich
um Details des “authentischen” Schiffsbaus, des
“richtigen” Kurses des Boots und der “passenden”
Zusammensetzung der Mannschaft. Aber es ging
auch um wirklich “heiße” Fragen”, die Ruhm und
Ehre ganzer ethnischer Gruppen betreffen: wann
segelte das erste Schiff nach Madagaskar; waren
die ersten Segler vor vielen hundert Jahren Maka-
sar, Bugis oder Mandar? An dieser hitzigen Debat-
te nahmen indonesische Journalisten, ausländische
Segelfans, aber auch lokale politische Größen so-
wie Historiker und Ethnologen aus der Stadt teil.
Diese Debatte wurde landesweit wahrgenommen
und hält in Makassar bis heute an. Die Frage, wer
in dieser Stadt “Herr im Haus” ist, interessiert die
Menschen.
Welche Kriterien ziehen die Menschen im Orts-
teil Rappocini im einzelnen heran, wenn sie ethni-
sche Gruppen nicht nur charakterisieren, sondern
bewußt miteinander vergleichen? Hierzu sammelte
ich Daten in systematischen Interviews zu Ethni-
zität. Eine Zufallsstichprobe aus der Gesamtheit
der Hausbesitzer der untersuchten Nachbarschafts-
einheit {Rukun Tetangga; n = 21) wurden ge-
beten, in einer schrittweisen Sortierung (succes-
sive sorting\ Weller and Romney 1988:26-31;
Antweiler 1993) acht Namen ethnischer Gruppen
bzw. ethnischer Kategorien danach zu ordnen, wie
ähnlich sie einander sind. Die Zahl der vorgelegten
Kategorien mußte auf die in Alltagsgesprächen
prominenten begrenzt werden, um die Sortierung
nicht zu kompliziert werden zu lassen. Enthalten
waren Bugis, Makasar, Toraja, Mandar als in der
Stadt dominante Gruppen; Chinesen und Javaner
(viele der Händler in der Stadt), Timoresen (Stu-
denten in Makassar) und schließlich “Westmen-
schen” (orang barat), weil ich selbst ein solcher
bin und “Westler” als Kategorie in Makassar prä-
sent sind. Die Namen waren auf Plastikkärtchen
geschrieben. Die Informanten wurden gebeten, die
Karten schrittweise dichotom zu sortieren: “Bitte
ordnen sie diese Kärtchen in zwei Haufen”. Wenn
möglich, sollten sie danach angeben, warum sie
im jeweiligen Schritt so gruppieren: “Warum ist
diese Karte in diesem Haufen/dieser Gruppe?”
Hierbei war es den Gesprächspartnern freigestellt,
auch mehrere Kriterien pro Schritt zu nennen. Die
Daten zur Innensicht der Ähnlichkeit zwischen
den Kategorien sollen quantitativ und im Detail
in einer eigenen Studie ausgewertet werden. In
Tab. 3 sind nur die Aspekte ausgewertet, welche
die Befragten während des Sortierens von sich aus
nannten, um die relative Bedeutung verschiedener
Kriterien zu beleuchten. Es handelt sich also um
eine Auflistung der von Gesprächspartnern beim
Vergleich von Ethnien benutzten Kriterien, soweit
sie ihnen selbst bewußt waren.
Es bestehen sehr viele Kriterien, unter denen
Sprache, Religion, physische Merkmale, Kultur
(unspezifiziert) und Region herausragen. Diese
Häufung kommt z.T. durch bestimmte Konstel-
lationen zustande. Die Sprache ist für die Unter-
scheidung der in der Provinz beheimateten Grup-
pen wichtig (Bugis, Makasar, Toraja, Mandar),
da sie kulturell ähnlich, ihre Sprachen zwar ver-
wandt, jedoch füreinander unverständlich sind. Der
Glaube trennt die Toraja als Christen von den
anderen drei Gruppen, die islamisch sind (und
bringt die Toraja zusammen mit den Timoresen).
Physische Merkmale werden vor allem, aber nicht
nur, deshalb zu Vergleichsmerkmalen, weil Chine-
sen und Westler in den zum Vergleich vorgelegten
ethnischen Kategorien enthalten waren. Kultur und
Herkunftsregion sind Merkmale, die schon im tra-
ditionellen Süd-Sulawesi für Vergleiche bedeutsam
waren, etwa wenn sich auf dem Lande einander
unbekannte Angehörige verschiedener Gruppen
begegneten.
Während das obige Beispiel aus unserer Gast-
familie das Zusammenwirken körperlicher Unter-
scheidungen mit ethnozentrischen Stereotypen auf
individueller Ebene zeigte und Tab. 3 die Vielfalt
der Merkmale für Vergleiche deutlich macht, soll
das folgende Beispiel illustrieren, wie verschie-
denste Systeme der Unterscheidung von Menschen
im organisatorischen und institutioneilen Rahmen
zusammenspielen und durch Ethnisierung eine
ökonomische bzw. historische Erklärung z. B. des
unterschiedlichen Wohlstands unterbinden. Das
Beispiel entstammt der industriellen Arbeitswelt.
Es geht um die Angestellten eines multinationalen
Konzernes in einer kleinen Stadt im nördlichen
Süd-Sulawesi, in der kleinen Stadt Soroako (nach
Robinson 1986). Abb. 7 zeigt die Hierarchie
der Angestellten und schlüsselt die sichtbaren
Kriterien und erfragten Kategorien auf. Dabei
überlagern sich mehrere Unterscheidungen:
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien? 457
Tab. 3: Emische Kriterien beim Vergleich ethnischer Gruppen (Basis: Kartenstapelsortierungen, successive pile sortings', n = 21)
Kriterium (in Originalformulierungen) Nennungen % (ger.) Kategorie (ergänzt von CA)
bahasa, dekati bahasa, tingkat bahasa 31 20,0 Sprache
agama, (agama) Kristen, (agama) Islam 19 12,3 Religion
kulit, wama kulit, hitam, putih, rambut, fisik kuat 18 11,6 Physis
budaya, budaya luar biasa, adat, kesenian, seni, pakaian 16 10,3 Kultur (undifferenziert bzw. Teilaspekte von Kultur)
daerah, Sulawesi, luar Sulawesi, Sulsel, rumpun Sulsel, Sulut, dekat, kampung dekat, sama jauh 14 9,0 Region, Nähe
Suku, bangsa 8 5,2 Volksgruppe
lain, sama, kelompok, selingan, cocok, cocoklah 8 5,2 nicht spezifizierte Ähnlichkeit/Unähn- lichkeit
propesi pedagang, teknik pedagang, hubungan dagang, perusaha, swasta, wisata, parawisata 7 4,5 Arbeit, Beruf
dari luar, asing 6 3,9 ausländ. Herkunft
uiaju, sudali baratlah, bebas, perpatohkan 5 3,2 Modernität
kawin, kawinan, tradisi perkawinan 4 2,6 Heiratsform
Pergaulan, bergaul, sosial 4 2,6 Sozialität, Umgang
kerja (di) ne gara lain, merantau, mobil 4 2,6 Arbeitsemigration
makanan, makan 3 1,9 Nahrung
Penghidupan, kehidupan 2 1,3 Lebensweise
lebih lama di sini 2 1,3 Zeit der Einwanderung
tingkah laku, kasar 2 1,3 Verhaltensweise
Waktu 1 0,6 Zeitzone der Region
Pengaruh 1 0,6 (politischer) Einfluß
155 100%
~~ eine bezüglich Nationalität (Nichtindonesier,
expatriates, vs. Indonesier);
~~ eine ethnisch-regionale bezüglich der Indone-
sier: Sundanesen, Javaner, Sumatraner, Men-
schen aus Süd-Sulawesi sowie in Soroako ge-
borene (meist Bugis);
" eine nach dem Ausbildungsgrad bzw. der Funk-
tion im Konzern;
" eine auf den Wohnort bezogene (Bewohner
der neuen, von der Firma gebauten Stadt vs.
Bewohner der alten Siedlung);
eine im Englischen gängige Bezeichnung lo-
kaler Bevölkerung als “Einheimische” (indige-
nous people), die dem indonesischen Terminus
orang asli ähnelt,30 und
eine implizite und in der Bürokratie in Provinz-
städten Indonesiens gängige Unterscheidung in
locals und metropolitans (Geertz 1963: 39).
Für diejenigen Indonesier, die aus anderen Landesteilen
stammen, kommt das Wort indigenous im Rahmen einer
solchen Firma wahrscheinlich auch der offiziell gängigen
Bezeichnung für kleine ethnische Gruppen (suku terasing)
nahe.
Anth
Robinson verdeutlicht, wie bedeutsam die ethni-
schen und regionalen Kategorien als Mittel der
Interpretation der Beziehungen der Angestellten
sind (1986: 241, Kap. 10). So unterschiedlich ihre
Stellung und ihre Interessenlage auch sind, so
deutlich decken sich die Interpretationsmuster der
Beteiligten. Die unterschiedliche Stellung der Per-
sonen in der Hierarchie wird auf inhärente Cha-
rakteristika der Gruppe bzw. Kategorie zurückge-
führt, der sich die Menschen zugehörig fühlen,
bzw. in die sie eingeordnet werden. Eben dieses
Erklärungsmuster findet sich, wie gezeigt, in Ma-
kassar bezüglich des unterschiedlichen Erfolges
verschiedener ethnischer Gruppen aus der Pro-
vinz untereinander und gegenüber den Chinesen.31
31 Leider finden sich bei Robinson keine Angaben darüber,
ob für diejenigen Angestellten, die aus der Provinz selbst
stammen, deren Ethnizität als Bugis, Makasar, Mandar,
Toraja usw. relevant ist oder zugunsten einer Identität
als “Menschen Süd-Sulawesis” (orang Sulawesi Selatan)
weniger betont wird, wie es angesichts des nationalen und
internationalen Spektrums der Angestellten dieser Firma
wahrscheinlich der Fall ist.
'ropos 96.2001
458
Christoph Antweiler
Abb. 7: Überlagerung ethnischer,
herkunfts- und und wohnortbe-
zogener emischer Kategorien in
einem multinationalen Konzern
in Süd-Sulawesi, INCO in So-
roako (verändert nach Robinson
1986: 240).
Die in den Beispielen geschilderte und in der
Abbildung illustrierte Innensicht der Ungleichheit
könnte man “kulturrassistisch” nennen, weil (1)
scharfe Grenzen zwischen den Kategorien gezogen
werden, (2) etliche Kategorien (z. B. auch expa-
triates) somatische Konnotationen tragen und (3)
Unterschiede mittels inhärenten kollektiven Eigen-
schaften erklärt werden.
Eine solche ethnisierende Innensicht sozioöko-
nomischer Ungleichheit hat, wie besonders am
Beispiel Soroako klar wird, zur Konsequenz,
daß eine Interpretation der Hierarchie als Ergebnis
von Klassenunterschieden im ökonomischen Sinne
unterbleibt. Ungleiche Verhältnisse und Bezie-
hungen werden entweder im Rahmen einer der
genannten Kategorien ethnisiert oder aber rein
individuell interpretiert. Dies ist charakteristisch
für den interethnischen Umgang in vielen ländli-
chen wie städtischen Gebieten Südostasiens (vgl.
Nagata 1980: 127, 133 f.), aber auch in anderen
Städten der sog. Dritten Welt feststellbar (als Bsp.
Barth 1983 zur Stadt Sohar in Oman).
In Süd-Sulawesi zeigen sich hinsichtlich der
ethnischen Kategorien, der Formen des Umgangs
und auch einer ethnienübergreifenden Interkultu-
ralität neben Neuerungen auch deutliche Konti-
nuitäten mit der Kolonialgeschichte,32 die ich im
folgenden kurz herausarbeite.
32 Für eine detailliertere Untersuchung der kolonialen Vorprä-
gungen heutiger Konzepte vgl. Antweiler 2000b: 184-204.
3 Historischer Kontext:
Makassar als periphere Kolonialstadt;
formale Segregation versus informeller
Austausch
Seit Ende des 17. Jh.s besagte die Leitlinie der
niederländischen Politik, daß die Kolonialsiedlun-
gen nach Ethnien segregiert sein sollten, statt, wie
die portugiesischen, assimilativ. Die explizit nach
ihrer Kultur (und implizit oft auch nach ihrer
Physis) unterschiedenen Gruppen sollten räum-
lich getrennt in ethnisch homogenen Stadtteilen
siedeln. Dahinter standen in den Niederlanden
verbreitete Vorstellungen “natürlicher Ordnung”
und außerdem Sicherheitsüberlegungen (Suther-
land 1989: 108,111; Raben 1995). Die gegenüber
den Niederländern vermeintlich loyalen Gruppen,
die Javaner, Ambonesen und Malaien, sollten nahe
dem Fort wohnen, so daß sie die Europäer vor den
“heißblütigen” und “feindlichen” Bugis und Maka-
sar schützen könnten. Dieses Muster baute auf der
ethnischen Segregierung in der vorkolonialen Stadt
(Reid 1983) auf, hatte nun aber eine besondere
Begründung und schuf eine neue, bis in den heuti-
gen interethnischen Umgang nachwirkende Dyna-
mik, die Jäckel (1993: 397) prägnant zusammen-
faßt:
The difference between the meaning of the traditional
spatial pattern and that of the company town is that the
former was a method of organizing an open, decentral-
ized international “urban society” whereas the latter was
a method of better controlling that society by dividing
it up.
Schon in Batavia konnte sich jedoch die europav
sehe Gemeinschaft als autonome soziale Einheit
nicht selbst tragen (Blusse 1988, vgl. für Surabaya
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
459
Frederick 1983). Es kamen nur wenige verheiratete
Paare aus den Niederlanden und damit fehlten
Frauen. Die Siedler standen zudem ökonomisch
zwischen der monopolistischen VOC auf der einen
und den asiatischen Händlern und Bauern auf der
anderen Seite. Sozial war die weiße, calvinistische
Männergesellschaft mit einer indonesisch-portu-
giesischen Frauengesellschaft verflochten. Im pe-
ripher gelegenen Makassar galt das in noch stärke-
rem Maße (Sutherland 1989: 109; Poelinggomang
1993). Die um die VOC organisierte Gesellschaft
unterschied sich auch politisch in wichtigen Belan-
gen von der in Batavia. Makassar war ein Außen-
posten (buitenpost) auf einer Außeninsel, wenn
auch ein bedeutender. Hier lebten weniger als ein
Viertel der in Batavia stationierten VOC-Ange-
stellten und für sie war die Stadt nur ein Schritt
in ihrer Karriere. Sie blieben nur einige Jahre und
versuchten während dieser Zeit durch private, oft
illegale, aber geduldete Geschäfte reich zu werden.
Der Blick der Elite richtete sich auf Batavia (oder
die Niederlande) und man interessierte sich wenig
für die lokale Politik in Makassar. Gerade hierin
war der nur sehr begrenzte Erfolg der VOC in der
Stadt begründet. Dazu kam, daß die Verwaltung
der Kolonialstadt äußerst aufwendig war. Es war
schwierig, genügend Personal zu finden und die
Verwaltung war teuer. In Makassar zeigte sich ein
von Jäckel (1993: 397) analysiertes allgemeines
Problem der VOC besonders scharf: in den Com-
pany Towns nahm der Verbrauch unproduktiven
Kapitals immer mehr zu und in die Infrastruktur
gesteckte Gelder erforderten immer größere Folge-
investitionen.
Außerdem bewegten sich die Kolonialisten hier
einer Region, in der es, anders als in West-
Java, durchaus noch mächtige Reiche und rajas
gab. Ferner bot die koloniale Stadt ein Kaleido-
skop ethnischer Gruppen; die Bevölkerungssitua-
hon war durch hohe Sterblichkeit, einen deutli-
chen Männerüberschuß und verbreitete Sklaverei
geprägt (Sutherland 1989: 117). Diese Faktoren
führten zusammen mit der Verknüpfung mit lo-
kalen Personen und Gruppen dazu, daß Corne-
rs Speelmans Ideal der Segregation der Wirt-
schaft, der sozialen Gruppen sowie der Resi-
denz und die tatsächliche Situation weit ausein-
anderfielen. Sutherland (1989: 109; vgl. 1986:52)
beschreibt die Stadt als quasi postmodernes Ge-
spinst:
Vccomodation to local ways led to ambiguities and
üeviations. Indeed, trying to write an account of the town
ls accompanied by a sense that reality is elusive: each
attempt to focus upon structure blurs the picture; each
effort to pin down categories makes them shift.
Nichtsdestotrotz wurden die Bewohner strikt nach
Kategorien eingeteilt. Formell waren ab Mitte des
18. Jh.s in Makassar vier Einteilungsprinzipien von
zentraler Bedeutung, von denen die ersten drei
polar konzipiert waren:
- nach der Beziehung zur Kompanie: VOC-An-
gestellte versus Andere,
- nach der Religion: Christen versus Heiden,
- nach rechtlicher Freiheit: Sklaven versus Freie
(Vrije; N.), und
- nach der Zugehörigkeit zu ethnischen Gruppen
bzw. sog. “Nationen”.
Die wichtigste Aufteilung der Wohnbevölkerung
unterschied zunächst “VOC-Angehörige, Burgher
und Familien” und beinhaltete auch deren Skla-
ven. Ihr entgegengesetzt war eine sehr heterogene
Kategorie, die “Makassaren, Buginesen, Chinesen,
Ambonesen, Bandaresen, Moors, Peranakan und
ihre Sklaven und andere” umfaßte. Diese grobe
Zweiteilung entsprach der zwischen “Christen”
und “Heiden”. Sklaven wurden ungeachtet ihrer
Herkunft und ihres Glaubens unter die jeweilige
Kategorie ihrer Besitzer subsumiert. Im einzel-
nen spielten bei der Einteilung der Bevölkerung
aber daneben verschiedene andere Kriterien eine
Rolle, die sich z.T. gegenseitig ergänzten, z.T.
aber auch quer zueinander stehende Ordnungen
schufen. Außerdem änderten sich die Grenzen der
Kategorien im Lauf der Zeit; weiterhin ersetzten
neue Kategorien teilweise alte oder der Bedeu-
tungsgehalt einzelner Einteilungen veränderte sich
(Details bei Sutherland 1986: 41 ff., 48; 1989; vgl.
Schweizer 1985 zur sozialen Schichtung im kolo-
nialen Java). In erster Linie bestimmten Religions-
zugehörigkeit und in zweiter Linie die kulturelle
Einordnung das offizielle System der Einteilung
und Rangfolge. Etliche soziale Kategorien waren
durch mehrere Merkmale determiniert. Hinter den
einfach anmutenden Vorstellungen kultureller Un-
terschiede standen z.T. spezifische Annahmen über
die psychischen Eigenschaften ganzer Gruppen,
wie sie in ähnlicher Weise noch heute in Makassar
benutzt werden.
Unter den Niederländern, aber wahrscheinlich
nicht nur bei ihnen, gab es klare Vorstellungen dar-
über, welche Gruppen welche Eigenschaften hat-
ten. Das polarisierte Spektrum der Vertrauenswür-
digkeit und damit der gegebenen Sicherheit reichte
von den VOC-Angehörigen über die Mestizen, die
asiatischen Christen, Malaien und Chinesen bis
zu den Bugis und Makasar am anderen Ende. So
fungierte der Kampung Melayu direkt nördlich der
Mauern des Forts als Sicherheitspuffer zwischen
dem Stadtteil Vlaardingen mit seinen Chinesen
und Burghern und dem wegen Schmuggel und
5-nth
‘ropos 96.2001
460
Christoph Antweiler
Abb. 8: Interaktion, Schichtung
und Mobilität in der Gesellschaft
Makassars zur Kolonialzeit (Ant-
weiler 2000b: 189; Zeichnung:
Thomas Jarmer).
Unsicherheit gefürchteten kampung der Bugis. Die
Bugis wurden neben den Makasar als besonders
gewalttätig und für politische Subversion anfällig
eingestuft.
Die territoriale Einteilung Makassars folgte
dem für Hafenstädte im Archipel üblichen Sche-
ma von Fort, Stadt und kampung. Offiziell teilte
man ein in das Fort (Kasteeel Rotterdam, VOC-
Angestellte), die Händlersiedlung (Negory Vlaar-
dingen) und die Siedlungen der Einheimischen
(kampung). Das Fort als Zentrum der VOC bil-
dete eine Stadt für sich und enthielt Wohnhäuser,
Lagerhäuser, Büros und eine Kirche. Im frühen
18. Jh. kam als neuer Stadtteil Kampung Baru
(’’Neuer kampung”) dazu, der in seiner Bewohner-
struktur der Händlersiedlung Vlaardingen ähnelte.
Die Grenzen der Viertel wurden symbolisch durch
Mauern (Fort), Zäune (Vlaardingen) und bewachte
Tore markiert und damit die Gesellschaft deutlich
räumlich segregiert. Im Fort lebte man ähnlich wie
in den damaligen Niederlanden, nämlich als Klein-
familie in einzelnen Steinhäusern. In Vlaardingen
dagegen wohnten die meisten Bewohner in Holz-
häusern zusammen mit Bediensteten, Schuldab-
hängigen oder Sklaven in umzäunten Gehöften, die
durchschnittlich acht Häuser mit je acht Personen
umfaßten (Sutherland 1989: 109). Im Stadtbild war
die territoriale Dreiteilung über 200 Jahre deutlich
sichtbar. Alfred Wallace besuchte 1856 und 1857
Makassar und beschrieb die Stadt noch als deutlich
segregiert.
Entgegen der formalen gegebenen räumlichen
Segregation bestand die Stadt tatsächlich aus ei-
ner Art Patchwork von Gemeinschaften, die in
enger Interaktion standen, aber begrenzt auch ei-
gene Lebenssphären und Handelsnetze hatten (vgl.
Antweiler 2000b: 184-191). So handelten reiche
Chinesen und Mestizen miteinander und mit bugi-
nesischen und makasarischen Geschäftsleuten so-
wie mit Angehörigen der VOC als Privatmän-
nern. So, wie die Stadt nicht einfach eine Ko-
lonialstadt war, war die Gesellschaft nicht eine
plural society mit deutlich getrennten und nach
Hautfarbe und Geschlecht hierarchisierten sozialen
Schichten, sondern eher eine vielfältige Gemein-
schaft mit zunehmend gemischten Gruppen im Stil
portugiesischer Kolonien (Sutherland 1986: 45,48;
1989). Die Interaktion zwischen den Segmenten
der Gesellschaft wurde dadurch gefördert, daß die
Segmente jeweils intern geschichtet waren, was
Kontakte auf der Ebene etwa gleich hoher Schich-
ten verschiedener Segmente sowie eine begrenzte
soziale Mobilität ermöglichte (Abb. 8). Nicht nur
die Stadtteile waren weniger segregiert als formal
vorgesehen, und als es die Listen, auf denen nur
die Hausbesitzer verzeichnet waren, nahelegen.
Auch auf der Ebene der Haushalte dominierte
die Mischung verschiedener Bewohner. Viele von
ihnen waren ethnisch wie auch sozialökonomisch
gemischt. Ganz im Gegensatz zum calvinistischen,
puritanischen Ideal der Kernfamilie lebte man in
erweiterten Haushalten zusammen mit Verwand-
ten, Gefolgsleuten, Mietern und Sklaven. Die Viel-
falt der Haushaltsstruktur und ihre Flexibilität
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
461
waren oft Ergebnis verwickelter Familiengeschich-
ten und komplexer Residenzbiographien. Suther-
land (1989: 121) gibt einige Beispiele und sagt
treffend: “Such family histories make a mockery
of the official emphasis on ethnic Segregation and
Calvinist morality”.
In der Kolonialzeit hatten die einzelnen ethni-
schen Gruppen jeweils eigene Vorsteher. Sie waren
für die internen Belange und für die Obligationen
ihrer Gemeinschaft gegenüber der VOC verant-
wortlich. Die VOC kümmerte sich kaum um die
inneren Angelegenheiten der einzelnen Gemein-
schaften in der Stadt. Nur bei echten Kriminalfäl-
len schritten die Rechtsinstitutionen der VOC, die
für Europäer wie Asiaten gleichermaßen galten,
ein. Die Vorsteher der Chinesen und der Malaien
wurden nach militärischen Rängen als Capitans
(N.) und Lieutenants (N.) benannt; die Vorste-
her anderer ethnischer Gruppen hatten lokale Be-
zeichnungen, wie z. B. galearang (bzw. gallarang;
vgl. Mukhlis 1975:62; Muchlis et al. 1984/85:
73 f.).
Sprachliche, kulturelle, religiöse und somati-
sche Kategorien deckten sich nicht immer. Des-
halb war genügend Raum für Bewegungen zwi-
schen ihnen und für strategische Nutzung. Wegen
her Arbeitsleistungen, die die einzelnen Gemein-
schaften sowohl für ihre Vorsteher als auch für
die VOC zu erbringen hatten, stand die Rekru-
tierung von Arbeit und Geld im Mittelpunkt. Es
ging um Arbeitskräfte und Abgaben für den Bau
ünd die Erhaltung von Tempeln und Moscheen.
Ehe Frage, “wer meine Leute sind”, war also
nicht nur eine des Status von Gruppen und ih-
ren Anführern, sondern eine eminent ökonomische
(Sutherland 1989: 124). Ab dem ausgehenden 18.
•ih. verschärften sich durch die Politik der VOC
die Grenzen zwischen den Kategorien. Dadurch
^ürde die Flexibilität der Identität, z. B. bei den
Eeranakan, die als islamische und lokal akkultu-
öerte Chinesen oft Makasarisch sprachen, einge-
engt. War der Wechsel der Gemeinschaft oder der
Religion in den lokalen Gemeinschaften relativ
^nfach gewesen, so griff die Formalisierung der
Ethnizität durch die VOC immer weiter ins All-
tagsleben ein. Schon im ausgehenden 17. und im
Jh. sprach man weniger von Mestizen, sondern
Wrwendete den Terminus Burgher zunehmend als
°rmale Kategorie, und dies trotz der Tatsache,
nß sich tatsächlich eine Akkulturation einerseits
J^nd soziale Ungleichheit andererseits abzeichnete
(Sutherland 1989: 115).
Ehe Ökonomische Basis der Stadt war fast durch
le ganze Geschichte hindurch der regionale ma-
rüime Handel. Die Hauptquellen von Macht in
Anth
Süd-Sulawesi bestanden (1) in persönlichen Bezie-
hungen und (2) dem Zugang zu Arbeitskraft. Dies
galt für Europäer wie für die einheimischen Kö-
nigreiche gleichermaßen. Die Handelsbeziehungen
der VOC und einzelner Händler zum Hinterland
etablierten vielfältige, meist informelle Netzwerke
zu Machtträgern in den traditionellen Königrei-
chen. Dieser Handel innerhalb Süd-Sulawesis und
mit der Stadt Makassar wurde über verschiedene
Formen von Beziehungen zwischen Angehörigen
kulturell wie sozial unterschiedlicher Gruppen be-
werkstelligt.
Insbesondere waren interethnische und sehr
locker definierte Verwandtschaftsbeziehungen (kin-
ship-by-choice) wichtig. Vor allem solche Posi-
tionen von Individuen wie ganzen Gruppen wa-
ren von Bedeutung, die zwischen Angehörigen
formal verschiedener Gruppen quasi als broker
vermittelten. Diese Situation zeigt, daß Makassar
trotz kolonialem Status immer noch insoweit eine
“fremde Stadt” (foreign city, alien city, Cunning-
ham 1979: 273) war, da sie von einem mächti-
gen, aber ländlich ausgerichteten Reich, nämlich
Gowa, umgeben war, welches das Leben in der
Stadt indirekt, aber dennoch stark beeinflußte.
Die Konstellationen und Positionen, welche im
Handelsnetzwerk zwischen Stadt Makassar und
dem Hinterland in der Kolonialzeit typisch waren,
machen noch einmal die ökonomische Bedeutung
interethnischer Beziehungen deutlich:
- Angehörige von Küstengruppen nutzten ihre
Siedlungsposition zwischen Siedlungskonzen-
trationen von Ethnien im Hinterland, indem sie
mit solchen Händlern tauschten, die zeitweilig
die Stadt besuchen.
- Händler, die die Stadt saisonal besuchten, nutz-
ten ihre durch Heirat oder einen Agenten eta-
blierten lokalen Kontakte, um schon vor ihrer
Ankunft Waren ansammeln und einlagern zu
lassen.
- Kaufleute lebten zeitweilig als Individuen oder
gemeinsam in saisonalen Siedlungen an der
Küste und handelten während mehrerer Monate,
um dann entsprechend dem Monsun weiterzu-
ziehen.
- Städtische Händler sammelten Mengen von
Produkten und warteten auf indische oder chi-
nesische Käufer, die ihre eigenen Produkte in
Makassar verkauften und den Händlern ihre
Ware abnahmen.
- Städtische Händler häuften Waren an und trans-
portierten sie selbst per Schiff zu den überseei-
schen Kunden.
lroPos 96.2001
462
Christoph Antweiler
späte Kolonialzeit | | 1990er Jahre
Bug. Mak. Man. Tor. VOC Bug. Mak. Man. Tor. Chi.
Adlige i k i V J i i J k Elite / \ / / ! \ i V “die
■ w Oberen
Ange- stellte % /
| “Mittlere”
►
N Gemeine und Händ- ler
“kleine Leute”
\ t N ! N t \ f r Volk” “die Unte- ren”
V Sklaven y r y r y r y r y r
Abb. 9: Kontinuität und Ver-
schiebung der ethnischen und
Schichtungskategorien und ten-
denzielle Verlagerung von intra-
ethnischem zu schichtengebun-
denem Umgang (◄—► primäre,
<—> = sekundäre Interaktions-
ebene; VOC = Vereenigte Oostin-
dische Compagnie, nach Antwei-
ler [2000b: 433] verändert).
4 Kollektive Identität in Süd-Sulawesi heute
4.1 Regionalbewußtsein versus “plurale
Gesellschaft”
Im Gegensatz zu einigen anderen Städten Indone-
siens, z. B. Medan, ist die soziale Differenzierung
in Makassar in erster Linie sozioökonomisch und
nicht ethnisch, weshalb es sich in dieser Hin-
sicht bei der Gesellschaft der Stadt nicht um eine
plurale Gesellschaft handelt. Das Wirtschaftsleben
ist dagegen deutlicher ethnisch segregiert. Man
konkurriert um dieselben Positionen und Status
(Nagata 1980: 137), aber im Endeffekt gibt es
eine tendenzielle ethnische Arbeitsteilung, womit
die Gesellschaft Makassars teilweise Merkmale
einer pluralen Gesellschaft aufweist (vgl. Furni-
vall 1980: 86). Da die Makasar weniger Chancen
haben, handelt es sich dabei nur in Grenzen um
einen “balancierten Pluralismus”. Chinesen und
Bugis dominieren den Handel, während Makasar
stark im informellen Sektor vertreten sind und
Toraja im Dienstleistungsbereich arbeiten. Diese
ethnische Segregation der Wirtschaft ist allerdings
in der Sicht der Bevölkerung deutlich stärker
ausgeprägt, als das in der Außensicht der Fall
ist. Ein Zusammenleben ohne soziale Mischung,
Kernmerkmal einer pluralen Gesellschaft im Sinne
Furnivalls, gilt in Makassar nur hinsichtlich der
Chinesen. Nur für sie trifft es zu, daß die Mehr-
heit ihrer Beziehungen innerhalb der Kategorie
verläuft.
Der interethnische Umgang steht in Makas-
sar im Rahmen des Bewußtseins einer Regional-
kultur Süd-Sulawesis (kebudayaan Sulawesi Sela-
tan). Entgegen Sutton (1995: 674) handelt es sich
dabei nicht um eine Vorstellung von Fremden
oder Indonesiern aus anderen Regionen. Makas-
sar ist eine ethnisch vielfältige Stadt, aber keine
“Stadt der Minderheiten” wie Jakarta (Persoon
1986:180) oder Medan (Bovill 1986:97). Das
Regionalbewußtsein ist über den interethnischen
Umgang hinaus relevant (vgl. Tauchmann 1984
für Nord-Sulawesi), weil die großen, in der Re-
gion beheimateten Ethnien (vor allem der Bugis
und Makasar) so stark dominieren. Die Idee einer
regionalen Kultur bietet eine ethnienübergreifende
Orientierung, die über den Islam als Klammer
hinausgeht, indem sie auch die vorwiegend christ-
lichen Toraja umfaßt. Da interethnischer Umgang
seit langer Zeit etwas normales ist, besonders
zwischen Bugis, Makasar, Mandar und Toraja,
gelten tradierte Prinzipien (adat) hier also nicht
nur für den Umgang mit Mitgliedern der eigenen
Gruppe, sondern durchaus auch für die Interaktion
mit Mitgliedern anderer Ethnien.33 Formen ausge-
glichener und “emotionaler Reziprozität” (Vowin-
kel 1995: 108 ff.) werden zumindest situativ auf
Mitglieder ausgewählter anderer Ethnien übertra-
gen.
In Makassar zeigen sich Tendenzen einer nicht-
additiven kulturellen Amalgamierung und Synthe-
se bei gleichzeitiger Aufrechterhaltung ethnischer
Grenzen im Bewußtsein, wie es heute auch in an-
deren Städten Südostasiens zu beobachten ist. Am
Vergleich der Verhältnisse in Makassar mit Daten
zur ethnischen Situation in Jakarta und Medan
werden zwei Merkmale deutlich, die für die Wahr-
nehmung und Stellung einer Gruppe entscheidend
sind (vgl. Persoon 1986: 191 f.). Erstens ist der
Anteil einer jeweiligen ethnischen Gruppe in der
Stadtbevölkerung wichtig: handelt es sich um eine
33 Dies steht in markantem Kontrast zu älteren Befunden zu
den Batak in Medan auf Sumatra, deren adat nach BruneD
klassischen Untersuchungen (1961, 1972) nur intern gaU
nicht also für Beziehungen, die verwandtschaftliche un
ethnische Grenzen überschreiten. Dies führte ihn dazu, den
kulturellen Wandel in dieser Stadt, z. B. bei Hochzeitsfe1'
ern, als reine “Addition” zu tradiertem adat zu charakteri-
sieren.
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
463
unter wenigen oder eine von vielen Minderhei-
ten, stellt sie die relative oder gar die absolute
Mehrheit? Zweitens ist die Herkunft der Gruppen
bedeutsam: sind sie in der Region ansässig oder
sind sie hinein migriert?
Abb. 9 faßt schematisch die sozialen Katego-
rien und Interaktionsebenen zusammen, welche
die Untersuchung der Innensicht ergab. Damit soll
klar werden, wie ethnische und sozioökonomische
Kategorien bei der in Städten allgemein bedeu-
tenden sozialen Distinktion als individuelles und
kollektives Dispositionssystem Zusammenwirken
(Bourdieu 1982). Die städtische “Kultur des Un-
terschiedes” (Sennett 1994) ist in der untersuchten
Region, in der die soziale Verortung ohnehin ein
zentrales Kulturthema ist, besonders ausgeprägt.
Deutlich zeigt sich (1) die Kontinuität zwischen
der früheren hierarchischen Sozialstruktur und der
heutigen Schichtung. Die heutige Schichtung ist
(2) dichotomer, als das früher der Fall war, aber
es entwickelt sich ein allgemeines Bewußtsein der
Existenz einer Mittelschicht. Es zeigt sich (3),
daß der interethnische Umgang früher vor allem
innerhalb der Eliten stattfand (Heiraten, Verträ-
ge), heutzutage dagegen alle Schichten durchgreift.
Heute findet der soziale Umgang verstärkt inner-
halb der Schichten zwischen Angehörigen ver-
schiedener ethnischer Gruppen statt. Eine Aus-
nahme bilden die Chinesen, die ihre Beziehungen
stark auf die eigene Gruppe konzentrieren.
4-2 Umkämpfte Terrains: “indonesische Kultur”,
nusantara-Konzept und Tourismus
^enn Menschen unterschiedlicher Kultur eng zu-
sammen leben, stellt sich die Frage, welche Nor-
men und Werte für das Handeln und den Umgang
untereinander maßgeblich sind. Gelten die tradi-
tionellen Werte des adat jeder einzelnen ethni-
Schen Gruppe oder gibt es eine ethnienübergrei-
fende panindonesische städtische Kultur oder ist
eme indonesische nationale Einheitskultur (kebu-
dayaan Indonesia) entscheidend? Die Antwort ist
kompliziert, weil in verschiedenen Lebensberei-
chen unterschiedliche Normen gelten. Innerhalb
^er Haushalte sind familiäre Werte entscheidend,
^ von der ethnischen Orientierung der Eltern
§eprägt sind. Aber viele Familien und Haushalts-
§emeinschaften sind ethnisch gemischt; und man
^°hnt/lebt ethnisch kaum segregiert. Bahasa In-
°nesia ist auch ein Marker aufstrebender Mo-
ntât. In den Haushalten Makassars wird aus
lesen Gründen wie in vielen anderen Städten
udonesiens fast nur Bahasa Indonesia gesprochen.
Anth
Die Kinder können die Muttersprache ihrer Eltern
oft nur noch teilweise verstehen. Ethnische bzw.
ethnisierte Traditionen im engeren Sinne sind bei
Festen, vor allem bei Hochzeiten prominent. Im öf-
fentlichen Raum der Stadt gelten ansonsten urbane
Umgangsformen, wie man sie als “metropolitane
Kultur” auch aus anderen indonesischen Städten
kennt und die durch intensive Kommunikation,
Werbung und ein dichtes Angebot im informellen
Sektor gekennzeichnet sind.
In Makassar leben zwar Menschen vieler Eth-
nien, aber Makasar und Bugis bilden die überwie-
gende Mehrheit. Deshalb ist die Stadtkultur von
der regional seit Generationen dominanten Kultur
der Bugis und Makasar geprägt. Das ist anders in
Städten Indonesiens, die ohne eine dominate Grup-
pe nur aus vielen Minderheiten bestehen, bzw. in
denen eine fremde (javanische) Mehrheit und viele
Minderheiten leben. In Süd-Sulawesi und in der
Stadt spielen aber auch die Mandar und Toraja
eine wichtige Rolle. Ihre Eliten hatten immer enge
Handels- und Heiratsbeziehungen mit den beiden
großen Gruppen und ihre Lebensform ist heute
in vielem ähnlich der der Bugis und Makasar.
Damit bilden Bugis und Makasar zusammen mit
den Mandar und Toraja den Kern einer regiona-
len, also über einzelne Ethnien hinausgreifenden
Kultur (kebudayaan daerah). Bugis und Makasar
haben eine überregionale Bedeutung, da sie zu
den offiziell als “Gipfel der regionalen Kultur”
(puncak-puncak di kebudayaan di daerah, Lenhart
1992) geführten Gruppen zählen.
In vielen Lebenssituationen ist das Wir-Be-
wußtsein der Menschen als Angehörige einer ein-
zelnen ethnischen Gruppe entscheidend. Sehr häu-
fig wird aber auch gesagt, man sei “ein Mensch
von Süd-Sulawesi” (orang Sulsel34) oder es ist von
einer “typischen Hausform Süd-Sulawesis” (Holz-
stelzenhaus) die Rede (Robinson 1995, 1997). Tat-
sächlich sieht man in der Stadt viele Holzhäuser,
die eine Mischung verschiedener tradierter Haus-
formen darstellen. Auch die Regierung versucht,
ein regionales Bewußtsein zu fördern. Es gibt viel
Propaganda für die oben genannte “Kultur Süd-
Sulawesis” (kebudayaan Sulawesi Selatan). Dies
34 Es sei betont, daß ich im folgenden Daten zur Innensicht
heutiger Stadtbewohner verwende. Eine andere Frage ist
es, inwieweit man aus ethnologischer Sicht und unter
Berücksichtigung verschiedener Dimensionen der Kultur
von einer mehr oder minder homogenen Kultur Süd-Sula-
wesis sprechen kann. Lokale Ethnologen betonen zumeist
die kulturelle und eingeschränkter die soziale Einheit von
zumindest Makasar und Bugis und bezeichnen sie als
“Bugis-Makas(s)ar”, internationale Ethnologen neigen zu
größerer Vorsicht (Toi et al. 2000: 1 f.)
lroPos 96.2001
464
Christoph Antweiler
hängt mit der nationalen Ethno-, Minderheiten-
und Kulturpolitik zusammen. Kulturelle Vielfalt in
Form von Folklore, Musik, Tänzen und Handwerk
ist erwünscht, darüber Hinausgehendes nicht. Das
von indonesischen Politikern vertretene “Archi-
pelkonzept” (wawasan nusantarä) geht quasi von
der Vorstellung aus, daß alle Kulturen Indonesiens
trotz ihrer Unterschiede nationale Komponenten
beinhalten und daß jeweils eine Insel bzw. eine
Provinz von einer Kultur gebildet wird (Taylor
1994). Letzteres entspricht in kleinerem Rahmen
der kolonialen Imagination Indonesiens. So wie
für viele Holländer (und viele koloniale Ethnolo-
gen) alle Indonesier einfach eingeborene Inländers
waren, sprechen indonesische Politiker heute es-
sentialistisch z. B. von “Ost-Timoresen”, statt sie
entweder als “Indonesier” anzusehen oder die über
30 dortigen ethnischen Identitäten wahrzunehmen
(Anderson 2000: 4).
In Süd-Sulawesi werden die die kulturelle Viel-
falt vereinfachenden Konzepte durch den auf die
Toraja konzentrierten Tourismus gefördert. Der
Tourismus führt allerdings auch zu Konflikten
zwischen den Eliten der großen Volksgruppen,
z. B. um den Kulturpark “Miniatur Sulawesi” na-
he der Stadt (Robinson 1997), der dem “Taman
Mini” in Jakarta oberflächlich gleicht, aber ein
selbstbewußtes und intern umstrittenes Regional-
konzept darstellt. Während die Bugis und sekun-
där Makasar kulturell dominieren, fungieren die
Toraja - trotz Gegenbewegungen - nach wie vor
als “die Kultur Süd-Sulawesis” (Antweiler 1994;
Adams 1997a, 1997b; Michel 1997). Aus ethno-
logischer Sicht ist das unhaltbar und die Bevölke-
rung weiß es auch besser. Solche kulturpolitischen
und tourismuspolitischen Konzepte wirken aber
nicht nur auf Touristen. Auch bei den Bewoh-
nern schlagen sich derartige Konzepte nieder, was
in Richtung einer Selbstfolklorisierung geht. In
Rappocini sah ich öfters selbst in den Häusern
von Makasar, Bugis oder Mandar Schnitzwerke
der Toraja mit den charakteristischen vier Farben.
Ursprünglich für Touristen gedacht, sind sie jetzt
ein Zeichen des regionalen Stolzes und eines auf-
keimenden ethnienübergreifenden Bewußtseins.
Der Tourismus ist nicht nur in Süd-Sulawesi,
sondern allgemein in Indonesien schon seit min-
destens zehn Jahren von hoher Bedeutung sowohl
für interethnische Beziehungen als auch für die
Interessenpolitik und Repräsentationspolitik ethni-
scher Gruppen im Staat. Dies liegt daran, daß der
Tourismus es während der neuen Ordnung erlaub-
te, ethnische Belange (genauer gesagt Interessen
von Vertretern ethnischer Gruppen) in einem Ak-
tivitätsfeld zu positionieren, daß zumindest vorver-
ständlich nicht “politisch” war. Eine neue interkul-
turelle Dynamik besteht derzeit dadurch, daß sich
den Menschen durch Globalisierung, Asiatisierung
(Asianisierung) und das Ende der Ära Suharto ein
deutlich erweitertes Spektrum identitärer Einord-
nung anbietet.
5 Identitätsoptionen in Indonesien nach dem
Kalten Krieg35
5.1 Transnationale Idiome und Kosmopolitismus
Gängige Charakterisierungen von Globalisierung
heben die wirtschaftliche Integration, den zuneh-
menden Austausch und die Vernetzung, vor allem
durch Migration, Mobilität des Kapitals und be-
steuerbarer Einkommen, hervor. Dabei wird oft
angenommen, daß es zu einer wirtschaftlichen Ver-
einheitlichung und auch zu einer politischen Ein-
heit und einer kulturellen Homogenisierung kom-
me. Schon ökonomisch bedeutet Globalisierung
nicht einfach eine allgemeine Homogenisierung,
sondern erst einmal nur eine Vereinheitlichung und
Integration in der Wirtschaft, vor allem im Kon-
sum. Tatsächlich schafft eine Struktur, die Welt-
marktkoordination, unterschiedliche Dynamiken,
z. B. im Westen (und den schwachen Teilen der
Peripherie) eine andere als in Ost- und teilweise
in Südostasien. Auf politischer Ebene heißt Globa-
lisierung (1) Staatsschwächung durch horizontale
Fragmentierung und (2) vertikale Polarisierung,
z. B. erneute Klassenbildung durch die zunehmend
kapitalistische Ökonomie (Friedman 1999: 188,
195-201). Das Ende der Hegemonie des Staats
führt zu einem weniger zusammenhaltenden na-
tionalen Bewußtsein. Dies und Migranten bzw.
Diasporakulturen, die sich nicht assimilieren, erge-
ben zusammen Ethnisierung, Indigenisierung und
indigenisierte Nationalismen (“‘rooted’ forms of
identity, whether regional, indigenous, immigrant-
ethnic or national ... from ethnie to religious to
sexual”, Friedman 1999: 191). Bezüglich des per-
sonalen und kollektiven Bewußtseins führen also
schon wirtschaftliche und politische Prozesse der
Globalisierung zu neuen Identitätsangeboten auf
sub- und supranationaler Ebene.
Ein zweites, besonders für kollektive Identität
grundlegendes Merkmal der Globalisierung ist das
35 Ich behandle hier nur die möglichen Auswirkungen von
Globalisierung und “Asiatisierung” auf kollektive Identität
in Indonesien, da hierüber viel weniger bekannt ist als über
die innenpolitische Dynamik im Gefolge des Endes der
Neuen Ordnung Suhartos und über Tendenzen des Islam-
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
465
zunehmende Bewußtsein von Menschen überall in
der Welt, ein Teil dieser einen Welt zu sein. Dies
bleibt in den meisten Studien (auch in ethnologi-
schen Arbeiten) zur Globalisierung außen vor, ob-
wohl ein profunder Theoretiker der Globalisierung
dies schon früh explizit in eine Charakterisierung
der Globalisierung einbezog (Robertson 1992).
Durch dieses globale Bewußtsein ergeben sich
Identitätsangebote jenseits des Nationalstaates bis
hin zu kosmopolitischen Orientierungen (Heryanto
1999: 164).
Welche Bedeutung hat das für Indonesien, ei-
nem Land, daß international keine große Rolle
spielt und in dem die Globalisierung regional
und strukturell sehr unterschiedlich ausgeprägt, ist.
Indonesien hatte zwar über lange Zeit eine multi-
kulturelle Basis durch Migrationsbewegungen und
seine zentrale Rolle im Fernhandel im malaii-
schen Archipel vom 13. bis 16. Jh. (Pabottingi
1995: 229). Zur Zeit des Zweiten Weltkriegs waren
große Teile der malaiisch-indonesischen Welt in
globale Beziehungen integriert (Schölte 1997: 23-
27), eine bewußte Intemationalisierung ergab sich
jedoch erst spät im 20. Jh. Erst seit 1985 wird
Kooperation groß geschrieben, z. B. Joint Ventures
gefördert und gezielt ausländische Experten ins
Land geholt. Für das Thema kollektiver Identi-
tät in Indonesien ist entscheidend, daß durch die
wirtschaftliche Öffnung nicht nur exogene Orga-
nisation und Infrastruktur nach Indonesien kamen,
sondern auch globale (nicht nur amerikanische)
Konzepte und Ideen (“transnationale Idiome”, Ber-
ger 1997: 180). Außer allgemeineren Konzepten
wie Demokratie und Menschenrechte ist das Kon-
2ept von “Experten”, die Idee der “nachhaltigen
Entwicklung”, das Konzept der “Partizipation”,
v°r allem als partisipasi in Entwicklungsprojekten
2u nennen.36 Weitere transnationale bzw. universa-
listische Konzepte sind die Idee eines “Weltislam”,
die Rede vom “postmodernen Staat” (negara pos-
m°) und das politisch besonders relevante Konzept
hdigenous Peoples.37
Diese Ideen eröffnen supranationale bis kos-
mopolitische Perspektiven. Nichtsdestotrotz ist die
Globalisierung nach wie vor stark durch einen
konservativen Indigenismus begrenzt; der Staat
Ungiert als doppelter “broker” zwischen der glo-
36 Die Regierung versteht darunter aber meist nicht die Teil-
habe der lokalen Bevölkerung an Entscheidungen, sondern
opalisiertes Mitmachen oder rein ökonomische Partizipa-
3? hon (Schmit 1996: 195).
Dieser Terminus wird jetzt besonders von Nichtregierungs-
0rganisationen in Indonesien verwendet, obwohl er nur
auf wenige Ethnien paßt (vgl. Barnes 1995 am Beispiel
Dstindonesien).
4nth
balen und subnationalen Ebenen. Ferner werden
authentische, indonesische Lösungen gesucht, In-
donesisches wird in einer Art reversen Orienta-
lismus kontrastiv gegen Westliches gesetzt. Die
Staatsphilosophie Pancasila wird als bewußter Wi-
derstand gegen Verwestlichung gesehen.38 Ferner
wurde globalisasi in Indonesien selbst oft weniger
als übernationale Orientierung gesehen, sondern ist
mit Visionen nationalistischen Kapitalismus ver-
bunden (Berger 1997: 171 f.). In den Provinzen
wird sie als Mittel verwendet, um Maßnahmen
Jakartas abzublocken oder kulturelle Einflüsse aus
dem Ausland zu filtern, letzteres besonders in Bali.
5.2 Asiatisierung (“Asianization of Asia”)
Neben der Globalisierungsdiskussion gibt es in
Ost- und Südostasien seit längerem eine Diskus-
sion um sog. asiatische Werte. Für die Frage
der kollektiven Identität wird jedoch die daraus
erwachsene Diskussion um eine “Asiatisierung”
vielleicht noch wichtiger werden. Die zentrale
These der Politiker und Wissenschaftler, welche
Asiatisierung diagnostizieren und/oder als Pro-
gramm propagieren, läßt sich trotz aller Varianten
folgendermaßen auf den Punkt bringen: (a) Die
Bevölkerungen der Länder Südost- und Ostasiens
bildeten eine gemeinsame Zivilisation. Diese sei
allgemein durch kulturelle Charakteristika und im
besonderen durch “asiatischen Werte” gekenn-
zeichnet. (b) Der (durch die Asienkrise nur re-
lativierte) wirtschaftliche Erfolg vieler asiatischer
Pazifikanrainerstaaten beruhe auf dieser kulturel-
len Basis mehr als auf anderen Faktoren, (c) Die
Länder des pazifischen Asiens sollten gemeinsam
als Großregion (“Regionalisierung”) einen eigenen
“asiatischen Entwicklungsweg” verfolgen. Diese
Länder sollten asiatischer werden, ihre Gesell-
schaften sollten sich “asiatisieren” bzw. “asiani-
sieren”. Die These der Asiatisierung ist ein mehr-
teiliges Gebilde. Sie enthält erstens beschreibende
Aussagen: “Asien” wird als Einheit gesehen und
die Existenz panasiatischer Werte postuliert. Zwei-
tens enthält die These Kausalannahmen: Kultur
wird als zentrale Ursache für ökonomischen Er-
folg gesehen. Drittens sind normative Positionen
enthalten: “Asiatisierung” wird nicht nur diagno-
stiziert, sondern als Ziel gesetzt.
Warum spielte Indonesien in der internatio-
nalen Debatte um asiatische Werte und in den
------------ C
38 Schmit 1996: 179; Heintel und Spreitzhofer 1997: 21; Schil-
ler and Martin-Schiller 1997; Bourchier 1998; Budianta
2000: 109, 123.
lroPos 96.2001
466
Christoph Antweiler
Diskussionen um Asiatisierung, die vor allem in
Ost- und Südostasien geführt wird, bislang eine
geringe Rolle? Indonesien ist mit ca. 215 Mio.
Einwohnern immerhin das mit Abstand größte und
bevölkerungsreichste Land Südostasiens. Weiter-
hin war Indonesien das Land, das regionalistische
Ideen wie das Konzept der “Dritten Welt” und
der “blockfreien Länder” seit den 1950er Jahren
in führender Weise propagierte. Auch in der Dis-
kussion um regionalistische Konzepte innerhalb
Südostasiens (z. B. den kurz diskutierten “Maphi-
lindo”-Plan) spielte Indonesien bis in die 1960er
Jahre eine große Rolle. Warum blieben die Themen
Asiatisierung und Asiatische Werte trotz Ende des
Kalten Kriegs in Indonesien bis zum Ende der Ära
Suharto wenig virulent?
- Es geht in der Debatte um Identität, Staats-
bürgerschaft und das staatliche Management von
Kultur. Alle drei Aspekte spielen in der indone-
sischen Politik, besonders in der Kultur, Minder-
heiten- und regionalen Politik eine ganz zentrale
Rolle und dies schon seit 1945, also lange bevor
die Verfechter der Asiatisierung in Singapur und
Malaysia ihre Stimmen erhoben (Somers Heidhues
1996: 49; Vickers 1999).
- Die postulierten asiatischen Werte decken sich
weitgehend mit Wert- und Zielvorstellungen, die
in Indonesien als “indonesische Werte” (nilai nilai
Indonesia) im Alltag und in den Medien thema-
tisiert werden. Indonesische Werte konnten kaum
als Untermenge der asiatischen Werte konzeptua-
lisiert werden, da man dann “fremde” Elemente
hätte einbeziehen müssen (Vickers 1999: 394). Die
binäre Opposition “indonesischer” gegen “west-
liche” Werte ließ konzeptuell keinen Platz für
“asiatische Werte”. Die Folge ist, daß Werte vor
allem in Bezug auf Indonesien und seine Regionen
diskutiert werden.
- Die Stärke und die Besonderheiten des indonesi-
schen Nationalismus führen dazu, daß das Potenti-
al für kollektive Identität über die nationale Ebene
hinaus bislang nur sehr begrenzt ist. In Bezug
auf Südostasien sind die geschichtlich von Migra-
tion geprägten Länder Singapur und Malaysia in
den Bemühungen um regionale Zusammenarbeit
führend, während Indonesien für diese Debatte
bislang peripher ist.
5.3 Pandora’s Kiste?: Identitätsangebote nach
Suharto
Nach dem Sturz Suhartos, der Schwächung Ja-
kartas als Zentrum und der Wirtschaftskrise kön-
nen auf supranationaler Ebene kollektiver Iden-
tität Einflüsse der Globalisierung, Amerikanisie-
rung und Asiatisierung leichter hereinwirken. Auf
nationaler Ebene ist die Diskussion um regiona-
le, ethnische und andere Identitäten offener als
je zuvor. Ein entscheidender Punkt dafür waren
zwei neue Gesetze 1999 (Nr. 22 zur regionalen
Verwaltung und Nr. 25 zu fiskalischen Ausglei-
chen zwischen Regionen). Jetzt wird intensiv über
Dezentralisierung, bzw. “regionale Autonomie”
0otonomi daerah) gestritten (kurze Übersicht bei
Schreiner 200039). In der Bevölkerung wird sie ei-
nerseits gewollt, andererseits fürchtet man, daß die
Korruption dann noch größer wird (.Jakarta Post,
2.1.2001).
Die Zukunft ist sehr ungewiß. Trotz der Libe-
ralisierung wirken viele der Strukturen der Orde
Barn und früherer Perioden fort. Die Politik der
Nationenbildung unter Suharto war nur teilweise
erfolgreich. Es gibt derzeit viele kommunale und
religiöse Konflikte und allgemein ein Aufkommen
partikularistischer Orientierungen. Schon früher
gab es kaum Organisationen auf ausschließlich
ethnischer Basis (Liddle 1997: 305), aber trotz des
Wegfalls des antiethnischen Tabus der Regierung
akzeptiert die Mehrheit der Parteien die Natio-
nalideologie der Pancasila und es gibt bislang
keine einzige indigene Partei mit ethnischer Basis
(Suryadinata 2000:47,52). Nur wenige Führer
ethnischer Gruppen betreiben eine separatistische
Politik. Des weiteren existiert in Indonesien nicht
nur die ethnische und die nationale Ebene als
Solidaritätsoption und Identitätsangebot, obwohl
das in der internationalen Debatte und auch von in-
donesischen Kollegen oft angenommen wird (z. B-
Aryana 1999).
Es gibt neben der nationalen und der ethni-
schen weitere Ebenen (Abb. 10) möglicher kol-
lektiver Identität. In Abb. 10 sind diese illu-
striert, wobei sehr vereinfachend davon ausge-
gangen wurde, daß die Niveaus hierarchisch an-
geordnet sind, was emisch nicht der Fall sein
muß. Weiterhin gibt es ein Füllhorn dualistischer
Konzepte. Tab. 4 zeigt Schlüsseloppositionen und
weitere Beispiele.40 Es ist hier nur eine Auswahl
dargestellt; im religiösen Bereich unterschieden
die Menschen z. B. häufig zwischen Moslems vs.
Christen, synkretistischen vs. orthodoxen sowie
39 Eine große ethnologische Konferenz an der Universitas
Hasanuddin, Makassar, im Sommer 2000 befaßte sich in1
Schwerpunkt mit regionaler Autonomie. Der Autor nahm
Teil und erlebte, daß die Eröffnungsbeiträge als wissen-
schaftliche Referate begannen und schnell zu politischen
Statements wurden.
40 Eine solche schematische Darstellung birgt sicherlich die
Gefahr, die Dichotomien einander gleichzusetzen und sie
festzuschreiben, aber sie kann die Vielfalt gut zeigen.
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
467
Tab. 4: Dichotome Konzepte in der aktuellen indonesischen Identitätsarena (Auswahl, nach Alltagsgesprächen, Zeitschriften- und
Intemettexten)
Basisdichotomien
Nation, Rasse {bangsä), Einheit der Nation (kesatuan negarä) v.s. Vielfalt der Kulturen und Religionen
ursprüngliche Indonesier, eingeboren (pribumi Indonesiä) VS. nichtindonesisch {non-pribumi, non-pri, orang asing), eingewandert; allgemein, meist aber Chinesen gemeint
indigene Werte und Regeln {adat) VS. nationale bzw. westliche Werte, Regeln {dinas)
indonesische Werte (nilai nilai Indonesiä) VS. westliche, koloniale od. kommunistische Werte
Islamisten (fanatik Islam) VS. Nationalisten
Vater (bapak), Patron sicher (aman) VS. Kinder {anak buah), Klienten, Abhängige unsicher, ungeordnet {kacau), kommunistisch
Früher (dulu), frühere Epoche (zaman dulu), noch nicht ... (■belum ...), z. B. zivilisiert VS. heutzutage {sekarang), jetzt schon ... {sudah ...), z. B. modern
Ethnische, religiöse (und oft implizit physische) Kategorien
Indonesier (bzw. Malaien, orang melayu) VS. Schwarzhäutige (Melanesier in Irian Jaya, Timor und als Migranten [orang hitam])
dominante Javaner {orang Jawä) und ethnienübergreifend javanische Werte VS. sämtliche anderen Ethnien bzw. “noch nicht javanische” (Javaner und andere) {durung Jawä)
Monotheistisch (gedachte) Buchreligionen {agama, agama besar): Islam, Protestantismus, Katholizismus, Buddhismus, Hinduismus VS. (Aber-)glaube {kepercayaan), (noch) nicht religiöse {belum beragamä), animistische Leute {rakyat ani- mistik), Gewohnheiten {adat, insbesondere bezüglich malaiischer Gruppen)
hoch entwickelte, national und regional bedeutende Ethnien: Gipfel der regionalen Kultur” {puncak-puncak di kebudayaan daerah) VS. wenig außenbeeinflußte, statische, nicht integrierte, isolierte Gruppen {suku/masyarakat terasing), “noch dumm” {masih bodoh)
Nestler {orang barat), Weiße {orang putih) VS. Indonesier {orang Indonesiä), seltener Asiaten {orang Asm), “Schwarze” {orang hitam)
Pole politökonomischer Zentralität, Modernität und Entwicklung {pembangunan)
Zentrale Einheiten (... di pusat), Jakarta VS. periphere Einheiten (... pinggiran)
obere Ebene {di atas) VS. untere bzw. marginale Einheiten
lnneres Indonesien (Java, Madura und Bali) VS. äußeres Indonesien, “Außeninseln” (Outer Indonesiä)
nationale Ebene {lantai nasional) VS. Provinz- oder lokale Ebene {propinsi, lokal)
nationale panindonesische Kultur, Erbe, Zivilisation {kebuda- yaan nasional) VS. regionale bzw. lokale Kultur {kebudayaan daerah), implizit oft ethnische gemeint
reiche Menschen {orang kayä) (Chinesen und Westler), in Leiter Linie hohe Beamte (pejabat) VS. Leute {rakyat), arme Menschen {orang miskin, sede- rhanä), gewöhnliche Leute {orang biasä)
v°rdere Menschen {orang di muka, orang maju) VS. hintere, marginale Leute {di belakang)
starke Wirtschaft {ekonomi kuat) VS. schwache Wirtschaft {ekonomi lemah)
Städter, moderne Leute {orang kota, orang maju) VS. ländliche traditionelle Menschen {orang daerah, orang kampung)
§roße und/oder regional dominierende Ethnien {mayoritas daerah) VS. kleine und/oder untergeordnete Ethnien {minoritas, orang lain)
Regionale und ethno-ökonomische Kontraste
handelsorientierte Küstenkulturen {budaya pasisir) VS. landorientierte Gruppen {orang di pedalaman, orang di dalam)
HrUppen mit Migrationstradition und weiten Netzwerken (z. B. u§is, Maduresen, Minang) VS. territorial begrenzte Ethnien
juristisch attraktive Ethnien (z. B. Batak, Toraja), Regionen ah), Orte (Yogyakarta) und Objekte {primadonna, objek ^lsata) VS. touristisch nicht interessante Gruppen (fast alle anderen)
468
Christoph Antweiler
Globale Identität
z. B. One Wbr/d-Identität (vs. “Dritte Welt”)
z. B. Kosmopolitismus (“Third Culture”, “postkoloniale” Identitäten)
z. B. Identität in weltweiter Ökologie-Bewegung
z. B. gay- oder ^Meer-Bewegungs-Identität
Supranationale Identität
(Regionale Identität, Typ 2)
z. B. transnationale “Thainess”
z. B. “malaiisch-indonesiche Identität”
z. B. “islamische Identität” (“globale ummat”, “arabische Identität”)
z. B. transnationale ethnienübergreifende: Overseas Chinese-Identität
z. B. Identität anderer Diaspora-Gemeinschaften
z. B. “südostasiatische Identität” (neuer Trend unter Auslandschinesen in Südostasien)
z. B. “asiatische Identität”, “Asianismus”, “pazifische Identität”
Nationale Identität
z. B. malaysische Identität (vs. malaiische Identität)
z. B. indonesische Identität
Subnationale Identität / transethnische Identität
(Regionale Identität, Typ 1)
z. B. regionale Identität in Aceh/Indonesien
z. B. Bugis-Makasar als Einheit in Süd-Sulawesi
z. B. Gesamt- Süd-Sulawesi Provinz-orientierte Identität
z. B. ethnonationale Identitäten (“Protonationen”), evtl, zukünftig in den südlichen
Philippinen
Ethnische Identität i. e. S., Ethnizität
z. B. Makasar, Karen, Tobelo, Muang-Thai
Personale Identität
z. B. biographische
z. B. berufliche
z. B. Klassen-Identität
z. B. gender-Identität
Abb. 10: Spektrum kollektiver und personaler Identität am Beispiel Indonesiens und anderer Teile Südostasiens; wiedergegeben
ist eine Auswahl unter der sehr vereinfachenden Annahme hierarchischer Ordnung (“ZwiebelschalenmodeH”).
modernistischen vs. traditionalistischen Moslems
(Liddle 1997: 279-282). Die Konzepte haben ver-
schiedene Ursprünge; sie sind z.T. kolonialzeitlich,
teils aus der Zeit der Verfassungsbildung (Yampol-
sky 1995: 701; Watson 1996) oder der Neuen Ord-
nung (van Langenberg 1986; Leigh 1999) und teils
neueren Datums. Solche binäre Konzepte werden
in Politik und im Alltag strategisch zur Inklusion
oder Exklusion von Personen und Gruppen einge-
setzt. Die schiere Vielfalt dieser Konzepte erlaubt
eine sehr flexible Nutzung im Spiel und Kampf
um identitäre Grenzen.41
41 Das Thema hier ist Identität, aber man darf nicht vergessen,
daß es derzeit harte Konflikte um konkrete Grenzen gibt.
Manche Gebiete Indonesiens werden nicht länger als Besitz
der indonesischen Nation gesehen, sondern von bestimmten
Gruppen als ihr “Heimatland” reklamiert. Migranten von
anderen Inseln oder Regionen, ja sogar Menschen, die
schon seit Generationen dort leben, werden nicht länger als
Teil der “indonesichen Nation”, sondern als “Eindringlinge”
gesehen.
Bislang ist noch kaum erforscht, in welchen
Situationen welche dieser vielen Konzepte be-
nutzt werden. Einige der Dichotomien weichen
seit Beginn der 1990er Jahre in den Städten
auf, u. a. weil Lebensstil eine zentrale Arena für
Identität geworden ist. So wurden früher “Rei-
che” (orang kaya), nämlich Chinesen und West-
ler - in zweiter Linie hohe Beamte - stereotyp
und moralisierend von “armen/gewohnlichen Leu-
ten” bzw. einfach dem “Volk” oder den “Indo-
nesiern” unterschieden. Neuerdings spricht man
jedoch von “neuen Reichen” (kaya baru). Dies
sind verschiedene Gruppen, u. a. “neue Muslims”
und die “Mittelklasse”, die ein konsumorientierter
und oft bewußt kulturalisierter Lebensstil vereint
(Heryanto 1999: 162 ff., 166 ff.). In Makassar exi-
stierten schon 1991 dazu mehrere neue Wortbil-
dungen, z. B. “mittlere Leute” (orang menengah)
oder “Karrierefrau” (ibu karir, Antweiler 2000a,
2000b: 254 f.).
Anthropos 96.2001
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
469
6 Schluß: keine Identität ohne
“Identitäter”42
Ethnien als “Wir”-Gruppen sind entgegen ver-
breiteter Alltagstheorien über Multikulturalität und
gern verwendeten Metaphern, wie der vom “kul-
turellen Mosaik”, nicht klar voneinander abge-
grenzt. Entgegen manchen postkolonialen Theori-
en und verbreiteten Idealen der Auflösung kultu-
reller Grenzen stellen sie aber auch keine kontur-
losen Gebilde dar. Auch in Industriegesellschaften
sind Ethnizitäten nur zu einem Teil Produkte stra-
tegischer Konstruktion bzw. politischer Ethnisie-
rung. Großteils gehen sie darauf zurück, daß Men-
schen nach wie vor in der Regel in bestimmten
Kulturen sozialisiert werden, Kultur ein inhärent
kollektives Phänomen ist und Kollektive zur Ab-
grenzung und Abwertung anderer neigen. Damit
ist die Rede vom Umgang zwischen Kulturen
sinnvoll, interkultureller Umgang also ein reales
Phänomen und dazu oft ein Problem. Eine wei-
tere Schlußfolgerung ist, daß kollektive Identität
nicht nur im diskursiven Raum der Repräsentation
existiert: keine Identität ohne “Identitäter”. Und
diese “Identitäter” sind nicht nur Politiker und
Medienvertreter, die den öffentlichen Diskurs do-
minieren, sondern auch die Menschen der breiten
Bevölkerung.
Der Fall kollektiver Identität in Makassar zeig-
te, daß auch in Indonesien mehrere Ebenen kol-
lektiver Identität existieren als die immer wieder
beschworenen der Ethnie (oder neuerdings der
‘indigenen Völker”) und der Nation. Ferner gibt
es nicht nur die Metropole Jakarta einerseits und
den Rest Indonesiens andererseits. Ein weiteres
Ergebnis ist, daß die verbreitete Annahme, Ethni-
zität sei in Südostasien authentischer als nationale
Identität, kritisch geprüft werden sollte. Schon
mimer wurden nationalistische Ideen auf lokaler
Ebene angenommen und in veränderter Weise in-
korporiert. Sowohl kulturalistische Vorstellungen
ethnischer Gruppen wie auch nationale Einheits-
konzepte gehen zum großen Teil auf europäische
Ideen zurück. Heute sind Identitätsangebote auf
teansethnischer Ebene, z. B. der Region bzw. der
Provinz, als auch supraethnische Identitätsoptio-
nen, wie der des Islam, in Indonesien relevanter
aE je zuvor.
Nur detaillierte und theoriegeleitete empirische
Studien nicht nur öffentlicher Repräsentationen,
s°ndem des Alltagslebens im umfassenden Sinn
können zeigen, welche Relevanz kollektive Iden-
42 Die Formulierung stammt vom Titel einer im Internet
Publizierten Rezension von Helmberger (2000).
tität hat, welches gedankliche Repertoire den Men-
schen zur Verfügung steht, welche emotionale Be-
deutung bestimmte Ideen in der Bevölkerung ha-
ben und wie sie situativ aktualisiert werden. Dies
wäre ein kleiner Beitrag zur Verminderung ge-
waltsamer Konflikte, in Indonesien und anderswo.
Ich danke Karin Klenke (Brastagi, Sumatra), Jacqueli-
ne Knörr (Jakarta) und Michael Schönhuth (Trier) für
Verbesserungsvorschläge zu einem Entwurf dieses Auf-
satzes. Weitere Anregungen verdanke ich Kolleginnen
und Kollegen aus mehreren Fächern in Trier, mit denen
ich in einem interdisziplinären Projekt “Asiatisierung
Asiens?” und einem DFG-Graduierten Kolleg “Identität
und Differenz, Geschlechterkonstruktion und Interkultu-
ralität (18.-20. Jahrhundert)” zusammenarbeitete.
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Anthropos
96.2001: 475-490
Always an Argument
Persuasive Tools in the Death Rituals of the Jënu Kurumba
Ulrich Demmer
Abstract. - This article analyses the rhetoric of death rituals
among the Jenu Kurumba, a tribal community in South India.
It is argued that rituals that are predominantly organised as
discursive interaction can be seen as contexts of argumentation
and controversy. Rhetoric, then, is not so much understood as
monologic manipulation nor as mere adornment of speech or
a poetical elaboration of a text but as an alternating process
of negotiation. Arguing for a Sophistic concept of rhetoric,
the article outlines some of the principal persuasive procedures
employed, namely narratives, social memories, and emotions.
[South India, Nilgiris, Jenu Kurumba, ritual, rhetoric, lan-
guage, culture and performance]
Ulrich Demmer, Dr. phil. (1993), lecturer at the Dept, of An-
thropology, University of Munich. Several years of fieldwork
in South India (Nilgiris) on the Jenu Kurumba and on religious
discourse in rural Tamil Nadu. - Interests: ritual performance,
discourse analysis and oral traditions, ethnosociology, language
and culture, existential anthropology. Regional specialisation:
South Asia. - Publications see Ref. Cit. and several articles on
kinship, sociality, and ritual performance.
Introduction
The question how ritual works is one of the cen-
tal, long-standing, and controversial topics in an-
thropology. Moreover, recent contributions1 testify
that the dynamics of ritual is still of vital relevance
for the discipline. Despite serious differences as
to what it is and how it works, it is undisputed
that in ritual two modes of transformation are
ernployed. Thus, specifically symbolic-interpreta-
hve anthropologists have shown in great detail,
how participants in the “ritual process” (Tur-
ner 1969) use symbolic modes of behaviour. In
other rituals, however, language plays a significant
or even a primary role. Accordingly, speech acts
and “performative utterances” (Finnegan 1969;
Ray 1973) are well identified as a crucial linguistic
instrument of many a ritual. In addition, we have
considerable knowledge of the poetics of ritual
speech, in particular of how speakers linguisti-
cally construct and renew normative orientations
and cultural “concepts unexpressed in daily life”
(Laderman 1996: 125).
In contrast, only occasional attention has been
paid to procedures of rhetoric so far. Though many
ethnographic accounts attest to the substantial role
verbal persuasion plays in ritual, empirical re-
search is rather scarce. This is the more surprising
as of all disciplines it is the science of rhetoric that
is explicitly dedicated to examine, how words and
speech are used to influence and transform social
relationships as well as the perceptions of audi-
ences or interlocutors. Accordingly there is much
unclarity as to how exactly persuasive discourse
is employed in the service of ritual transformation
and renewal.
The present essay explores the transformative
functions of rhetoric in ritual. It suggests to locate
rhetoric not so much in the poetic elaboration
of monologic speech but rather in the course of
communicative interaction. In particular I argue
that rituals which are primarily based on verbal
exchange are best conceived of as contexts of
1 Humphrey and Laidlaw 1994; Bell 1992; Houseman and
Seven 1998.
476
Ulrich Demmer
conversational interaction, of debate, and, in fact,
argumentation. From that point of view, ritual is
primarily understood as a discursive arena, where
social relations are transformed through the en-
gaged participation of multiple speakers. Taking an
analysis of the death rituals of the Jënu Kurumba
in South India as reference, the paper explores
some of the discursive strategies within ritual.
In particular I will outline social memory and
forgetting, narratives, and emotions as important
rhetorical instruments.2
Ritual and Rhetoric
Even a cursory review shows that rhetoric plays
a crucial role in the transformative dynamic of
ritual. Thus Tambiah, to take a prominent example,
observes that healing rituals in Sri Lanka are
basically a persuasive procedure; they embody,
he writes, a “logic of persuasion” (1979: 148) and
he consequently calls for an exploration of “how
ritual attempts to persuade its clientele” (142).
Likewise Kapferer (1977) demonstrates the ex-
tent to which rhetoric is relevant. As his eth-
nographic descriptions of Sinhalese rituals make
clear, it is mainly the rhetorical function of verbal
as well as theatrical interaction, through which
the participants achieve the transformation of their
social relations as of their conception of cultural
reality. In the rituals of the Kaluli persuasion plays
a crucial role too. As Schieffelin (1985) points out,
the speech of the shamanistic media in ritual is
meant to evoke the responsivity of the audience
in the form of memories, feelings, and even of
critique and resistance.
Corresponding descriptions are provided for the
Wana (Atkinson 1989), the Warao (Briggs 1996),
and, last but not least, for many shamanistic rituals
in South Asia, which are shaped as colloquial de-
bate and persuasive interaction.3 However, despite
its significance, the particulars and procedures of
rhetoric are rarely explored in detail. A survey of
the rather scanty literature allows the outlining of
two approaches.
The first one might be called the “poetic”
approach and centres on a basically textual and
2 Primarily due to lack of space, I will not touch upon the
better known procedures as figurative speech (metaphor,
allegory, etc.) or formal elaboration (e.g., repetition and
focalization).
3 In fact the Indian examples are too numerous to outline
them in detail here and worldwide many more cases could
be listed. For an overview see Demmer 2001.
monologic notion of rhetoric. The second ap-
proach, in contrast, sees rhetoric as being always
part of and embedded in the pragmatics of verbal
interaction. Moreover, the latter regards the per-
suasive speech event as dialogic and collaborative
performance; as a context of address and response.
The “poetic” line of research is primarily rep-
resented by studies indebted to the “ethnography
of speaking.” Scholars in this tradition, for exam-
ple, Sherzer (1982) and Kuipers (1990), explicitly
address the significance of rhetoric in ritual and
consider it so vital a part of performance that
they place it side by side with poetics (Sherzer
and Woodbury 1987). From that point of view,
the persuasive function rests with the poetical
construction of a speech or a song. Rhetoric is
basically understood as an aesthetic and poetic
elaboration of a text and its thus enhanced potential
of representation so that Sherzer, in fact, speaks of
a “poetical rhetoric” (1982: 319).4
The speech genre ikar, for example, as sung
by the healers in Kuna healing rituals is meant to
convince the spirit addressees that “the perform-
ing specialist is able to control them” (Sherzer
1982: 308).5 The healer’s accomplish that through
the use of poetical forms. Parallelism and narra-
tives depict the healer’s power and knowledge but
also enhance these descriptions through detailed
verbal elaboration. In addition, a figurative lexi-
con that is elaborated in these songs functions to
demonstrate the special knowledge of the healer
(Sherzer 1983). Finally, figures of speech, e.g.,
tropes like metaphor or metonymy are employed
to represent the healer’s power in detail. “Ide-
ally,” Sherzer writes “the spirits, upon hearing
and understanding the narrative, and because of
hearing and understanding the narrative, do what
is described in it” (1982: 308).
In a similar way Kuipers (1990) locates the
persuasive function of speech in the poetical
shaping of texts. He analyses what Bauman and
Briggs have called the “pragmatics of textuality”
(1990: 77), i. e., the ways speakers poetically shape
the textual structure of their speech. As he points
out, the speakers in Weyewa ritual have to con-
vince their audience of the authority of their speech
and that they speak in the name of the ancestors.6
4 Csordas (1996) develops a similar view without, however,
exploring the linguistic, textual, or poetic dimensions.
5 The “snake song” (nakpe ikar), for example, lasts eight
minutes and is sung to drive a spirit snake out of a patient
(cf. Sherzer 1982: 307).
6 Kuipers 1990: 6. He also speaks of “rhetorical strategy” (8)
and of the “rhetorical patterning” (4) of ritual speech.
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
All
According to Kuipers, they achieve this through
procedures of textualization, in particular entextu-
alization, so that the authority of their ritual speech
derives from a textual structure that “assimilates,
encompasses and dominates other voices, obliter-
ating dialogic contingencies and alternative points
of view” (1990:6). A second rhetoric strategy
consists in the use of tropes, through which the
speakers elaborate and transmit the power and
significance of the verbal tradition itself. Thus,
a range of metaphors depict the authority of the
speech of the ancestors and, moreover, the speak-
ers arrange these tropes with poetical techniques
like parallelism and focusation. Ultimately, this
poetic arsenal enables the performer to create
“the conviction [that] he is not speaking on his
own, but on behalf of some distant person or
spirit with a legitimate claim on the audience”
(1990:6).
In sum, then, these approaches draw on a
well-established scientific tradition, where rhetoric
is seen as a science primarily concerned with a
text, concentrating on its formal organisation and
its aesthetics. As Kennedy has noted (1998: 3-6),
rhetorical analysis in this sense concentrates on the
planning and composition of a single speech while
aspects like style and verbal elaboration with the
help of poetical forms are considered to be the
relevant aspects. Such an approach is specifically
appropriate, wherever we are concerned with what
classical Greek rhetoric has classified as epideictic
discourses (cf. Kennedy 1998:6). These are ba-
sically monologic speech events where, in terms
°f participant structure and mutual interaction,
one speaker dominates the rhetorical process and
where responses of the audience are either impos-
sible or severely restricted by the conventions of
the genre. Other examples are welcome speeches,
Christian prayers, or some forms of ritual (cf.
Bloch 1974).7
Yet, such an approach is less applicable when-
ever we are dealing with the many rituals that
are constituted as discursive interaction. These
are often contexts resembling not epideictic but
rather judicial or forensic discourse. Since in those
contexts intense verbal exchange and mutual ne-
gotiation between the speakers is most relevant,
their analysis clearly calls for a shift of perspective
7 Bloch’s understanding of rhetoric goes beyond epideictic,
since he sees it not only as a formally arranged speech but
also as a meaningless linguistic behaviour. But as Paine
(1981) has pointed out, ultimately this concept of rhetoric
reduces it to a kind of “make believe” and, ultimately,
makes description and analysis superfluous.
Anthropos 96.2001
from a monologic and text-centred to a dialogic
and discourse-centred rhetoric.
Within ritual studies it is specifically Strecker
(1988) who argues for a rhetoric that concentrates
less on texts alone but on ritual interaction and di-
alogue. On the one hand, his findings add to ritual
theory the pragmatic and rhetorical interests of the
actors which symbolic approaches did not consider
sufficiently. In particular his claim that action in
ritual is substantially intentional and addressive,
led him to develop an interactive rhetorical concept
of ritual (Strecker 1988: 129):
“cultural products” may ultimately be seen in terms
of actual dialogues between S and H (collective and
individual) who are motivated by the wish to persuade
each other ...
On the other hand he was able, for the first
time, to ground rhetorical aspects of ritual in a
pragmatic theory of social interaction and com-
munication, namely in politeness theory. As his
analysis of the transition rituals of the Hamar
shows (Strecker 1988), actors intentionally con-
struct ambiguous symbolic statements so that their
messages are communicated indirect or encoded.
These implicit meanings or “off-record strategies”
enable speakers to exert linguistic power because
they threaten the addressees “face” and provoke
an appropriate reply.8 Moreover, in modifying the
politeness theory, he was also able to show that
not only implicatures or off-record strategies but
all others too, are employed as persuasive de-
vices. Accordingly his “theory predicts that when
we find elaborate forms of symbolic action there
will exist some underlying motive of persuasion”
(1988:208).
A second major interactive approach is the
so-called “new rhetoric.” Developed by Perelman
and Olbrechts-Tyteca (1969) as well as by Toulmin
(1958), the “new rhetoric” seeks to overcome
the widespread reduction of persuasion to mono-
logic “adornment of speech” or even to “art of
flattery.”9 * Instead it explicitly places the interac-
tion of participants into the foreground. In fact,
as Van Eemeren et al. point out “Perelman and
Olbrecht Tyteca’s new rhetoric reintroduced the
8 “... we must treat rituals as implicatures, as ‘ways of not
saying what is meant.’ More specifically, we can now view
rituals as realizations of strategies which have to do with the
performance of face-threatening acts (FTAs). As strategies
of politeness, rituals constitute means of maintaining face
in situations of high risk” (Strecker 1988: 204).
9 For an outline and critique of the long prevailing tendency
to reduce rhetoric to aesthetic and increasingly from the
17th century onwards to “adornment of speech”, see Vick-
ers (1998) and Billig (1987).
478
Ulrich Demmer
audience” (1997: 214) into rhetoric. This “dialogic
turn,” secondly, allows the conceptualization of
persuasion as, in the broadest sense, a procedure
of negotiation and debate.
To be sure, this notion is not completely new.
It rather draws on a concept that was cultivated in
the very beginnings of rhetoric by the Sophists in
antic Greece, where it was developed as a form of
argumentation (cf. Billig 1987 and Vickers 1998).
Accordingly the “new rhetoric” regards, beyond
all differences, “judicial argument as a model for
rhetoric generally, focusing attention on the in-
terchange between opposing arguer roles” (ibid.).
Meanwhile, this approach has developed into an
elaborate theory of argumentation. Represented by
Van Eemeren et al. (1997) and Billig (1987), it re-
gards rhetorical events as contexts of controversy,
as argumentative processes but also as procedures
of collaboration. Accordingly, it focuses on the
interaction between speaker/audience or between
controversial disputants and not on the context-free
text of a speech or a song.
Moreover, and for our purpose this is of par-
ticular value, it puts special emphasis not only on
interaction and verbal exchange but also on the
transformative dimension of rhetoric. Indeed one
of the most promising elements in argumentation
theory is its concern with processes of social
transformation. Thus it explores how rhetoric con-
tributes to the reconciliation of conflicting points
of views, how it is used to overcome moral crisis,
or how participants achieve a mutually recognised
consent. As Van Eemeren et al. put it, a central
question for rhetoric is “how opposing views come
to be reconciled through the use of language”
(1997:215).
Such a concept of rhetoric, I argue, is also
relevant for the study of ritual - at least if it is
organised as verbal interaction. What are the ver-
bal means that are employed? The few studies that
we have, all referred to above, identify some of
them. “Poetical rhetorists” explored formal devices
like parallelism or focalization but also outlined
the work of tropes. Others exposed, as it were,
politeness strategies and, last but not least, sym-
bolic action as powerful persuasive devices.10 All
these tools also play an important role in the rituals
of the Jenu Kurumba; in the following, however,
I want to work out some of the less known
verbal means, namely, social memory, narrativity,
10 Fernandez (1986), Strecker (1988) and Demmer (1999)
show that symbolic action is rhetorical, too. In other words,
the rhetoric of ritual consists of verbal and nonverbal
procedures.
and emotions. Their relevance for ritual studies
remained almost unexplored so far. Accordingly,
to conceptualise these devices we need to draw on
studies other than ritual to a large extent.
Rhetorical Tools: Social Memory, Narrativity,
and Emotions
Narratives and reports, i.e., narrativity, are pow-
erful means of rhetoric. Their structure can be
impersonal in the sense that the speakers just de-
scribe events or facts. Sherzer (1982), for instance,
argues for the persuasive function of this type of
narrative in the healing rituals of the Kuna. In other
speech events narratives are rather personal and,
as Bauman (1986) and Hill (1995) make clear,
are used rhetorically too. This is in particular the
case when social or moral conflicts are at issue. In
moral discourse, the moral identity of the involved
is put in question and the speakers have to defend
and strengthen their points of view effectively,
representing them as reliable and legitimate. In
those contexts they can use the narration of per-
sonal matters to illustrate and elaborate their own
positions. On the other hand, personal narratives
serve to underline contrasts and differentiations so
that one’s own points of view are strengthened
by the fact that other positions are described in
negative terms, for example, as little desirable,
bad, or wrong.11 Narrativity, then, is used to locate
and relocate the person in the moral space of
accountability and responsibility and is thus of
particular value in moral discourse. Accordingly
narratives are used as arguments to defend or
reestablish the moral identities of the speakers. As
our analysis below makes clear, this is also the
case in ritual discourse. In fact, in those processes
a lot is at stake and rituals prove dramatically
that also there “performances of narratives provide
a forum for negotiating personal and collective
identity” (Briggs 1988: 273).11 12 *
Apart from narratives social memory plays an
important role. The claim, representation, or nego-
tiation of collective or personal identities often has
a substantial temporal dimension of remembrance.
This is the case in contexts of everyday life (Taylor
1989) but also in ritual performances (Connerton
1989; Csordas 1996). That is particularly evident
11 See Bauman 1986: 33 et passim.
12 Bauman (1986: 113) also refers to the rhetorical function
of narratives when he mentions, that in oral performance
people often are “telling stories to each other, as a means
of [...] constructing and negotiating social identity.”
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
479
in cases where the discourse is concerned with
personal conflict and the negotiation of identities
as, for example, in the so called “Disentangling”
meetings in the Pacific (Watson Gegeo and White
1990). In such contexts, the social behaviour of
people in the course of their common social history
is under scrutiny. What is at stake here is the social
self of the participants in its continuity. To preserve
or reestablish trust and reliability their “face”
needs a kind of reconstitution in the depth of time.
The person’s regain of its “good” social self, then,
is accordingly linked with the reconstruction of its
past social relations within the shared life history.
It is the narrative “and then” (Taylor 1989: 47)
that permits the person to be placed in a temporal
context and in a story that finally is its social
history. As we will see below, it is in particular
in the context of dialogue and argumentation that
narratives and, we can add, social memories gain
that force as “rhetorical devices of identification”
(Bauman 1986: 28) in a powerful way.13
Another forceful rhetorical instrument is pro-
vided by the linguistic articulation of emotions.
Their rhetorical function in ritual is to a large
extent unexplored, but the literature provides some
hints at least. Thus in the healing seances of
the Kaluli (Schieffelin 1985) verbal expressions
of feelings play an important role. There, the
shamans need to pull their audiences into the ritual
Performance again and again, and for this purpose
they often use emotional means. They evoke and
memorise, for example, the common life history
with the dead and thus make their audience cry.
But these memories and feelings also cause the
living to long for the deceased and to communicate
and talk with them. In other sequences it is the
intention of the shamans to make their audiences
laugh and in other parts they try to evoke fear
and anxiety, in order to enhance dramaturgically
the peculiar atmosphere that goes along with the
Presence of the spirits. As Schieffelin shows, the
use and arousal of emotions is a crucial rhetorical
device in the ritual process. Kapferer (1979) too
discusses the role of emotions in ritual. In the
Sinhalese healing seances the ritual specialists and
the comedians seek to evoke the laughter and
the amusement of the patients. This evocation of
emotions is an important goal of the interaction as
Well
as of the ritual as a whole.
Other anthropologists, outside rituals studies,
eXamine why feelings are so important a rhetorical
device. M. Rosaldo (1980) argued early on that
feelings are often a kind of pragmatic language.
13 Cf. Bauman 1986: 28 et passim.
^nthropos 96.2001
This is in particular the case, when interpersonal
and moral issues are at stake. As an example she
mentions the response of a mother who first hears a
child cry but then realises that it is her own child.
Referring to the mother’s immediate reaction to
help and rescue the child, Rosaldo points to the
appellative and rhetorical force of linguistically
expressed feelings that are able to evoke and even
to demand morally appropriate replies. Moreover,
for Rosaldo emotions and feelings are not only a
kind of moral language, but they are also beyond
the common separation of rationality and feel-
ing/nature; emotions are, accordingly, “embodied
thoughts” (1984).14
Subsequent research has shown in detail how
relevant indeed these findings are. Thus scholars
who worked explicitly on the social relevance of
personal experiences (cf. Kleinman 1992; Good et
al. 1992) point out that experiences, e. g., social
suffering and pain, have a substantial role in the
constitution of moral communities, because they
are powerful persuasive means. Emotions, they
write, have an “important rhetorical dimension:
they are meant to arouse a response in audi-
ences, as well as express discomfort” (Good et
al. 1992: 201). Moreover, ethnopsychologists were
able to demonstrate in detail the persuasive dynam-
ics of emotions in discursive interaction. In the
already mentioned meetings of “Disentangling,”
for example, emotions are evaluations and inter-
pretations of social events, based deeply on the
cultural and social values and meanings of the peo-
ple involved. Thus anger, to cite just one instance,
can be a moral evaluation of social behaviour
and/or a form of social criticism.15 As those studies
prove, feelings and experiences, articulated in so-
cial discourse, serve to define positions of speakers
in the social or moral space of their community.
This positioning, in turn, gives rise to the rhetorical
function of emotions; as moral statements they are
experienced as appeals or as inquiries demanding
an answer.
Emotions, then, can be seen as discursive acts
used to articulate, legitimise, defend, or deny
socially relevant claims. In the moral space of
responsibility and accountability they have an ar-
gumentative function to “move” people towards
a culturally and socially appropriate response.
14 The unity of intellect and feeling is the basis of morality
and, as Tyler (1978: 166) writes in his defence of rhetoric,
is manifest in language itself. The scientific separation of
reason and passion, however, “has destroyed the ethical
basis of discourse” (167). See also Tyler 1987.
15 For a most lucid case study, see White 1990.
480
Ulrich Demmer
Feelings, then, play an important persuasive role,
wherever people are involved in the negotiation
and discursive constitution of social and moral
identities. In those contexts, emotions are, as Lutz
und White say, an idiom to define and negotiate
the social relationship of selves in a moral order
(1986:417).
In the present article I argue that this social di-
mension is also of paramount importance in ritual
discourse. In as much as rituals provide a moral
and discursive space where social relations, nor-
mative axioms, and worldviews are transformed
and reconstructed, emotions, narratives, and social
memories are principal rhetorical means. Before
we can turn to the description and analysis of
the Jenu Kurumba case, however, we need to
know more about the moral conflict and the social
crisis that a death initiates among the Jenu Ku
rumba. This will provide the necessary background
knowledge to evaluate the transformations that the
participants accomplish in the ritual process.
Death and Moral Crisis among the Jenu
Kurumba
The Jenu Kurumba are a tribe of gatherer/hunters
and forest traders in South India. They live in
moral communities of approximately 300 to 400
people, scattered over a wide area in the northern
Nilgiri region. Sociality within the community is
predominantly based on kinship relations.16
However, the Jenu Kurumba have an extended
concept of community that includes also the dead
and the ancestors thought to live in the underworld.
All these beings stand in close social and moral
relations; they should support one another, help
one another in times of crisis, etc. Moreover,
all these beings can also communicate with each
other, because the Jenu Kurumba practice “spirit
mediumship”: embodied in media, the dead and
the ancestors are able to talk and interact with
their relatives, though this is strictly confined to
ritual contexts and thus to a controlled form of
possession.17
A death seriously throws the social relations
within that extended community in crisis and con-
flict and the death ritual is primarily concerned
with the transformation of it - on more than one
16 For those aspects and the general ethnography, cf. Demmer
1996 and 1997.
17 “Spirit-mediumship” is a widespread mode of communica-
tion with ancestors, deities, or the dead in India (cf. Claus
1979).
level. R. Hertz (1960:29-54) has observed that
death in many cultures constitutes a time of in-
termediacy, characterised by separation and crisis.
In particular the time after the burial of the body
is a time of, to use V. Turner’s (1969) expression,
“betwixt and between.” Among the Jenu Kuramba
this concerns the social relationships among all,
the living, the dead, and the ancestors.
The deceased, for one, feel lonely after the buri-
al of the body and are in a state of what the Jenu
Kurumba call bejaru that is confusion, worriment,
and being without orientation - in fact, they are
separated from all social life. Deprived of sociality,
the spirits of the dead or, as the Jenu Kurumba
say, the “beings of wind” (gali) are homeless
and roam about in the nearby forests. Accordingly,
they long to reach the company of the ancestors
in the underworld. It is in the course of the death
ritual, that the living can help the dead to overcome
that state and to reach the ancestors.
Not only the dead ones, but the living too are
interested in that because they too are separated
from the ancestors. The latter will, in fact, not
communicate with the relatives of a dead any
more and will not even permit them to enter their
shrines, unless the living help the dead to reach
the underworld. In this sense, the living are unpro-
tected and in real danger. Should they not help the
gali to reach the ancestors in the death ritual, the
latter will be angry and refuse further assistance
(for instance, in a pending healing ritual).18 *
Moreover, the living have a further interest that
the dead reach the underworld. Once they have
reached there, the Jenu Kurumba say, the dead
are able to help the living in their affairs with
the ancestors. They can talk to them and act as
mediators between the ancestors and the living.
Accordingly, the relatives seek the well-meaning
of the dead so that those will talk good about them
and persuade the ancestors to help and support the
living, as it is the case, for example, in the healing
rituals.
Yet, a second aspect of the crisis brought about
by death stands against that. This aspect concerns
the relations between the living and the dead and
has a moral dimension. For the Jenu Kurumba,
every death raises the question of the responsibility
for the suffering brought about by death but also
what or who caused the death of the person. In
fact, the discourse between the living and the dead
shows that the deceased are not only lonely and
18 The communication between the ancestors, the living, and
the dead continues in the healing rituals. Cf. Demmer
(forthcoming) for a description and analysis.
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
481
anxious, but that they also feel neglected. They
are distrustful, potentially angry, and full of doubts
about the moral integrity of their relatives.
The death rituals consist, apart from sequences
of symbolic action, substantially of a series of
verbal debates between the dead and the living.
These dialogues are called the “speech (or: the
words) of good and bad” (olladu kettadu matu),
and the themes discussed are, as it were, the “good
and bad,” namely the morality of the people and
the history of their mutual social relationships.
In these dialogues, the dead reproach the living
of not behaving good towards them in the past,
thus calling into question the sociality of their
relatives.
This all the more, as with the death of humans
there is always the suspicion that close relatives
could have killed them, for example, by means
of black magic.19 Due to this distrust, the dead
express their doubts to the fact that their relatives
will really give their best in the ritual and that they
will really help them to reach the ancestors. What
is at stake in ritual discourse, then, is the positive
image or “face” of the living, their trustworthiness,
their reliability, and, finally, in the long run their
very well-being.
Due to the rhetorical and argumentative struc-
ture of the dialogues, however, the living are able
to reply to these reproaches. In fact, they argue
against the bad images that the dead are going
to draw. The living too raise the question of
the past behaviour of the dead and in alternating
processes of accusation and defence negotiate with
them how to evaluate their common history. In
the rhetorical process they seek to defend their
reputation as good members of the community and
persuade the dead that their reproaches and suspi-
cions are unfounded. In other words, they try to
convince the dead of their social self and good
relationship.
The ritual participants, then, have to accomplish
a double transformation. On the one hand, they
have to accomplish a transformation in space and,
literally, have to move the dead to reach the under-
world and the ancestors. On the other hand, they
also need to transform their respective positions
lrt the moral space of the community. With good
arguments they have to move one another towards
19 In all cases I know, the death of a member of the community
was understood as an intended result of other people’s
actions. The Jenu Kurumba assumed that the death was
caused by another Jenu Kurumba who employed black
magic. A snake bite, for example, resulting in death was
interpreted as the result of black magic that had caused the
snake to bite this very person.
reconciliation and trust - towards the “common
ground” of a good community.
The Performance of the Death Ritual
After death the Jenu Kurumba perform, separated
in time, two rituals. The first one is conducted
as soon as the person has died and is primarily
concerned with the burial of the dead body, with
social memory and public laments. The second
one, called pole, is often performed much later.
It is performed to help the dead person (gäli) to
reach the underworld and the ancestors. In the
present article I will focus exclusively on this
second ritual, the pole. This pole is a complex
performance that consists in alternating sequences
of symbolic actions and verbal dialogues. Usually,
there will be three main sequences of symbolic
acts, whereas the dialogues are embedded in the
course of these activities. Once the people are
assembled, the pole starts with the first series of
acts.
In this first sequence called “the cutting and
bringing of leaves,” the present male relatives
of the dead walk in a line to a nearby river.
There a ritual priest (yajman) selects a special tree,
performs an offering to the dead and the ancestors,
and then a shaman gets ready to be possessed by
the dead. The offering is meant to invite the dead
to come and it initiates the ritual as a rhetorical
event. Due to this offering, the Jenu Kurumba say,
the dead feel a desire (äse) to come to its people
and embody itself.20 After that, the dead is for the
first time present among his kindred as an active
participant in the ritual.
In the meantime one of the younger members
of the kindred has climbed the tree, has cut a
bundle of leafy branches, and has thrown them
down. They are then taken by the dead (resp. the
shaman) and distributed among all males present.
Thereafter, the whole group, cheerfully waving the
branches, walks towards a clearing in the forest,
where the branches will be used to build a small
leaf-hut. The dead person, resp. the shaman, comes
along with them and it is usually on this walk that
a first exchange of arguments between the living
and the dead takes place.
20 He will “climb on someone’s back,” as the Jenu Kurumba
say, more than once in the course of this ritual and indeed
on several other medias’ back too. There are several elderly
males who become media for the spirits of the dead or for
the deities. For them to act that way is not dependent on
anything but their experience and their being males. Women
never become media.
4nthroPos 96.2001
482
In the case presented here the dead (Mare) was
a young, married woman, who died shortly after
she gave birth to her third child. Her husband could
perform a healing ritual, but it had no success.
In this first dialogue she makes her relatives re-
sponsible for her death. She accuses them of not
having helped her when she was sick, she argues
that none of her relatives assisted her when she
was going to die and that nobody took care of
her. Indeed, she talks of a list (kannaku) she has
in mind and where the bad deeds of the living
are on record. And, finally, there is always the
suspicion of black magic present. At first she is
talking with her motherbrother, being one of her
most important relatives.21
The motherbrother begins the talk and asks
her to tell the people present, whom she makes
responsible for her death, what kind of reproaches
of wrong behaviour she makes and whom exactly
she has in mind.
Motherbrother: Let us hear one word, one word, one
word, tell! Who put the illness into your stomach?
In response the lonely and weak dead remem-
bers only vaguely and refers to a whole list of bad
deeds of her relatives.
Mare: There is a list of the bad acts. The bad deeds that
were done, I do not like it.
Against that her motherbrother tries to disperse
the suspicions. He requests the dead to conceal
nothing but to disclose everything - however, he
asks her also to remember the good deeds that he,
the motherbrother, did in the past.
Motherbrother: Well, speak! Which deeds? Say, which
mistakes (tappu) were made?
Speak! But we both, we were nevertheless always
one. Didn’t I give to you, whenever you called me?
The dead accepts this memory and she re-
members, addressed to all relatives present, her
good social relations with the motherbrother. But
gradually she also reconstructs her life history with
other relatives - and narrates a rather negative
social history.
Mare: Yes, motherbrother, for you everything is good.
I have no anger on you. Oh, my motherbrother, didn’t
he give me rice water? He gave me rice water. I got
21 The texts that follow below are by no means exhaustive.
The actual dialogues are, in this case and in general, much
longer and may last up to one hour each. Within the
framework of this article it is impossible to cite them more
extensively. Full transcripts and translations are provided
in Demmer 2001.
Ulrich Demmer
half. And he the other half. As it is usual. We shared
and were one. No, the motherbrother is not listed. But
others. There were mistakes. In one hut there was no
water. In one hut no rice for me. But - I do not have
memory (neppu). I cannot say anything now.
But the motherbrother requests her to forget the
bad past.
Motherbrotherr: Yes, let us forget the bad acts. We bring
you to the protecting leaf-hut.
We do good to you.
The dead accepts the latter but she also reminds
her audience of the fact that others of her family
did bad. Therefore, she argues, she has no reason
to think well of these people too, and she expresses
her worries about the future of her children, left in
care of such a bad company.-
But here too the motherbrother objects. He
assures her of the assistance of her relatives, and
he calls into memory, how many of her relatives
joined the present ritual in order to help her to
reach the ancestors.
Motherbrother: That is nothing. We will look after
your children. Don’t be afraid. And how many of your
relatives have met here?
To that the dead agrees, only, however, to
continue with renewed reproaches, thus suggesting
that she is not reconciled yet.
This first dialogue - with its alternation of good
and bad stories, of accusations and replies, of
doubt and reproaches of the dead and refutation
of these doubts by the living - creates a field
of tension, a dramatic framework for the entire
following ritual. It persists, until finally the whole
group reaches the clearing in the forest.
Now everybody puts his leafy branch on a
small, prepared wooden frame, so that a tiny
tentlike hut is constructed and then the whole
group circumambulates (anti-clockwise) this hut
three times. Thereafter, the medium sinks to the
ground. This is the sign that for the time being the
dead has left and returned back to the forest. After
some hours of rest, the kindred continues with the
ritual’s second sequence, called “the bringing of
water and the circumambulation of the protecting
hut (udi-mane).”
In this part the whole kindred walks to the
river again. The women carry three water vessels,
whereas the ritual priest (yajman) brings two small
clay pots with him. After reaching the riverbank,
he performs an offering addressed to the ancestor
of the dead. This is meant to ask the ancestor to
Mare: Well, but others ...
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
483
ascend from the underworld and join the ritual.
Then this small clay pot is filled with water
and from now on the ancestor is said to reside
in the pot. Later on the ancestor will be made
to sit next to the dead, in the little leaf-hut
and finally both of them, thus unified, will be
brought into the underworld. First, however, the
dead has to rejoin the living who are assembled
at the riverbank. Accordingly, the relatives use
persuasive strategies to convince the dead to come.
They weep loudly and display their grief in order
to demonstrate (as my interlocutors explained to
me) how much they miss the dead, how nice
it was when the dead was among them, and
how confused (bejaru) they feel without the dead.
Once this is achieved and the dead has embodied
itself in the shaman, a second series of dialogues
begins.
Firstly, the dead one tells her people that she
still does not trust them. In the following dialogues
she talks further of her doubts, of bad memories,
and of reproaches, and again the living are engaged
in refuting the dead with good arguments. They
seek to hold onto the good memories that they, in
turn, bring forth and try to convince the dead to
forget her bad memories, pointing out their good
deeds in the present.
This time it is the father of the deceased who
acts as main interlocutor of the dead. He requests
bis deceased daughter to remember the good times
m their history and not to be angry with him
because, his argument goes, they are finally “one
family.” And in that family, even though one
naturally also fights, this is not the main factor.
Most important are the good relations that they
bad and maintained in the past. Those, the father
argues, should be remembered and not the bad
brnes they had.
Father: Break it open and tell! Speak good! Say “it was
this and that.” You must say a word. Why? Because
y°u are one with father and mother. Break open what
ls locked inside of you and say, “There is nothing bad
between us.” Tell us the way [of life] you went. But do
n°t reproach us that we [the living] argued and fought
yesterday. You know that. That happens everyday. If we
Mutually accuse each other and fight among ourselves,
is not worth talking about it now. Rather tell us how
y°u are. Even if you are annoyed by us and our fighting,
Jay that you are not really angry with me. Do you still
know? You called me and gave to me. Who gave water
|° me? Only you gave it to me. But now? I would not
Jke to argue with you. That is not good.
Then the father requests his daughter not to
accuse her husband either, but to remember his
'Mthropos 96.2001
good deeds in the past. In particular he reminds
her that it was he, the husband, who organised a
healing ritual before her death in order to save her.
Father: And don’t forget. Your husband also was there
when you were ill at that time, is that right?
But the deceased has still doubts, she distrusts
the living and articulates primarily her negative
though rather vague memories. Above all she
recalls mainly the bad deeds of the father, though
she slowly remembers also the good relations with
their father.
Mare: But where am I here? Where is the hut of the elder
sister? Where is the hut of the elder brother? This is not
my settlement. Father, you wanted to organise a ritual
for me and do good for me, no? And when I was still
alive - you always gave me to eat and you nourished
me. That was good for me and there is no anger with me.
But nevertheless. Somehow, from someone, bad came
on me. And you know, what the bad was, don’t you?
You know it.
But the father, whose bad behaviour in the past
is suggested here, appeals to her, in view of the
good deeds here in the ritual itself, to forget the
bad.
Father: Leave that now. Leave that now. But, okay,
okay, there was something bad, but now? Are we not all
assembled, now? We all met with the grandfather [the
ancestor], with you, and we all met; Is that bad?
But the dead continues with her reproaches. She
remembers more of the bad events, specifically her
marriage, in which the father had hardly engaged
himself.
Mare: And after dresses and material and the flowers for
my wedding were brought together by your son-in-law.
And all looked at us. You were there, but you did not
look [at us]. You did not tie the marriage chain for us.
To that the father must agree.
Father: Yes. You are right. Your marriage was not as it
should have been.
The dead continues with the description of
her negative social biography, but then she also
suggests her readiness for reconciliation.
Mare: You, old woman, mother, and you, old man. You
saw both of us, but you did not care for our marriage.
You father thought, oh, it is good or bad anyhow.
Nevertheless, otherwise you always did good to me and
nourished me. I’m not angry with you. For you it is
484
Ulrich Demmer
good. - But, why is now an obstacle in the middle of the
way to grandmother and to grandfather [the ancestors]?
Why are people here who do bad?
Now, however, the father becomes impatient.
He requests her not to be to “narrow-minded” but
to take into account the good deeds that the living
did, here in the ritual at least.
Father: But you know it nevertheless. People fight
sometimes. And with each large enterprise one also
makes mistakes. You know humans and their quarrels
since your childhood. You better look at the good which
we do here for you.
In this way the dialogue goes on. But finally
the dead accepts the references to the good deeds
of her relatives and gives in.
Mare: Like that it is! Were those words good words? Is
it good for you, father? And for you, mother. Is it good?
Is nothing bad between us?
Father: Yes, for us it is good. Our daughter came, that
is good for us. Nobody of us is angry.
Mare: And you, father, today you thought of me, is that
not true?
Father: Yes
Mare: You remembered mine and took me as a “being of
wind” {gali), and you will bring me into the protecting
hut, is that not tme? You did not kill me?
Father: No. I am not bad. And I will provide also for
your man. I give him clothes and food. I tell you this
here. I am honest.
As if to attest to the sincerity of these words, a
cup of water is given to the dead for refreshment,
who drinks it up with grateful remarks. Finally she
turns abruptly to the father again.
Mare: I am not angry. And you? Are you angry?
Father: Why should anger be with us. There is no anger
with us and nothing at all.
In this way the dialogue ends with the mutual
agreement between the deceased daughter and her
father on his moral integrity, their good common
past, and their good relationship.
After this mutual agreement on their good so-
cial history, their good feelings, and their good
relationship, the shaman resp. the dead fetches
water with the big vessels and passes them on
to the father of the dead, who distributes them
to the women waiting at the riverbank. Then the
whole group returns to the clearing in the forest.
Amongst them the dead is walking and also two
children who carry the two small clay pots. In one
of these the ancestor has taken his seat, whereas
in the other the dead (resp. her gali) will be seated
once she has left her medium later on. Until then,
however, the dialogues between the dead and her
people continue all the way.
When the people reach the leaf-hut, they cir-
cumambulate the hut three times, screaming loud
and joyfully in one rhythmic voice: “Hooo, hooo,
hooo - Hooo, hooo, hooo.” Immediately after the
circumambulation, the small clay pots are put to
rest in the leaf-hut and lastly the gali leaves her
medium, this time, however, taking her seat in
the second clay pot. Henceforth, until the next
morning, the spirit of the dead and the ancestor
are said to remain in their pots.
Then the ritual priest erects a wooden pole
{ranga kamba, festival or dancing pole), adorned
with leaves from the small hut, in the vicinity of
the udi-mane and performs an offering in front of
it. Then, gradually, the people start to dance in
circles around the ranga kamba and later on in
the night they will have a communal meal. The
ancestor and the gali, of course, also get their share
when the ritual priest offers them a small portion
of the cooked food.
The next morning the final sequence called
“joining the ancestors” takes place. In that part of
the ritual the dead and the ancestor are ultimately
brought into the underworld. Both still remaining
in their small pots are carried in a kind of proces-
sion to a nearby tree. At the root of it the ritual
priest erects a small stone and performs an offering
to all ancestors in the underworld. Then he pours
the water from both small pots onto this stone.
Through the root both the dead and the ancestor
reach, as the Jenu Kurumba say, the underworld.
This final performance by the ritual priest is seen
by the people as their final act of helping the dead
to reach the underworld. But nevertheless, this is
usually not the end of their struggle and debate
with the dead.
Before the dead finally leaves her relatives,
she returns from the underworld and, embodied
in a shaman, argues once more with the living-
Again these dialogues focus on the wrong be-
haviour and the bad relationships of people in
the past, but also on forgetting these mistakes
and on reconciliation. This time her prime inter-
locutor is her husband. More intense than before
she brings up for discussion the suspicion, that
someone might have killed her, perhaps even her
husband. The husband, however, argues often very
emotional against those reproaches and requests
her to clear this suspicion and relieve him. But
again this requires the rhetorical construction of
a good, common (hi-)story and once more the
speakers are involved in the negotiation of their
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
485
remembrances - in fixing the good and forgetting
the bad memories with the help of good arguments.
Impatiently the dead is received by the living.
First her father requires her to tell, who killed her
and who didn’t.
Father: Tell, tell us, by whom you died. Whether one
of our tribe \jdti], or whether other gali, or what [killed
you].
Others: Yes, she has to say the events. From where the
bad came. From the back side, from the front, from the
right, or from left side. She should tell us the good and
the bad.
In the beginning, the dead answers reconcilia-
tory, but soon she deplores the unfairness of her
suffering and thus persists with her suspicion that
close relatives (perhaps her husband) could have
killed her by means of magic.
Mare: I’m not angry. I tell you who is on the list. No,
Fm not angry. But, humans did it, humans did it. Why?
I did nothing bad. I did not fight. Did I ask for water
too often? Did I ask for rice too often?
Now her husband, strained by the switch of
the talk towards renewed reproaches, interferes
and requests her not to speak about her suffering
and about unfairness but to remember his good
behaviour, to take positive account of it and to
clear him from suspicion.
Fusband: No, you did not fight. But, don’t talk of you.
[Then furiously:] I was the best husband. Never drunk.
Okay, now I am, but because of grief, as you know,
^hy don’t you say that I was always good to you? I
Wanted to kill myself, after you died.
Whereupon the dead gives a rather negative
response.
klare: You were like one giving only instructions.
Fusband (screaming): I was good to you. How did I
struggle. I have helped you when you were ill. Don’t
see that?
Mare: But nobody really helped me. Also neither the
dead nor the ancestors [helped].
Nevertheless, I’m not angry with you. I’m concerned
ah°ut you. But no anger.
But this remark left the question of his respon-
sibility for her death unanswered and open. The
husband, therefore, reminds her of his positive role
ln the healing ritual that he organised when she
Was sick last time. In addition he points out the
resPonsibility of the ancestors and of other galis,
^bo promised in that healing ritual to help - but
abed to do so.
Arithropos 96.2001
Husband: Who made it, death? Only the gali did it. Who
called them in the healing ritual? I did it. And didn’t they
promise to heal you?
The dead agrees to this.
Mare: Yes, to talk like that is correct. But you, you also
did not save our child and me. But, I don’t have anger
on you. Even if I don’t know, who did it [the magic and
death].
But the husband is still not satisfied with this
response. He wants her to clear him publicly and
explicitly of any suspicion.
Husband: But you must say it. They [other people] say,
I have done it [death]. Don’t you know that? If you
don’t speak now [but only later, at another occasion],
I’m perhaps already killed then. Speak, or I kill myself
right here.
Finally the dead gives in to this dramatic appeal
- then, however, she quickly refers to the respon-
sibility of his other close family members.
Mare: It is better to forget. You were good when we
were a family. When we cared for our children. How
can you do bad to me? But others, in your family.
But still, for the husband this is not explicit
enough. In dramatic dialogues he recalls his good
social deeds in the past.
Husband: If not I did it, [then] tell that the spirits of
the dead (gali) did it. Tell it straight. I never was angry
with you. But you struck me. I was like a slave for you.
You insulted me. But I, did I ever said something [bad]
to you? Never did I struck you. Tell this now, here in
front of all our people.
The dead agrees to that. At the same time,
however, she is pushing him to his limits.
Mare: You should not speak in such a way to me and
say big words. But, that is correct. You did not even
strike me.
In order to weaken each further objection
against himself, the husband finally mentions his
good deeds in the present ritual itself.
Husband: And now? How did I struggle to bring the
people together [for the ritual]! Only for you did I strain
myself that much.
In this way the dialogue continues, but grad-
ually the dead gives in to the arguments of her
husband. Ultimately she acknowledges the good
deeds that he and other relatives carried out for
her in the present death ritual. At the same time
she approves the responsibility of other gali, which
obviously deceived her in the healing ritual with
486
Ulrich Demmer
false promises of help. Finally both, the dead and
her husband, acknowledge their reconciliation in a
further exchange of speeches. With this renewed
agreement on their good social biography and on
the good deeds here in the ritual - on the good
past and the good present - this emotional debate
came to an end. The dead left her living relatives
and the shaman sank to the ground. The dead, as
my interlocutors explained to me, finally joined the
ancestors and the other dead in the underworld.
Patterns of Argumentation
As the above excerpts indicate, the dialogues be-
tween the shamans and the Jenu Kurumba are or-
ganised as a discourse where the transformation of
social relations is achieved through argumentation.
In the beginning, the shamans put the “face” and
reliability of the living participants in question.
They narrate the social relationships of the living
with the dead and recall the bad memories of the
living, thus constructing the social history of the
relatives and the dead as a negative story.
In the case presented here, Mare remembers her
bad relationships in the dialogue with her mother-
brother. She acknowledges the good relationships
with the motherbrother himself, but her central
argument is that she also remembers the bad
behaviour of other relatives. Though she does not
mention them by name, she recalls that in one hut
there was no water given to her or that in another
hut she was offered no rice. In the second dialogue
with her father she remembers how badly he and
her mother behaved when she married. They didn’t
take care, they didn’t tie the marriage chain, etc.
And in the third dialogue with her husband she
reminds him of his bad behaviour; that he was
someone “always giving instructions” and she re-
calls that he was not ready to organise the healing
ritual for her when she was ill and going to die.
The living, in turn, likewise use narratives to
argue against the reproaches and against the bad
memories of the dead. In order to regain a positive
moral face, lost confidence, and reliability, they
articulate their own, positive memories of their
common history with the dead. The living remind
the dead of their good behaviour in the past, thus
trying to reconstruct their common history with the
dead as a positive “story.”
Thus Mare’s motherbrother right from the start
of the dialogue presses Mare to take his good
behaviour into account that he was there when she
needed something and that he shared with her his
food and water. In the second dialogue the father
sometimes gives in to the reproaches and admits
some mistakes. But at the time he narrates his own
good behaviour, for example, how he cared for
her when she was a child. The same pattern also
emerges in the dialogues with her husband. The
latter again and again defends himself and narrates
his good behaviour in the past; for example, that he
helped her when she was ill, that he never fought
with her and never struck her.
In addition, not only remembrance but for-
getting also plays an important role. The living
indeed claim that their positive memories are more
appropriate representations than those of the dead.
Therefore, they ask the dead to accept their nar-
ratives as legitimate representations of the past.
Based on these narrative arguments, they demand
that the dead should not take into account but
rather forget the negative events.
As these patterns disclose, the ritual is certainly
not a mere arena for representation but rather
an arena where representations are accounted for
and mutually evaluated, i.e., rejected, criticised, or
justified. Correspondingly the shamans are often
not satisfied with the narrated representations of
the past that the living offer as arguments for
their moral integrity and, ultimately, for reconcil-
iation. In fact, despite all arguments the shamans
frequently persist in recalling their bad memories.
Very often they refuse to accept the narratives of
the living as legitimate claims for reconciliation.
Moreover they often renew their doubts referring
to the alleged bad performance of the living in the
ongoing ritual itself.
Thus Mare argued against the positive narra-
tives with the argument that no people came for the
ritual today or that no one is helping her now. The
living, in turn, must, if they do not want to disrupt
the ritual process, respond to these demands for the
justification of their narratives and legitimise their
claims of moral identity. Apart from narrating pos-
itive memories of the past, they frequently do this
by referring to their good deeds in the actual ritual
itself. Mare’s father reminds her of his struggle to
organise the ritual, the motherbrother asks her to look
around and to recognise the number of relatives
attending the ritual and her husband too recalls his
efforts to make the present performance a success.
The third important rhetorical tool is the emo-
tions of the interlocutors. As the dialogues show,
expressions of feelings are often used as mor-
al arguments with a rhetorical force. The dead
frequently articulate their sufferings to provoke
appropriate responses, specifically to persuade the
living to help them and to support them. They
foreground their loneliness (bejaru), they point
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
487
out their missing strength (bala), and they often
express that they don’t have proper orientation and
bemoan their lost memories (neppu kane) as well
as their having no recognition of what is going on
in the present situation (liga kane).
But the dead are not only concerned about their
own future. Apart from articulations of subjectivity
that refer to their own personal feelings they
express also a deep concern about the well-be-
ing of others. Above all the dead are anxious
about the future of their close family members.
In our present example Mare’s worriment about
the future of her father and her husband are quite
typical in this respect. Moreover, the Jenu Ku-
rumba use explicitly in those contexts the term for
concern “arkul.”
The living reply to these appeals. They articu-
late their concern with the dead and they promise
or insure them their assistance. They also support
the dead with their deeds. Thus they point out
to the dead the way to the “protecting hut” and
often they support them physically, e.g., when they
uphold the dead on the walk. At other times they
even take the dead into their arms and occasionally
they also weep and cry with them. In addition, the
living answer to the dead’s worries about others
too. They promise that they will help the living
relatives of the dead, that they will take care of
children who are left, etc.
Moreover the emotional rhetoric is not a one-
sided affair either. As much as the dead, the
living use their feelings to move the dead towards
support, cooperation, and ultimately reconciliation.
They frequently express their own suffering. They
°ften point out their distress and bemoan their
moral weakness as well as their ignorance of the
right path” the “correct way of behaving.” In
this respect they talk of their physical suffering
(e-g., suri, sudu, “burning,” “heat” that goes along
with the use of black magic and with social mis-
behaviour (tappu, “mistakes”). At other moments
m discourse the living stress that not only the
head but they too are threatened by loneliness and
helplessness. This, they argue, would be the case,
the dead would not join them at the river, if they
Wouldn’t walk with them towards the leaf-hut or
hnally, if the dead wouldn’t reach the underworld,
hhe ritual performances make clear that usually
'•he dead can’t resist giving appropriate replies to
me feelings of their human relatives. They join
them at the river, they walk to the leaf-hut, and
fimy talk good with them, giving them promises
future help and care.
Apart from weakness and suffering, socially
disruptive feelings like anger are also used. As
Anthropos 96.2001
in many other cultures (cf. Lutz and Abu-Lughod
1990) anger is a dangerous emotion. It poses a kind
of threat to good social relations as well as to one’s
own well-being. This observation is also often ex-
plicitly stated in the ritual dialogues of the Jenu Ku
rumba. Anger that is openly articulated, speakers
say, actually represents a threat that can easily
damage social relations. Correspondingly speakers
use it to evoke fear of its consequences and move
the recipient towards a positive reply. The mes-
sage here is that to avoid danger, replicates better
conform to the requests of the speakers.
However, it is typical of egalitarian societies
that in conflict discourse bad emotions are neither
willingly expressed nor admitted to exist (Brenneis
and Myers 1984). Openly neither side wants those
emotions and nobody admits having such bad
emotions. Instead, everybody is rather concerned
with denying those feelings. Three principal modes
of “using anger” rhetorically can be identified in
the ritual dialogues.
In one mode the speakers deny their anger but
suggest its hidden presence with a relativizing
clause that follows the statement, for example “I’m
not angry, but... who did it to me?” With this last
utterance the speaker says that she is not angry, but
she also suggests that she might be a little bit angry
because someone did black magic to her, hurt
her, or even killed her. This kind of formulation
evokes fear of the consequences if (!) the speaker
is getting angry. They evoke a positive reply con-
forming to the expectations of the speakers.
A second procedure is that the interlocutors re-
quest one another not to become angry. The state-
ment “Don’t get angry,” for example, suggests that
the speaker, in case of a negative response, will
get angry. It is an appeal to reply positively and
behave in accordance with the speaker’s request.
In the third mode speakers mutually ensure one
another that there is “no anger in our stomach.”
The phrase “I’m not angry, but are you angry?”
and the reply “No, I’m not angry” is an example
of this mode. The first statement plus question also
has the persuasive effect of almost compelling a
positive reply, namely the agreement to the good
relations that were achieved in ritual.
These incidents show that the rhetorical effect
of “moving” the hearer is achieved in either way,
namely through the denial or the absence of angry
feelings. In the first case the very insistence on
its absence points to its still possible existence in
the background. It thus underlines the power of the
speaker as well as the social danger and disruption
that goes with it. With its denial the speaker
suggests, in fact, its possible presence and, in fear
488
Ulrich Demmer
of this, better to reply in the positive. In the second
mode, on the other hand, this negative request
suggests its easy emergence in case of a negative
response and it also affords a positive reply. In
the third mode speakers often use the denial of
anger to confirm the good relations that they have
established. At the end of most dialogues, speakers
persuade one another that they really have no anger
and that the ritual has achieved its principal aim,
the resurrection, as it were, of social harmony,
trust, and happiness; people did achieve “unity”
(ondume), as the Jenu Kurumba say. In those
sequences of the ritual the overcoming of anger
is a frequent focal topic. Moreover, interlocutors
mutually confirm their good social relations, their
happiness and the welfare that goes along with
that. In this respect they talk of the “firm ground”
(inele) that they achieved in the course of the
ritual discourse. In sum, all emotions mentioned
above have rhetorical functions as moral argu-
ments. They are used to defend or to criticise moral
positions. They are addressed as appeals to the
moral responsibility of the involved and are thus
able to evoke appropriate responses.
Conclusion
What does the above analysis mean for the
dynamics of ritual? A number of recent ritual
studies point out that, contrary to a widely held
notion, rituals not only consist in the enactment
of repetitive, fixed, and stereotyped patterns of
symbolic and/or linguistic acts. Instead, many
are rather loosely patterned and often constitute
arenas where moral norms, social relations, or
core cultural values are not so much represented
but actively negotiated and worked out.22 That
language and rhetoric plays a crucial role here is
also widely recognised. Yet, Bauman and Briggs’
call to examine more closely the ways that “enable
verbal art to transform, not simply reflect, social
life” (1990: 69) did not result in much clarity about
linguistic processes of ritual transformation. The
case of the Jenu Kurumba death ritual suggests
some of the ways rhetoric is employed therein.
As we have seen, the participants have to
achieve a complex transformation. Most important,
death puts the morality and relatedness of people
into question, it leads to mistrust and a crisis of
social relations. In ritual, in turn, the actors have
to transform their bad relations, they have to move
22 Cf. Bauman and Briggs 1990; Claus 1997; Howe 2000;
Schieffelin 1996.
one another towards reconciliation and trust. In
short, transformation is accomplished rhetorically.
While some studies might tend to look at rheto-
ric in ritual as a form of monologic and epideictic
discourse, the analysis shows that in the case
presented here a dialogic notion of persuasion is
appropriate. Whereas in the monologic epideictic
genre the audience is regarded primarily as pas-
sive, mute, and unresponsive, in the Jenu Kurumba
death rituals it is explicitly responsive and an ac-
tive partner in the discourse. Moreover, its rhetoric
is not based on the recitation or correct perfor-
mance of relative strictly formalised and fixed
utterances, but draws, like forensic and judicial
rhetoric, on formulaic speech, which is less for-
malised and allows for wider individual variations
and person- as well as context-bound utterances.
Finally, in the verbal interaction of ritual, persua-
sive effects are not merely achieved in the sense
that a passive audience is rather impressed or even
coerced into accepting the message then convinced
by it. In contrast, it is a rather Sophistic notion of
rhetorical discourse that is most significant here.
As Vickers has noted to “the Sophists’ rhetoric
was less an arsenal of verbal devices than a process
of interaction in which the norms of justice and
social order were worked out by those taking part”
(1998: 123). Its aim need not be identified then,
as for example a Platonic rhetoric does, “with
the desire to gain power and benefit the self by
the unrestrained indulgence of desire” (1998: 120).
This concept rather regards people’s “direct in-
volvement with community decisions” (1998: 6) as
vital, so that Cicero, for example, could hold that
rhetoric is designed to make people aware “‘that
they must work for the common good’” (Vickers
1998: 8). To sum up, for the Sophists rhetoric
meant indeed an “improvement of society through
‘expression of conflict and yet contain it by an
agreed political procedure’” (1998: 124). Its effec-
tiveness derives from a two-sided process, with
the development of pro- and contra-statements,
with negotiation and the change of perspectives
achieved (or not achieved). Rhetoric relies on
mutual argumentation, on debate, and ultimately
on the ability of the participants to reach jointly
approved decisions and consent.
In Jenu Kurumba death rituals, rhetorical trans-
formation is brought about on this dialogic level of
performance. In the beginning, the morality of the
speakers and their good social relationship is put
into question. But in the ritual process the actors
seek to defend their reputation as good members
of the community and try to persuade one another
that the reproaches and suspicions are unfounded.
Anthropos 96.2001
Always an Argument
489
Yet it is crucial to see, that this is not a matter of
mere representation and “make-believe.” Instead
narratives and memories are always subject to
evaluation and criticism. Speakers use these de-
vices as arguments to posit themselves and others
in the moral space of the community. Yet, in doing
so they are also provoking response and debate,
so that all speakers are engaged in the evaluation,
rejection, approval, or even in forgetting - and thus
in the reworking of representations.
Indeed, the transformative process of ritual is
based on this selective process. Positive memories,
narratives, and emotions of the person are accepted
as justified. Once approved they are counted as
good arguments and as appropriate representations
of the person in question. In addition, reports
of the good deeds in the ritual itself legitimate
the forgetting of the bad memories. It is only
in that process of rejecting and approving the
reminded and emotional episodes of their social
history that the participants gradually succeeded to
create a larger, more positive and convincing story,
a social biography of their good social relation.
Participants moved one another towards a consent
on their common good history and on their proper
relationships in the present too, thus reestablishing
reconciliation and trust.
The ritual as a whole can be understood as a
context of argumentation, where the alternating
articulation of memories, narratives, and feelings
enabled the speakers to transform their social rela-
tions and thus to regain the “common ground” of
a good community.
This article is based on five years of fieldwork conducted
among the Jënu Kurumba between 1987 and 1998.
I am grateful to the Indian Government, the German
Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), the Friedrich
Yaumann Foundation, and the German Research Foun-
dation (DFG) for their generous support. The argument
and the ethnography of this article was presented as a
Paper in various contexts. I wish to thank specifically
Y Tyler, I. Strecker, and P. Claus for their constructive
criticism and suggestions.
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Anthropos 96.2001
ANTHROPOS
96.2001: 491-507
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship
in a South Indian Temple
Anthony Good
Abstract. - At the core of worship in a large Hindu temple
is the complex daily liturgy around which all other temple
activities are structured, and upon which the order of the
cosmos is said to depend. This article, which combines ethno-
graphic observations with exegeses by local priests and insights
from indological studies of Saiva Siddhanta philosophical texts,
describes daily worship in the temple of Lord Kalukacalamurtti
(a local form of Murukan) in the town of Kalugumalai, Tamil
Nadu, South India. It goes on to consider the significance of
the principal stages - unction, decoration, food offering, and
lamp-showing - in the puja rite which forms the basis of wor-
ship in Saivite temples. [South India, Tamil Nadu, Hinduism,
Murukan, temples, worship, cosmology]
Anthony Good, Ph.D. (University of Durham), is Senior Lectur-
er and former Head of the Department of Social Anthropology
at the University of Edinburgh; for ten years he was also a
social development consultant for the UK government’s De-
partment for International Development. - His research in-
terests focus on South India and Sri Lanka, with particular
emphasis on Hinduism, kinship, and political asylum issues.
He is the author of Research Practices in the Study of Kinship
(London 1984; with Alan Barnard); The Female Bridegroom
(Oxford 1992); and numerous articles.
The central challenge for anyone studying a Hindu
temple is to account for the complex daily liturgy
around which all other temple activities are struc-
tured. After all, the ordering and very survival of
the cosmos are said to depend crucially upon it.
Tet although there is a substantial literature dealing
teith its scriptural basis, the actual practice of
this liturgy has received remarkably little attention
from writers on Hinduism. Not a single detailed
description has been published for any southern
temple, and those still relatively few authors who
have studied temples through ethnographic field
research1 have tended to concentrate on festivals,
while at most merely sketching out the timetable
of daily worship. This article, together with a
related earlier publication (Good 2000), is meant
as a small step towards redressing that imbalance.
After describing the liturgy in some detail, using
a combination of ethnographic observation, ex-
egeses by local priests, and indological commen-
taries on Sanskrit philosophical and theological
texts, it proceeds to consider the significance of
the principal stages in the puja rite which forms
the basic building block of Hindu worship.
The Layout of the Temple
Kalugumalai lies in the Tuticorin District of Tamil
Nadu, a recent subdivision of the old Tirunelveli
District. The town is dominated by a 600-foot hill,
towering dramatically above the dusty plain of
Kovilpatti Taluk. Its southern face is a sheer cliff
overlooking the main residential area, at the base
of which is the cave-shrine of Kalukacalamurtti,
the local form of Lord Murukan, younger son
of Siva and a particularly popular deity among
Tamils. This cave, which I shall call the main
shrine, is man-made or at least artificially enlarged,
and is believed by local people to be Jain in
1 For example, Appadurai (1981), Clothey (1983), Fuller
(1984), Moreno (1984), Reiniche (1989).
492
Anthony Good
origin.2 It faces southwestwards, though Murukan
shrines normally open to the east.
The innermost shrine is called the “womb-
chamber” (karppakkirakam).3 I follow temple
practice by calling the image within simply “the
Murtti" (the image). It shows the god seated on
his peacock vehicle, with his wives Teyvayanai
and Valli to his right and left, respectively. A
lance (vel) leans against his right shoulder, repre-
senting his power (sakti) (L’Hernault 1978: 142-
146). There is an antechamber (artta-mantapam)
where the priests (arccakars) and the Brahman
temple servants who assist them (paricarakars)
stand to perform worship, and this opens on-
to a dais (mani mantapam) marking the outer
limits of the cave. This opening, through which
devotees see the Murtti, is flanked by guardian
deities VTrapaku and Viramakinta on the left and
right, respectively. Above it is goddess Kaja-
laksmT, flanked by two elephants.
Brahman worshippers are allowed to go onto
the dais, but rarely do so nowadays as this is
resented by others. No one except priests and
servants can go further inside, and only the priest
himself can go into the innermost shrine and touch
the images. The much larger room below the dais,
where ordinary worshippers stand, is the “great
hall” (makamantapam). At the left of the dais is
a drain cut through the rock, down which flow
the liquids used to bathe the Murtti. Worshippers
collect this sanctified bathwater (tirttam) to drink
or smear on their foreheads, especially when elab-
orate unctions are performed. In front of the dais
is the hundial (untiyal) or offering box, into which
most devotees drop a few coins.
On the northwest wall of the great hall is
a shrine to Canmukam, the six-headed form of
Murukan also known as Arumukam. He is shown
flanked by his two wives, again called Teyvayanai
and Valli. All three stand on a single gold-plated
pedestal. They are made of the alloy used for
mobile images, and are sometimes used as sur-
rogates or duplicates of the Murtti at rituals taking
place outside the main shrine or even outside the
temple altogether. Canmukam is by far the largest
mobile image in the temple, however, and is only
moved on very special occasions, being treated
otherwise as a fixed image. Though he is rarely
2 Kalugumalai was an important centre of Jain activity (see
Dundas 1992: 108 f.). A plan of the central area of the
temple has been published previously (Good 2000: 275)
3 Tamil rather than Sanskrit spellings are used, unless specif-
ically stated (pronounce “c” as soft). Diacritics are omitted
from proper names after their first appearance.
the deity chosen by private worshippers, since the
Murtti himself is close by, Canmukam’s shrine
does play an important part in worship. In most
temples, it is normal to circumambulate the main
shrine as an act of respect, but that is impossible
here because the main shrine is actually inside
the hill. There is, however, a narrow corridor
right round Canmukam’s shrine, so devotees can
circle Lord Murukan in this form before beginning
their worship proper. Beside Canmukam’s shrine
is that of Nataraja, Siva as Lord of the Dance,
another rarely moved mobile image, though far
smaller than Canmukam. He is flanked by his
spouse Civakami, and by the 9th-century poet
Manikkavacakar, composer of some of the greatest
Tamil devotional poetry.
The main entrance to the great hall is to the
southwest, directly in line with the main shrine.
Outside are two more guardians, Mali and Virjin,
larger, and fiercer-looking than those inside.
Just to Mali’s left is a small image of Nirtta-
na Vinayakar. The elephant-headed Vinayakar is
Siva’s other son, Murukan’s elder brother - al-
so sometimes called Pillaiyar, (Skt.) Ganes'a, or
Ganapati. He is the god of thresholds and auspi-
cious beginnings, and his images stand to the left
of the entrances in most Saivite temples. In the
northeast corner of the temple precinct, at right
angles to Vinayakar and facing southeast, is the
statue of Vatukamurtti (Telugu god).
Directly in line with the great hall entrance is a
statue of a peacock, Murukan’s vehicle (vakanam),
facing towards its master. Directly behind this lies
the main altar (makapalipitam), and behind that
again is the temple flagstaff (tujamaram), a brass-
coated tree-trunk which passes out through a hole
in the temple roof, symbolising its infinite height
(Diehl 1956: 164). It is topped by a small brass
peacock, facing the main shrine. All three stand
on separate stone plinths upon a single fenced
platform which I call the flagstaff enclosure.
Beyond this, the long corridor leading to the
main southwest doors contains the fire pit (omakun-
tarn) and consecration platform (vetikai) used
when the temple was last reconsecrated (makakum-
papicekam, great pot unction) in 1959. The doors
are massive wooden structures about thirty feet
high. Beyond them lies another mantapam running
most of the way to the outer gate of the temple
site. Halfway along it has doors on each wall,
through which women are constantly passing to
and from the temple tank, the only source of
potable water for most townspeople. To the north
of the courtyard between it and the outer gate
of the temple, bordering the tank, is the vacanta
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
493
mantapam (spring pavilion), used for the annual
Vaikaci Vicakam festival in May-June. At the left
side of the temple gate is another Pillaiyar shrine.
All other temple images lie to the south of the
southwest corridor. The most important ones are
in and around the Siva temple, a small building
standing separately within the main roofed pre-
cinct of the temple. This is oriented in orthodox
fashion, creating a striking discontinuity in overall
temple structure, since part of the building is
oriented northeast/southwest, and the rest along
an east/west axis. Most minor shrines are placed
in relation to Siva rather than the main shrine -
as indeed should be the case in a Saivite temple
(Davis 1991:62).
Jempulinkesvarar, the local manifestation of
Siva, is represented by a linkam or phallic column
in an east-facing inner shrine, opening onto a
small, low hall which becomes very cramped when
the temple is busy. Railings separate the public
from where the priest stands, just outside the Siva
shrine. A large, east-facing Vinayakar statue stands
to the left of the inner entrance. The image of
goddess Akilantjsvari faces southwards out of her
shrine into this same hall, from which she is sep-
arated by an antechamber where the priest stands
to perform worship. The hall has outer doors in
the east and south walls, directly opposite the
Siva and Goddess shrines, respectively. Left and
right of the eastern door, respectively, stand the
guardian deities Cumukar and Cutekar. Directly
outside, facing inwards, is a statue of Siva’s vehi-
cle Nanti, the Bull. To its right, facing south, is the
bedroom where small images of Jempulinkesvarar
and Akilantisvari spend the night.
The Siva temple stands on a plinth, above the
floor of the main temple precinct. Below this
plinth, in line with Siva’s doorway, is a small
flagstaff, another Nanti statue, and a small altar.
The southern outer wall of Siva’s shrine has a
statue of Taksinamurtti (Lord of the South), an
ascetic form of Siva with a special role in priestly
consecration (Fuller 1985: 120). On the west wall
ls Naracinkam, the Man-Lion avatara of Lord
^isnu. The northern wall has images of the gods
ludra and Brahma, and a tiny separate shrine to
Cantikesvarar, tucked away near the wall of the
Siva temple and facing towards it. If the line from
Ate linkam to the Siva flagstaff is extended as far
as the temple’s east wall twenty metres beyond,
lt bisects two small images representing the Sun
(Curiyan) and Moon (Cantiran). North of this line
^ a small enclosure containing the nine planets.
1 hough barely acknowledged in the liturgy, they
°ften receive private worship; in particular, Saturn
Anth
is worshipped on Saturdays by those subject to
his malign influence. East of the planets is the
fire-sacrifice room (yakacalai) used during major
festivals (Good 1989:186; 1999:79). All this is
standard for Siva shrines (Davis 1991: 63).
Near the southwest corner of the temple pre-
cinct is a room holding statues of 63 Nayindrs,
or Saivite saints. Nearby is Kalukacalamurtti’s
bedchamber, with an upholstered swing hanging in
the centre. Next to this, an enclosure contains the
bronze festival images (urcava murtti) of Kaluka-
calamurtti and his wives, used for processions. The
Astira Tevar (weapon lord), a trident representing
the god’s power, is also kept here, as is Comaskan-
tar, a representation of Siva’s family comprising
the god and goddess, and their son Murukan.
On a pillar near the southwest corner of the
precinct is a relief of the goddess Pattirakali,
which is frequently visited by women, especially
on Fridays. They nearly always perform worship
for themselves, hollowing out lime fruits to make
single-wick oil lamps. The southern mantapam,
outside the south gates of the main precinct, con-
tains the devastanam offices; the pavilion where
the god’s marriages are held ikaliyana mantapam);
and, against the outer wall of the temple precinct,
a shrine to Itumpan, the temple’s divine watch-
man.
Public and Private Worship
Rituals (kiriyaikal) in South Indian Saivite temples
conform to the Saiva Siddhanta school of theo-
logical philosophy, as set out in 28 Sanskrit texts
called Agamas (akama). Local priest K. G. Pa-
ramesvara Pattar said that Kalugumalai temple
adhered to the Lalitakama, though daily worship
followed an upakama (secondary agama) called
the Kumaratantira. His elder brother Suppirama-
niya claimed that the temple followed the Kara-
nakama, but agreed that worship followed the
Kumaratantira, which he said was usually the case
in Murukan temples.
Saiva Siddhanta portrays ritual as the supreme
form of pragmatic action, whose efficacy derives
from Siva himself (Davis 1991: 31-2). The Aga-
mas distinguish “public worship” (Skt. parartha-
puja, infinite worship) benefiting the entire cos-
mos, from “personal worship” (Skt. atmarthapuja,
worship for the self) which benefits the wor-
shipper alone (Brunner-Lachaux 1963: xxii; Davis
1991:37). Local usage draws a slightly differ-
ent teleological distinction between puja, “public”
worship performed for the benefit of all; and
iropos 96.2001
494
Anthony Good
arccanai, “private” worship sponsored by indi-
viduals or groups for specific, often instrumental,
purposes.
Based on this distinction, Fuller distinguishes
“congregations,” socio-spiritual communities of
worshippers for whom private worship is per-
formed, from “audiences,” ad hoc collections of
individuals attending public worship (1984: 14).
Even when “private” worship is sponsored by
family or caste groups it is normal for others to be
present, however. In fact, some such events attract
bigger crowds than many “public” ceremonies.
The sponsors have rights over the material and
spiritual benefits of worship on such occasions,
but even then its routine concomitants - camphor,
ash, kumkum - are offered to everyone, though
sponsors usually enjoy priority. Moreover, parts
of festivals may be sponsored by individuals or
groups who thereby enjoy precedence in what is
otherwise a public event. The terms “congrega-
tion” and “audience” therefore refer to distinct
forms of participation rather than different kinds of
ceremony. Despite these caveats the public/private
distinction is perfectly clear in practice, and there
is no ambiguity over which side of the fence any
particular event falls.
Daily Liturgy: A Consolidated Description
Kalugumalai does not currently display a timetable
of daily services. This was taken down when its
information on ticket charges became out-of-date,
and it is stored in the office (Table 1). Though
dated as recently as 1970, it did not correspond
exactly with practice in 1983. For example, “small
music” is now played just after the temple re-
opens in late afternoon, and the labelling of the
morning services is not universally agreed. The
classification of daily liturgy is in fact surprisingly
problematic. Although these are routine rituals in a
literate tradition regulated by elaborate temple and
state bureaucracies, priests within this one temple
differ in how they conduct worship, and even
over such basic matters as the number of services
(kdlam) each day. These differences cannot be
wholly reconciled. The analyst’s task, however, is
not to seek some chimerical “true” liturgy in these
differing performances and testimonies, but rather
to explore the reasons for such disagreements.
During his turn as duty priest, Kalyanasundara
Pattar provided a verbal summary of the daily lit-
urgy. His account, in characteristically bombastic
style, illustrates the idealised way in which daily
worship is described by those who perform it,
when trying to impress visitors. His description
was recorded over two days, the first attempt
being interrupted by a digression into legends
and miracles, the kind of thing I was initially
assumed to be most interested in hearing. It is
highly condensed, though perfectly clear to anyone
familiar with South Indian temple worship. Trans-
lations of Kalyanasundara’s statements are given
below, followed by his own words and whatever
glossing is needed. My own observations then
follow.
This is, therefore, an annotated description of
public worship on days when the liturgy is neither
Table 1: Daily Timetable of Worship in Kalugumalai, 1970.
Kovil pujakala attvanai (Temple Worship Times Register).
Kalai: 1. 5 - 30 man i su. kovil nataitir ku kappa turn (morning: at 05.30 the temple doors open)
2. Tiruvanantal (early morning worship) 6-00
3. Vila pujai (festival worship) 8-45
4. CTvili urcavam, tiparatanai (Sri Pali Natar festival, lamp-show- ing) 9-00
5. Rajahka kattalai neyvettiyam tiparata nai (Royal endowment food and lamp of- fering) 9-15
6. Uccikalam (noon worship) 12-00
7. Natai cattappatum (closing time) 12-15
Malar. 8. Natai tirkkappatum (evening: opening time) 4-30
9. Cayarakcai (evening worship) 6-30
10. CTvili urcavam (Sri Pali Natar procession) 6-45
11. Cinna melam
(small music) 7-45 to 8-00
12. Arttajama apisekam
(midnight worship unction) 8-15
13. Arttajama tiparatanai
(midnight worship lamp-showing)
14. Palliarai neyvettiyam tiparatanai
(bedchamber food and lamp offering)
15. human pujai
(worship of Itumpan)
16. Natai cattutal
(closing time)
8-30
8- 45
9- 00
9-15
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
495
modified by special ceremonies, nor abbreviated
because of the demands of large numbers of pri-
vate worshippers. The ethnographic descriptions
consolidate observations on many different days
and ignore random variations caused by staff tak-
ing ad hoc ritual shortcuts, forgetting to perform
certain tasks, or getting distracted by private wor-
shippers or external events.
Temple Opening
The temple normally opens at 05.30. The watch-
man rings a large bell in the south mantapam, then
unlocks the outer doors. The shroff has charge
of the keys, but he and other clerks attend this
door-opening in rotation. The watchman unlocks
the Siva temple and main shrine, without actually
opening the doors. He goes back outside, and rings
the bell repeatedly before chasing away people
sleeping in the south mantapam. The musicians
play for a few minutes inside the south door,
then the watchman broadcasts recorded devotional
music over the temple’s public address system.
The Siva temple and both bedrooms are opened,
and their lamps are relit. Rudimentary unctions are
done for minor images, with water and oil. In the
temple kitchen (matappali), the fire is relit using
a lamp from the Siva temple. Worship utensils are
cleaned and polished. All these tasks are done by
Brahman temple servants. A widow, who lives
in a nearby choultry, draws labyrinthine kólam
patterns on the thresholds of the Siva temple and
main shrine, using white flour. At about 06.00, the
duty priest goes into the great hall through its side
door. The watchman opens its southwestern doors,
affording worshippers their first view of the Murtti,
still dressed as the night before. The priest prays,
then goes out to Siva’s bedchamber.
During all worship, priests carry a bell (mani)
and spouted water pot (kenti). They ring the
bell when making offerings or showing oil lamps
and camphor lights. Whenever the bell is ringing,
Worshippers stand in attitudes of prayer. Water
from the pot is sprinkled in front of the images,
Specially when food is offered, and is used to
rmse the priest’s fingers between each offering.
The priest is attended by a Brahman servant who
carries the lamps and lights, and relights them as
deeded, and the “multipurpose man” (palavèlai),
carrying another lamplighter. They are led by mu-
s’cians playing an oboe-like reed instrument (na-
kasvaram), a two-headed drum (tavul), and small
cymbals (kaittalam), in a style known as “big
^usic” (periya mèlam).
Pcilliyarai tiparatanai and tiruvanantal
Kalukacalamurtti and Jempulinkesvarar spend
each night with their wives in their respective bed-
rooms. The first ritual after the temple opens is pal-
liyarai tiparatanai (bedchamber lamp-offering),
followed at 06.00 by tiruvanantal (holy adorning)
in the course of which the deities are returned to
their main shrines. Kalyanasundara’s description
began as follows:
“Puja to Goddess Sri Akilantisvari and Jem-
pukesvarar, manifest in all their forms.” (Sri Aki-
lantjsvari Ampal Jempukesvarar pujai, vicuvarupa
taricanam.) Tarisanam, usually anglicised as “dar-
shan,” means the vision or sight of a deity or
image, and a desire to “take darshan” of the deity is
one of the main reasons why people visit temples.
Vicuvarupa means “existing in all forms”; Kalya-
nasundara is echoing a widespread opinion that
the sight of the deities first thing in the morning is
unusually powerful and beneficial. In practice the
priest stands outside Siva’s bedchamber and offers
the images a tray holding four plantains and five
pieces of jaggery, followed by a camphor light (kar-
pura tipam or cutan tattu) burning on a flat plate.
The musicians begin playing inside the South gate.
“The god and goddess are taken to their usual
positions. Puja for Ganapati, then for the goddess
and god in their main shrines.” (Cuvami ampal
iruppitam cerppittal. Kanapati pujai; ampal, cu-
vamipujai, piratana canniti.) The bedroom images
of Jempulinkesvarar and Kalukacalamurtti only
show the gods’ feet (tiruvati patam), though their
consorts are depicted in full. A servant carries the
Jempulinkesvarar and Akilantisvari images into
the outer chamber of the goddess’s shrine, where
they are kept during the day. Worship in the
Siva temple begins as usual with Vinayakar wor-
ship. For some reason Kalyanasundara inverted
the order; actually, Siva is always worshipped
before his consort. The priest offers camphor lights
to Vinayakar, the linkam, and the goddess. The
servant brings out this last flame and offers it
to worshippers, who “take camphor” by cupping
both hands over the flame, then raising them to
their faces.4 The priest gives out pinches of red kun-
kumam (kumkum) powder, with which worship-
pers mark red dots on their foreheads, between
the eyes. If the chanter is present, he receives
camphor and kumkum first, then other Brahmans,
the high caste but non-Brahman singer (otuvar),
and finally non-Brahman worshippers. If temple
4 Worshippers never “take” camphor which has been offered
to Siva.
^nthropos 96.2001
496
Anthony Good
office staff are present, they receive just after
the chanter or singer, depending whether they
themselves are Brahmans. The Executive Officer
(a non-Brahman) takes precedence if present.
“Valli, Tevi, and Lord Murukan are shown
lamps in their mirrored bedchamber. Valli, Tevase-
na, and Kalukacalamurtti are placed in an ivory
palanquin.” (SrT Valli Tevi cameta Murukapperu-
man palinku palliarai tipa aratana katci. SrT
Valli Tevacena cameta Kalukacalamurtti tanta
pallakkil.) This bedroom is far grander than Siva’s.
The priest goes there, led by the musicians. Its
doors are open, but the curtain is still drawn.
Behind the curtain, he places the tray of plantains
and jaggery beside the images on the cushioned
swing. He pulls back the curtain and offers a
camphor light. A servant moves the images to the
palanquin, which, despite its name, is a wooden
sedan-chair with a canopy.
“Music is played as they are conducted to
their place in the main shrine. Lamps are shown
to Canmukam and Murukan. Piracatam is dis-
tributed.” {Asia mankala vatdyattutan mulastanam
iruppitam certal. SrT Canmuka Teva ardtanai. SrT
Murukapperuman tipa ardtanai. Piracatam valan-
kutal.) Asia mankala vattiya is an exultant, auspi-
cious style of music associated with processions.
Piracatam (divine grace) refers to any sanctified
items given out to worshippers. It normally com-
prises holy ash (viputi, made of burnt cowdung) or
kumkum, given out after worship of the main gods
and goddesses, respectively, following the “tak-
ing” of camphor. The musicians lead the way to
the main shrine, followed by two servants carrying
the palanquin. The priest rushes ahead, and offers
food and camphor to Nataraja and Canmukam.
He then offers food to the Murtti, and shows a
camphor light just as the palanquin enters the great
hall. The musicians remain outside but continue
playing as the small images are put away. The
light is brought out by a servant so worshippers
can “take camphor.” The priest distributes ash,
which is wiped across the forehead. Finally, a
servant distributes sandalpaste for worshippers to
smear over exposed parts of their upper bodies, to
counteract the “heat” of the ritual.
Tirumancanam
“A water-pot decorated with mango leaves, co-
conut, sandalwood, and kumkum is placed on
a servant’s head and taken clockwise round the
car streets, with auspicious music, umbrella, silk
canopy, and fly whisk. Unction and worship are
done to the flagstaff.” (Puma jala kalacam kutam
makalai, tenkay, cantana kunkumam alankarittu.
Paricarakar ciracu mel vaittu rata vitiyil asta man-
kala vatdyattutan kutai curutti camaram caitam
[certtu] valam vantu. Tuja marattukku apicekittu
pujai ceytal.) The name means “sacred bathing of
an image,” and is used for other kinds of bathing
ritual too. Kalyanasundara first describes the stan-
dard decoration for pots of consecrated water used
in unction (apicekam) rites. This particular pot
represents the goddess Gangadevi (the Ganges),
who left Siva during the night and must be brought
back again in the morning (cf. Diehl 1956: 110).
The “right-hand direction” (valam vantu) means
that the procession makes an auspicious clockwise
circuit. Umbrellas and other royal trappings nor-
mally accompany deities during processions. The
servant leaves through the southwest door at about
06.30, carrying the pot on his head, wrapped in a
green or red cloth. He goes round the car streets,
accompanied by the multipurpose man carrying the
canopy, and led by the musicians. On his return he
drapes the garland and mango leaves on the main
flagstaff and empties the pot over its northeast side,
facing the main shrine. Whereas other services
must all be performed in, however, vestigial a form
on even the busiest festival days,5 tirumancanam
can be omitted on such occasions. This, and the
absence of any worship in the principal shrines, is
cited by some priests to argue that it is not a true
service.
Vila pujai
This is the everyday name for the next service,
meaning “festival worship”; more formal titles
include tirukalacanti (holy transition-time wor-
ship), the name actually used by Kalyanasundara
himself, or just kalacanti. Priests using this last
name add that tirukalacanti is a different rite in
mid-morning, which nowadays happens only in
vestigial form.
“Unction for the main image, using gingelly oil,
turmeric [and other] powders, milk, curd, coconut
water, and honey. The image is decorated.” (Mula-
var apicekam. Tailam, tirumancana pod, mancal
pod, kalava pod, kacturi mancal pod, pal, tayir,
ilanir, ten, apicekam. Alankaram.) The mulavar
5 On festival days services may get delayed by many hours,
and it may even still be “yesterday” inside the temple,
relative to time outside. Staff eventually rush through
several services in rapid succession to catch up, but in
principle they are never omitted altogether.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
497
(root image) is the stone image of the Murtti. On
normal days only consecrated water is used for this
unction, but Kalyanasundara’s love of hyperbole
led him to enumerate a series of “powders” which
are in reality used only on important festival days,
and/or when there are private sponsors. Afterwards
the image is dressed and decorated (alankaram)
ready for worship. In practice unctions are done
in the Siva temple first, at about 08.00. The priest
closes the curtain in Siva’s shrine, and performs
unction using consecrated water from a single
brass pot. He decorates the linkam, and drapes
a dhoti round its base. He does similar unctions
for Vinayakar and the goddess, then dresses the
goddess in a fresh green or red sari. He goes
to the main shrine, draws the curtain, and after
ringing the dais bell to alert everyone, he pours
consecrated water and a little milk over the images
inside.
“After unction and decoration, the God and
Goddess are worshipped with lamps, mantras,
and hymns.” (Cuvami Ampal apiceka alankaram
pujai tiparatanai, mantira puspam tevaram utan.)
The kitchen-duty servant takes a pot of food
Cneyvettiyam) into the main shrine. The curtain is
opened to reveal this on a wooden stand in front of
the images. The priest sprinkles water, and wafts
incense smoke over the food. The curtain is closed
again, and more water is poured inside. The priest
dresses the deities while the servant bathes and
dresses the dais guardians, and lights the lamps
round the inner door. The curtain is opened and the
priest shows the food to the Murtti from the outer
platform. Accompanied by a servant carrying the
food and an incense burner, the priest offers food
and water to Canmukam and Nataraja, then to the
guardians outside the great hall. He does likewise
to the Peacock statue; Nirttana Vinayakar; the
planets; the Sun and Moon; and the Nanti statues
outside the Siva temple. Inside that temple, he
offers food to Vinayakar, followed by a camphor
light. He offers food and a camphor light to Siva
behind the curtain. Food is shown to the inside
Nanti statue, with another camphor light. The
goddess’s curtain is closed while food is offered.
Camphor is shown, and the flame is brought out
to worshippers, followed by kumkum.
The priest sometimes goes out to offer food
to Itumpan. He offers food to Taksinamurtti, Na-
racinkam, Pattirakali, and the Nayinars, food and
Camphor to Comaskantar and the festival images,
then food to Cantikesvarar. The food is returned to
the kitchen, and the musicians strike up outside the
§reat hall. The priest offers camphor to Nataraja
and Canmukam, then a camphor light in the main
shrine, which is brought out for worshippers. Ash
is distributed, and sometimes consecrated water
(,tirttam), previously used to anoint the Murt-
ti. Worshippers receive it in their cupped right
hands, sip a little, and anoint themselves with the
rest.
“After worship, Sri Pali Natar goes round three
times clockwise.” {Pujai mutittu SrT Pali Natar
munru murai valam varutal.) This “daily festival”
{nittiya urcavam) begins with the priest placing
white rice on various small altars outside the
Siva temple and flagstaff enclosure, after which a
servant sprinkles water. A musician plays a small
two-headed drum {timilai). The priest places the
remaining rice on the large altar in the flagstaff
enclosure, and rings its bell. The musician blows
a blast on a conch. Small images of Sri Pali Natar
(Lord of Sacrifice) and his wife are taken twice
clockwise round the Siva temple, in a palanquin
carried by two servants, led by the musicians and
the multipurpose man with his lamplighter. The
god is checking that the altars have been properly
fed; one servant told me that the altars were “the
gods’ dining tables” and Sri Pali was the “dining
hall supervisor”!
“Pattattu Vinayakar is worshipped. Worship
at the royal Vasanta mantapam ends this ser-
vice.” {Pattattu Vinayakar pujai. Aracarati vacanta
mantapam pujai ittutan kalai pujai muti arutal.)
A servant leaves the temple through the southwest
gate, carrying rice, a water pot, and a bell, ac-
companied by the multipurpose man with a pot of
oil and a garland. They are led by the musicians
to the Pattattu Vinayakar temple at the junction of
West and South Car Streets. The servant anoints
Vinayakar with oil, garlands him, offers food, and
sprinkles water. He repeats this at a Vinayakar
temple lying northwards on the road round the
hill, and finally at the Vinayakar shrine inside the
southwest gate.
Uccikalam
For several hours the temple is usually quiet, apart
from preparation of the “royal endowment” food,
discussed below. The fourth service is normally at
noon {uccikalam means “mid-day”), but may be
delayed on days when special rituals take place,
or temple staff are busy with private worshippers.
In this case Kalyanasundara did not follow chrono-
logical order, but described events at each shrine
in turn.
“Unction, decoration, and lamp-showing for
Jempunatisvarar. Lamp-showing for Akilantisva-
Anthropos 96.2001
498
Anthony Good
ri. Lamp-showing for the festival images. Wor-
ship of Itumpan. Main shrine unction, decoration,
worship, and lamp-showing. Lamp-showing for
Canmukam and Nataraja. The temple closes at
12.30.” (Jempunatisvarar apicekam, alankaram,
tipa aratanai. Akilantesvari tipa aratanai. Uccava
murtti aratanai. Itumpan pujai. Piratana cannati
kumpapicekam, alahkdra arccanai tipa aratanai.
Canmuka tipa aratanai. Nataraja tipa aratanai.
Kovil 12.30 mutappatum.) Jempunatisvarar is an-
other name for Jempulinkesvarar. In reality, hasty
unctions are done first in the Siva temple, followed
by a more elaborate one in the main shrine. Its cur-
tain is drawn, and the priest cleans the images and
inner chamber. He pours consecrated water over
the images, then dresses, decorates, and garlands
them. The Murtti’s lance is put back, with a lime
impaled on the point. The priest and servant move
to the Siva temple. Food is offered to Vinayakar,
Siva, and the goddess, followed each time by a
camphor light. Food and camphor are offered to
Itumpan, then, back inside, to Comaskantar and
the festival images, to Nataraja, and Canmukam.
Food is offered in the main shrine, and when the
curtain is drawn back, a 6-tier or 4-tier puspatipam
(flower lamp) is shown. The music rises to a cre-
scendo, and everyone worships. A flat lamp with
a single wick (orumalartattu, one flower plate)
is offered. Finally, a “5-corner” light (malarkar
puratipam) with one central flame and four others
spaced around it, is offered and brought out for
worshippers. Consecrated water and ash are given
out, then the shrine door is closed and the music
stops. Sandal-paste is distributed to worshippers,
and they leave before the main temple doors are
closed.
Reopening and cayaratcai
“Opening at 16.30. The manikkam oversees the
opening, then auspicious music is played.” (Malai
16.30 tirakkappatum. Manikkam tunaiydl tiranta
utan mankala vattiyam vacittal.) Kalyanasundara
presumably meant the maniyam (temple manag-
er), a role fulfilled nowadays by the shroff. The
watchmen beats the drum in the south hall, and
then opens the temple, watched over by a clerk. A
musician blows a conch just inside. At about 17.00
the musicians play in the southwest corridor, in a
style called kolumelam (audience-chamber music).
Some time before the next service, simple unctions
are performed in the Siva temple.
The next service is the most elaborate and
best-attended of the day. Its name, “evening pro-
tection,” recognises dusk as a time favourable to
malevolent forces. At about 18.00 the priest offers
food to the Murtti behind the curtain. He then
offers it to Canmukam and Nataraja, and cursorily
to Nirttana Vinayakar, the Planets, and the Sun
and Moon. In the Siva temple he offers food to
Vinayakar, then to Siva behind the curtain. This
is opened and camphor is offered. He offers food
to the goddess, Taksinamurtti, Naracinkam, Patti-
rakali, the Nayinars, Comaskantar, and the festival
images, all without camphor lights or music.
“Unction, decoration, and lamp-showing for
Vinayakar, Siva, and the Goddess; mantras are
chanted and hymns sung; worship is offered
with five services. The attendant deities are wor-
shipped.” (Vinayakar, Cuvdmi, Ampal apicekam,
alankara tipa aratanai; mantira puspam tevaram;
panca upacara piijai. Parivara tevataikal pujai.)
As usual, worship begins in the Siva temple. The
unction was done earlier, as we saw, but despite
what Kalyanasundara says, the “five services” (see
below) are never offered in the Siva temple during
daily liturgy. The priest first offers camphor to Vi-
nayakar. Music begins outside as he enters Siva’s
shrine, and closes the curtain. When he reopens
the curtain and shows the 4-tier lamp, the music
rises to a crescendo. Camphor is offered and the
chanter intones a mantra. Camphor is shown, then
the singer performs a tevaram hymn. Camphor is
shown again, and the music restarts.
Worshippers are rarely, if ever, offered the
camphor flame when Siva is worshipped. After
offering a light to Nanti, the priest shows the
4-tier lamp to the goddess, then a camphor light.
While worshippers are taking camphor, the chanter
performs a mantra and the priest throws vilvam
leaves over the goddess. Another light is offered,
then the singer performs a hymn. A third light
is offered and kumkum is distributed. The priest
sets off round the precinct, accompanied by the
servant, multipurpose man, and musicians, with
the worshippers trooping after him. He offers
lights to both Nantis outside the Siva temple,
then to the Planets, Sun and Moon, Taksinamurtti,
Naracinkam, Pattirakali, the Nayinars, Comaskan-
tar, and the festival images.6 He offers a light to
Nirttana Vinayakar before reentering the great hall
and showing a light to Nataraja. He enters the main
shrine, and the chanter gives him a sacred thread
6 Some Pattars show one light to the external guardians, and
one to both Nantis jointly. Another showed the light to
Naracinkam after that to the festival images. Pattars rarely
observe one another performing routine worship, so detailed
differences may go unremarked.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
499
to put over the Murtti’s shoulder. As usual, the
musicians remain outside the great hall door.
“In the main shrine sixteen service worship
[is done], with mantras and hymns.” (.Piratana
cannati cotaca upacara pujai, mantira puspam,
tevaram.) Again Kalyanasundara exaggerated, for
although every puja notionally involves sixteen
services (denoting fullness or completion) that
number is only actually performed on special
occasions. The dais bell is rung, the curtain is
pulled back, and a flower lamp with three or five
tiers of wicks (puspa tipam, also called atukku
vilakku, tiered lamp) is offered. The naga lamp
(naka tipam, snake lamp) is then offered, followed
by the garuda or man-beast lamp (Karutan, puru-
samirukam). The music slows to a loping beat,
and in rapid succession the priest offers a flat
5-wick lamp (aintu malar tattu, five-flower plate),
over which he first sprinkles vilvam leaves; a
flat single-wick lamp (oru malar tattu, one-flower
lamp); and a big pot-shaped lamp (kumpa tipam).
These were formerly offered by a temple dancer
(tevataci), who also danced and sang for the dei-
ties, which is why the music changes style at this
stage. It speeds up again as the priest goes inside
to offer a 5-corner or 7-corner camphor light. A
servant brings this out for the worshippers. After
the chanter’s mantra and the singer’s hymn, further
single lights are offered. A final light is offered to
Kajalaksmi and the two guardians.
“Worship of Canmukam, with five services,
mantras, and hymns.” (Canmuka arccanai: panca
upacaram, mantira puspam tevaram.) By describ-
rng this as an arccanai, Kalyanasundara did not
mean it was an act of private worship; his vari-
ations of nomenclature were merely intended to
make the liturgy sound as grand as possible. Fur-
thermore, the “five services” (pancopacaram) are
used only on special occasions. They comprise: (1)
chowry or fly-whisk (camaram); (2) screen or
canopy (curutti); (3) mirror (kannati); (4) fan (visi-
fO; and (5) umbrella (kutai).7 On most days, the
Priest goes to the Canmukam shrine and offers the
4-tier lamp, and a single light. The chanter chants
^hile the priest throws leaves over the image; then
a single light is shown. There is a hymn from the
smger, and another single light is shown.
“Peacock worship; flagstaff worship; distribu-
h°n of sanctified offerings.” (Mayuranatar pujai;
tlivara pujai; piracatam vatinkutal.) The priest
^ In the Minaksi temple the order is (3), (5), (2), (4), and
(1) (Fuller, pers. comm.), while in Tiruchendur, six items
are shown: (3), (5), (1), (4), a flag (koti), and (2) (Kalya-
hasuntaram 1980: 56).
Anthropos 96.2001
goes out to the Peacock image and the musicians
move back to the southwest door. Worshippers in
the great hall are divided into two groups, leaving
an open corridor between door and dais. A single
lamp is offered to the outer guardians, then another
to the peacock and flagstaff. As this lamp is shown,
worshippers glance hastily from Peacock to Murtti,
as if watching something (a glance? darshan?) pass
from one to the other. The music stops, and ash
and sandalpaste are distributed.
“The Sri Pali procession is performed; Sri Pali
Natar and his wife are taken thrice clockwise
round Siva and the Goddess. The Kailaca lamp is
shown.” {Sri Pali camarppittal. Sri Pali Natar Am-
pal Cuvami munru murai valam varutal. Kailaca
tipa aratanai.) Kailacam is the mountain home of
the gods, and the lamp referred to has several tiers
of wicks, tapering like a conical mountain. This
second “daily festival,” incorporating another Sri
Pali Natar procession, is almost identical to the
morning one. Afterwards there is music in the
southwest corridor until the priest shows the 4-tier
lamp in the main shrine, followed by a light which
he leaves on the dais for worshippers to “take”
camphor.
Arttajamam and palliyarai pujai
“Unction for Kalukacalamurtti. Unction, decora-
tion, lamp-showing for Jempukesvarar. Valli, Tey-
vayanai, and Murukan are taken from the main
shrine to the bedchamber, with auspicious mu-
sic. Siva and the Goddess are taken in a coral
sedan-chair to their swing; as they swing, lamps
are shown. Milk and sweets are distributed.” (SrT
Kalukacalamurtti apicekam. SrT Jempunatisvarar
apicekam, alaiikaram tipa aratanai. Piratana can-
natiyil iruntu Valli Tevacena cameta Murukap-
peruman asta mankala vattiyankalutan pallia-
rai pdycertal. Pavala ceppara uncalil Cuvami,
Ampal; uncal atutal tipa aratanai. Pal inipukam
valankutal.) Arttajamam literally means “mid-
night,” but the service is usually at about 20.30.
The unctions are often very cursory; while Ka-
lyanasundara’s summary omits the actual worship
before the procession. The big drum in the south
mantapam is sounded, the dais bell is rung, and the
musicians begin playing. The priest offers food in
the main shrine, then shows a single light. The
bedchamber images are put in the palanquin, ash
is distributed to worshippers, and the main shrine
doors are closed. Canmukam is shown food and
a single light, as are the images in the palanquin.
This is carried to the bedroom by two servants,
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Anthony Good
led by the musicians and multipurpose man. The
images are put on the swing to the sound of
mankala vattiya music. A goblet of plantains is
put in front of them. The curtains are closed while
they receive food and milk, then opened for a light
to be shown. The food is returned to the kitchen,
and the milk is spooned out into the cupped right
hands of worshippers. The bedchamber is closed.
“Jempukesvarar and Akilantisvari are wor-
shipped in their bedroom. Cantikesvarar, Vairavan
and Itumpan are worshipped. The temple closes at
21.00.” (Sri Jempunàtisvarar, Akildntesvari pal-
liami pujai. Cantikesvarar pujai. Vairavar pujai.
Itumpan piijai natai tirukkàppitutal. Kóvil mututal,
21.00.) The priest offers food and lights to the
deities in the Siva temple. A camphor light is
offered to their bedchamber images which have
already been moved without ceremony into Siva’s
bedroom. The music stops, kumkum is distributed,
and the doors of the Siva temple and bedchamber
are closed. Food and single lights are offered to
Cantikesvarar and Vatukamurtti (not Vairavan, as
Kalyanasundara said). They are worshipped last as
guardians of the inner and outer temple precincts,
respectively. The priest leaves by the South gate,
which is closed behind him. He offers food and a
single light to Itumpan.
A Six kalam Temple
According to Kalyanasundara, then, Kalugumalai
is a six kalam temple, the daily services being:
(1) tiruvanantal, (2) tirumancanam\ (3) tirukala-
cantv, (4) uccikalam', (5) cayaratcav, and (6)
arttajamam. There is a surprising lack of con-
sensus over this, however, and although everyone
regards uccikalam, cayaratcai, and arttajama as
full services, there are diverse views about the
early morning events.
According to K. G. Suppiramaniya Pattar, doy-
en of local priests, the daily services were: (1)
vila pujai; (2) kalacantv, (3) tirukalacanti', (4)
uccikalam; (5) cayaraksav, and (6) arttajamam.
Like some others, he did not consider tirumanca-
nam to be a kalam. More iconoclastically, he said
tiruvanantal was not a kalam either, as the deities
were merely moved with no pujai. The service
which Kalyanasundara calls tirukalacanti is called
vila pujai by Suppiramaniya and most others, but
these are not simply alternative names, for whereas
Kalyanasundara describes only two services, tiru-
mancanam and tirukalacanti, Suppiramaniya men-
tions three, vila pujai, kalacanti, and tirukalacanti.
Some of these differences arise because Kalyana-
sundara is providing a grandiose version of current
practice, while Suppiramaniya is dwelling on the
past, when there was a mid-morning service called
tirukalacanti, whose only remaining vestige is the
“royal endowment” discussed below.
The published temple history devotes just one
sentence to daily worship, stating simply that “in
this temple six services take place” (Paktavatsa-
lam 1972: 28; my translation), without specifying
them. Most important Saiva temples in Tamil Nadu
claim to observe at least six periods of worship,
and the most important thing about these rival
accounts is the claim on which all agree - that
Kalugumalai is a “six kalam temple” - rather than
their disagreement over identifying these.
The Structure of Worship
So every Tamil Saiva temple has a daily liturgy
whose principal aim is maintenance of cosmic
stability. This liturgy involves between four and
nine services at particular times of day (kalam),
depending partly - though not entirely - on differ-
ent definitions of what constitutes a kalam, and
of when one ends and another begins. At the
most general level, moreover, the events making
up each kalam are also constant from temple
to temple. This concluding section analyses the
common structure of these services in more detail.
Agamic texts describe Saiva worship in terms
of three stages. (1) It begins with the five pu-
rifications (Skt. pancasuddhi) of the worshipper,
worship materials, place of worship, mantras, and
icon, which transform the instruments of worship
into divine instruments, and the place of worship
into a pure place. (2) Next comes the invocation
(Skt. dvdhana) of the deity into its icon; the god’s
seat or throne is prepared, his pure spirit form
is provided with a body (mürti) constructed by
appropriate mantras, this body is placed on the
throne, and god is invoked into it. (3) Finally,
god is offered services (Skt. upacdra), as if to a
revered guest, in a spirit of intense devotion. These
upacaras vary according to the time available and
the circumstances of worship (Brunner-Lachaux
1963: xxvi-xxviii; Davis 1991:39).
In contemporary Tamil Nadu, however, püja
is conventionally said to involve four stages -
not incompatible with the three agamic categories
but, obviously, not entirely congruent with them,
either. These are: unction (apicëkam), decora-
tion (alankdram), food offering (naivëttiyam), and
lamp showing (tïpârâtanai). They always occur in
this order, but need not all happen every time-
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
501
Ethnographic observation shows that the indis-
pensable act is lamp-showing; indeed, in small
temples puja is often reduced simply to this. Not
all services involve unction, but if it does occur
then obviously decoration always follows. Food
offerings may precede lamp-showing even in the
absence of unction. Although this order is the same
everywhere, the details vary at each stage because
every temple has its own tradition (mamul or
murai, customs, rules). The following subsections
analyse the particularities of the rituals performed
in Kalugumalai in order to consider the signifi-
cance of Saiva worship generally.
Unction
Unctions always end with the image being bathed
in consecrated water, but the substances used prior
to this vary greatly, within and between temples,
according to the importance of the event; the
generosity of the sponsor, if any; the distinctive
characteristics of particular deities; and the tradi-
tions of individual temples. Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi
gives details of unctions across South India, which
provide a good indication of the kinds of substance
used, but her article never transcends this empirical
level, thanks to her pessimistic a priori assumption
that unction has no “underlying structure or basic
uieaning” (1981:709). This in turn stems from a
misunderstanding of the implications of treating
such rituals as a polythetic class (cf. Needham
1975). To her mind, the corollary of this approach
ls that unctions can “only be described and not
defined” (Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi 1981: 708). In fact
definition is perfectly possible - though it is a
specific kind of definition, which is precisely
Ueedham’s point (cf. Southwold 1978) - and the
Polythetic character of a phenomenon in no way
Precludes its analysis. Moreover, to devote most
uttention to unctions as means of gladdening and
cooling the deity does not really further our un-
derstanding, since, as she rightly notes, such aims
characterise puja as a whole.
Eichinger Ferro-Luzzi relegates to an af-
terthought what Agamas (see Brunner-Lachaux
1^77: i) and temple priests state as unction’s
Primary purpose, namely, consecration, imbuing
Ihe image with divinity. This is mentioned only
as a “magical” - and by implication, minor -
aspect of unction, and explained by a highly
^convincing form of materialist reductionism,
namely, the alleged effect of humidity in enhanc-
ing human sensory perception (1981:732-734).
^Uch straw-clutching can be avoided by looking at
Anthropos 96.2001
unction more broadly, since concentration purely
on the bathing of the image, to the exclusion of
the preceding stages, means that the overall logic
never becomes clear. I shall try to open up a
more fruitful avenue for analysis by looking at the
entire process in Kalugumalai, and considering the
interpretation of priests themselves. Their account
may not be the whole story, but it does explain
why unctions are so essential to temple liturgy.
Every unction uses consecrated water, prepared
in round-bottomed pots {puma kumpam) of cop-
per, brass, or silver. Each pot is wrapped with
thread in a criss-cross pattern, and marked at three
places round its upper hemisphere with sandalpaste
and kumkum. A coconut rests in its neck, point
uppermost on a bed of mango leaves. Strings of
flowers are draped over the nut, and a twist of
taruppai grass rests on top of it. The pots are
arranged on a low platform (vetikai), covered with
layers of plantain leaves, between which are spread
grains and pulses. Several small pots encircle one
larger one. At least twelve pots are used in the
morning consecration rite (pirana pujai), one each
for the eight regents of the cardinal points, one
each for the deity (the large central pot) and his
wives, and one for purifying the area.
Also on the platform is a small mound of
sandalpaste or turmeric, representing the god Ga-
napati, who is worshipped first (Kanapati pujai) in
an abbreviated version of the main rite. While the
chanter recites, the priest performs hand gestures
and breathing exercises. He strews flower petals
over the mound, and sprinkles it with water before
offering a camphor flame. Worship of Varuna,
god of water {Varuna pujai), comes next. The
chanter recites while the priest sprinkles petals
and water over one pot, and offers camphor. This
is followed by purification {punniyakavacanam);
the priest picks up the pot, dips mango leaves
into the water, and uses them to spray and purify
the ritual area. Pot worship {kumpa pujai) is then
addressed to all of the pots, especially the large
central one. Mantras are chanted, petals thrown,
and water sprinkled. Camphor is offered, and the
chanter recites a blessing {aciravata mantiram).
A sacrificial fire (omam) is lit in a square pit
(iomakuntam), using embers from the temple kitch-
en. Sandalpaste and kumkum are placed round it,
marking the eight cardinal points, and petals and
water are offered to their deities. Ghee is poured
off a mango leaf into the flames, and boiled rice
or plantain flesh are sprinkled as a burnt offering.
The priest offers camphor to the fire, sprinkles
petals and water onto fire and pots alternately,
then cups his hands and gestures as if throwing
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Anthony Good
fire towards the large pot. The pots are then taken
to the shrine, which may involve a procession on
special occasions.
The image is undressed, and the priest pours
water over it to the sound of drumming and
conch-blowing. Unctions in important festivals
may involve gingelly oil (taiyilam), boiled white
rice (cuttannam), rice flour (mavupoti), turmeric
powder (mancalpoti), tiraviyappoti (wealth; a mix-
ture of mavupoti, mancalpoti, and soapnut powder,
sTyakkay), milk (pal), fruit mixture (pancdmirtam;
see Moreno 1992), honey (ten), coconut water
(ilamr), sandalpaste (cantanam), and rosewater
(pannlr). After each application a camphor light
is shown, then the image is rinsed with noncon-
secrated water. Solid items are smeared thickly
over the image, and afterwards scraped off by hand
for distribution to the sponsors. Unctions always
end with consecrated water, and in regular daily
unctions this is the only liquid used; the large pot
is poured first, then the smaller ones, with one each
reserved for Teyvayanai and Valli.
These ritual steps were concisely summarised
by K. G. Paramesvara Pattar as follows: “The Pat-
tar says life-giving mantras, consecration is done
systematically by the priest, and breath is invoked
(into the image).” (Pattar uyirkotuttal mantiram
collutal avakana kiramappati arccakaral pirana
piratistai kotuttal.)8 He explained that the pots
represent bodies (carlram)\ the coconut (tenkay) is
the head (ciracu) or face (mukam), and the mango
leaves (mankulai) are hair (cikai)\ the threads
(niil), which should ideally be of five colours -
white, red, yellow, green, and black - are veins
and nerves (narampu), and the water (tanmr) is
blood (irattam).
This simplifies textual Saiva Siddhanta views
on worship, but is wholly consistent with them
(Davis 1991). There are also considerable reso-
nances with the consecration rites for images of
Lord Jagannath at Puri temple in Orissa, which
are replaced every 12 years. The wooden images
themselves, which - if the comparison is not too ir-
reverent - resemble characters from the South Park
cartoon series, are hollow, and their central cavities
contain unknown sacra passed on from image to
image. Even the wooden images themselves are
invisible to worshippers because they are wrapped
in red strips of cloth representing blood vessels,
tree resin representing flesh, and perfumed oil, san-
dalpaste and starch, representing marrow, fat, and
semen, respectively (Tripathi 1986:262). Gell’s
8 Pirana piratistai is the rite endowing an image with breath;
avakanam, too, means consecration or deification.
analysis of these images precisely matches K. G.
Paramesvara Pattar’s interpretation of the kumpam
pots: “What we see are [the deities’] visible skins,
but these are only outer wrappings ... Inside there
is a primordial cavity ... And inside the cavity, an
animating presence of some kind” (1998: 148).
In elaborate unctions at least, the largest kum-
pam pot contains roots of various plants: karp-
puram (camphor); kunkumappu (saffron); ilavan-
kam (wild cinnamon); irampu (iramatam, asafoeti-
da?); verri ver (betel); and vilamucci ver (wood-ap-
ple). This is a literalisation of the metaphor that the
main shrine contains the “root image” (mulamurtti)
of Kalukacalamurtti. What is more, these plants
produce the very substances used as piracatam
after worship, suggesting an analogy between wor-
ship and processes of germination, growth, and fer-
tility. Moreover, the cavity within the kumpam pot
therefore holds not only the mysterious, intangible
divine “breath” which subsequently permeates and
animates the stone image, but also the sources
of the material media whereby divine grace is
given substance and made accessible to human
worshippers, imprisoned within the fetters of their
gross bodies.
Looking at unction as a whole, the priest first
purifies himself and his surroundings, then invokes
god into his own body. He then transfers divinity
into the fire to consume the burnt offering, and
finally into the water in the pots. Pouring these
over the image then installs or strengthens the
divine presence there. These operations are all
achieved through the powers of mantras (Brunner-
Lachaux 1963: xxx-xxxvi; Davis 1991:33), and
K. G. Paramesvara likened the grass on the large
pot to an electric wire, connecting the pot to his
mantra. In sum, unction serves to invest the image
with generalised divine power which is given more
precise form in the subsequent stages.
Decoration
The decoration of images varies from temple to
temple, and may also express the deity’s distinc-
tive identity or the context in which a particular
ritual takes place. At Palani, for example, where
Murukan is unmarried, he may be dressed as a
young boy, hunter, wandering ascetic, or prince,
but not in fully regal form (Somalay 1982: 15)-
Other differences are ad hoc, reflecting the priest’s
artistry or the kinds of garment donated by dev-
otees. Kalukacalamurtti usually wears silk vestis
(lower garments) and shoulder-cloths, as well as
a sacred thread, garlands, and sometimes jewels-
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
503
There are some systematic variations in dress
styles when his festival image goes out in pro-
cession - he may, for instance, be dressed as a
hunter or warrior - but although the Murtti is
sometimes dressed much more elaborately, and is
even encased in silver on festival days or when pri-
vately sponsored, there were no obvious contextual
variations in style; colours, for example, were not
significant. Nonetheless, it is always a dramatic
moment when the curtain is thrown back, the
music rises exultantly, and the Murtti is revealed
in the full glory of his clean, fresh costume.
One is tempted to take this process somewhat
for granted, and indeed the explanation that first
occurs - that the deity is honoured by being
dressed in the finest clothes and jewellery - is
valid, though incomplete. In addition, however, the
deity is being provided with component parts, or
“limbs” (ankam). This may indeed happen literal-
ly; festival images often have extra limbs attached
during decoration, thereby equipping them with
the weapons (special powers) needed to accom-
plish the particular task in hand. According to the
Agamas, weapons, clothes, and jewels - like the
deity’s sacred thread and garlands - belong to
°ne of the four categories of accessory limbs
(uparikam), namely those contributing to the de-
dy’s opulence (the other three types contribute to
longevity, fame, and force, respectively). Etymo-
logically, alankdram conveys ideas of adequacy,
completeness, and making ready; it is not mere
decoration, but a means of imbuing the image with
form and strength. Finery is thus an integral part of
the deity, not an optional extra. Human bodies may
f*e subject to alankdram, too - when decked out in
bedding clothes, for example, or dressed and deco-
cted before cremation (Reiniche 1989: 44 f.). More-
0ver, the sacred threads of “twice-born” castes,
and the tali ornaments of married women, are
integral parts of their bodies just like the gods’
accessory limbs (Reiniche 1989:45, footnote 11);
they do not merely symbolise the wearer’s status,
but constitute it. All this applies to speech acts as
Well as ritual ones - indeed, this may be where the
notion originated. Rhetoric and poetry “decorate”
a person by transmitting power and strength to
Ibern; so, a fortiori, do mantras, as already noted.
f^emiche (1989: 45) sums up as follows:
^a>nkdra is thus the final ritual act needed to allow the
completion of worship, which perfects it and renders it
efficacious; the constituting of a “whole” by enumerat-
ing the “limbs” distinguishable within it. In this sense,
ecoration is thus clearly just as highly specialised an
act as the various other ritual sequences.
Anthropos 96.2001
Lastly, Gell draws attention to another general
aspect of this decoration process. In the Puri
consecration mentioned above, divinity is physi-
cally contained or embodied not once but many
times; Gell uses the metaphor of peeling an onion
(1998: 147). Likewise in Saivite daily liturgy, di-
vinity is contained, thanks to the unction, within
the outer “skin” of the stone image, and then that
image too is largely concealed by the vestments
in which it is wrapped during the next stage of
worship. Consequently, all that worshippers see is
the outer or subordinate trappings of the deity’s
power, whose true - contained and concealed -
form remains to be imagined.
Food Offering
Every temple has its own pattern of food offer-
ings (naivettiyam), reflecting the mythology and
supposed preferences of individual deities (Ei-
chinger Ferro-Luzzi 1977a, b, 1978). For example,
Murukan often receives tinaimavu, a millet dish
associated with the tribal group to which Valli
belonged. In Kalugumalai he is offered this during
his first meeting with Valli in the annual Pankuni
Uttiram festival (Good 1989: 189), but not as part
of daily liturgy.
Food offerings in Kalugumalai temple were
listed for me by the experienced ritual servant
N. Sedurama Aiyar, whose duties include cooking
these dishes. This daily menu involves (or in-
volved) all the principal ways of preparing rice, as
in the case of Tiruvannamalai (Reiniche 1989: 65,
footnote 59), though the distribution among the
various services is specific to Kalugumalai:
• tiruvanantal - four plantains (valaippalam)
and five pieces of jaggery (karuppukkatti) are
offered in the bedchambers and main shrine.
They go to the priest afterwards.
• vila pujai - pure white rice (vellai cuttannam),
which goes to temple staff afterwards. Plain
white rice is also offered on the various altars
before Sri Pali Natar’s procession.
• the “royal endowment” (rajanka kattalai) at
11.00, formerly linked with a service called
tirukalacanti, comprises rice, pulses, and milk
pudding (payacam). It goes to the priest and
temple servant on alternate days. Formerly, five
meals were supplied every day, for two of the
priests and three other Brahman staff.
• uccikdlam - boiled beans and rice (paruppu
ponkal) and mantrannam (cooked rice). It goes
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Anthony Good
to the priest afterwards. An offering of pure
white rice, paid for by a private endowment
from Raju caste people from Rajapalaiyam,
goes to the widow who looks after their local
choultry:
• câyaratcai - white rice, later reused. Tamarind
rice (puliyôtarai) and jaggery rice (carkkarai
ponkal) were formerly offered. Plain white rice
is offered on the small altars.
• arttajâmam - tamarind rice made from the
white rice offered at câyaratcai. Jaggery rice,
pancakes (appam), lentil cakes (vatai), and milk
pudding were offered in the past.
• the bedroom offering - campa, white rice with
added pepper, cumin, and ghee - goes to the
singer afterwards. Milk offered in the main bed-
room is distributed to devotees. The plantains
and betel (verrilai pâkku) left there overnight
go to the priest afterwards.
Few aspects of Hindu worship have generated
more controversy and confusion among scholars
than food offerings. Presumably because Vedic
sacrifice looms so large over their discipline,
textual scholars tend to regard food offering as
the core of Hindu worship even when their own
data imply otherwise. Contrast, for example, Da-
vis’s initial comment that both Hindu püja and
Vedic yajna (sacrifice) “center on acts whereby
humans offer food to the gods” (1991:8), with
the limited discussion of food in the rest of his
book (1991: 146,151,154-157). Moreover, paral-
lels between offerings like those listed above, and
Vedic sacrifice, appear overdrawn; both proposi-
tions seem questionable in Malamoud’s aphorism
that “just as sacrifice is kind of cooking, so all
cooking of food is a sacrifice” (cited in Reiniche
1989: 64), though it may well be true that in Hin-
duism all cooked food is potentially a sacrament.
The equivalent anthropological shibboleth is the
notion that food offerings subsequently become
the preeminent form of piracâtam. Adherents of
this view generally start from the premise that
Brahman priests serve gods in the same way as
Washermen and Barbers serve humans, removing
their pollution through unction. Furthermore, wor-
shippers are said to demonstrate their inferiority
by subsequently consuming the food offerings as
piracâtam, just as low castes eat the leftovers of
higher castes (Harper 1964; Babb 1975).
Yet the pervasive Hindu concern with temple
purity is largely a matter of showing proper re-
spect; the fear is of angering the gods, not of
polluting them, as their purity is considered invio-
lable (Fuller 1979). Furthermore, most piracatam
is not food, but ash, kumkum, etc., and when
food is given to worshippers it is not that used as
naivettiyam in the principal shrines, but other food
specially prepared for the purpose. Caste logic
cannot be applicable to divine offerings anyway,
since that would require the cook to be the equal
or superior of the eater; in such terms, gods would
polluted by human food whatever its source. A
more apt analogy, Fuller suggests, is with domestic
relationships; a husband’s purity is not compro-
mised by eating food prepared by his wife, despite
her status inferiority. Hindu priests, in other words,
serve their gods just as Hindu wives serve their
husbands. This fits neatly alongside the commonly
expressed view that puja is a rite of hospitality
towards an honoured guest (Davis 1991: 161), but
whether Fuller’s explanation is correct or not,
his ethnographic findings are incompatible with
the notion that food is the quintessential form of
piracatam, and so cast doubt on interpretations of
piracatam as “divine leftovers.” Because this latter
notion has proved so persistent, it is worth restat-
ing the position in Kalugumalai - and, I believe,
in Madurai and Palani too (Moreno 1992: 153).
Food is never distributed as piracatam during
any services in the daily temple liturgy.9 When
worshippers do receive food, as on some festival
occasions, this is never food previously offered as
naivettiyam during an act of puja in one of the
temple shrines. Moreover, this is entirely orthodox.
The Agamas say that food, once offered, is too
powerful for human consumption; consequently,
“there can be no distribution of Siva’s edible
left-overs to human devotees in a Saiva Siddhanta
temple” (Davis 1991: 155).
In Kalugumalai, 28 rice-balls (catakkattikal) are
prepared each day and supplied to temple staff-
One goes to each of the four office staff (shroff,
accountant, store clerk, suit clerk), the duty priest,
the four ritual servants, the west gate watchman,
office peon, multipurpose man, sweeper, the two
singers, the cattle fairground watchman, and "
when the post existed - the gardener. The chanter
and the other two watchmen get two each, and five
go to the band. Similarly at Tiruvannamalai, pat.'
tai-catam, “bowl-shaped portions of cooked rice,
are provided to priests and other staff, but Reiniche
9 As described earlier, milk offered in the bedroom is given
out to worshippers. Fifty years ago, cooked food was
offered at the same time, and later sold to worshipped
(Zamindar of 'Ettaiyapuram vs. Madras Hindu Religious En-
dowments Board, Appeal Suit No. 462 of 1951, consulted
in Madras High Court). Again, clearly, this was not food
actually offered in the main shrine.
Anthropos 96.2001
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple
505
describes these as “divine meals ... redistributed
into shares” (1989:66), strongly implying that
this is the food previously offered as naivettiyam.
That is certainly not so in Kalugumalai; the raw
materials for rice-balls and naivettiyam are listed
separately in the Store Register, and costed sepa-
rately in the accounts.
One can, however, fruitfully apply to Kalu-
gumalai Reiniche’s insight that offering cooked
food presupposes an entire transformational cycle:
“human work, cooking by the sun, giving up
the produce of work to the deity, ritual work,
and the second cooking by the priest” (1989: 65).
Whatever the actual source of the rice cooked
in the temple kitchen, its theological resonances
are therefore clear. Kalukacalamurtti is intimately
linked to local agricultural fertility through his
marriage to Valli, making him Lord over the
entire territory within which the temple is located.
Although nowadays he “owns” a mere fraction of
that land in any sense recognisable to the modern
state, most local cultivators are worshippers whose
occasional small donations, in effect, render part
of the fruits of the land to its presiding deity.
Naivettiyam offerings also bring pleasure (Skt.,
bhoga) to the deities. The Agamic view is that in
the preparatory stages of worship, priests provide
the deities with bodies through which they can
experience the world. Just as they are equipped
with limbs embodying their specific powers, so too
are they endowed with (Skt.) bhoganga, “limbs
for experience and pleasure,” allowing them to
enjoy the offerings which they subsequently re-
ceive (Reiniche 1989: 65, citing Brunner-Lachaux
1963:208; 1977:318).
Lamp-Showing
The most elaborate daily tiparatanai is at the early
evening service, as we saw. Even here, however,
the sequence of lamps is sometimes replaced by
a single camphor light, the irreducible minimum
Where worship is concerned. Likewise, the normal
evening lamp-showing is itself an abbreviation for
the full sixteen services (cotacopacaram) offered
°n special occasions. It is to this most complete
version that we should turn for a fuller, more
explicit understanding of what is implied by the
shorter variants. According to Agamic sources the
Slxteen services include many activities besides
showing lamps (see Brunner-Lachaux 1963: 332,
f°r example), but in practice the main difference
from regular worship is that sixteen or more
^mps are offered (sixteen lamps showing, cd-
Anthropos 96.2001
taca tiparatanai), followed by the five services
punctuated by single lights.
On the occasion recorded in Table 2 the priest
also dictated to me beforehand the order in which
lamps should be shown, though his subsequent
performance differed in minor respects, mainly
concerning the “energy lamps” (cakti tipam). It is
noteworthy that the lamps preceding these “energy
lamps” are 16 in number. Table 2 compares these
observations with reports from the Minaksi temple
in Madurai and the Murukan temple at Tiruchen-
dur. The Kalugumalai sequence shows consider-
able overlap with lamps 4-11 in the Madurai
list, which represent the vehicles (vdkanam) of
the regents of the eight directions (astatikpalakar).
In Madurai, however, there is a goat lamp not
found in Kalugumalai, and two snake lamps; the
naka tipam is shown in shorter acts of worship to
stand for all eight guardians of the directions, but
is omitted when the carppa tipam and the other
seven guardians are shown (Fuller, pers. comm.).
In Kalugumalai, though, the latter name seemed to
be used merely as a more erudite synonym of the
former. Despite these slight differences, it seems
clear that lamp-showing in Kalugumalai, too, in-
corporates the eight directions. In both cases, what
is being recognised is the deity’s dominion over
the whole of cosmic space.
Lamp-showing also recognises the divine bod-
ies created in the earlier stages of worship. Thus,
the priest shows each lamp or light to the face
(mukam), eyes (kan), tip of the nose (mukku nuni),
throat (kaluttu), heart (itaiyam, or irutayam), and
feet (kal) of the image, before, in a complex clock-
wise gesture, sketching out before it the shape
of dm, the sacred syllable (piranavam). Devotees
judge priests partly by their ability to offer lamps
in aesthetically pleasing ways, and this undoubted-
ly makes a big difference to the impact of worship
as a spectacle. More than that, however, it may be
presumed to increase its effectiveness, since the
showing of lamps, like the preceding food offering
and the “five services” which may follow, is part
of a concerted attempt to please god by gratifying
all the senses with which his newly-materialised
body is endowed (Davis 1991: 154).
In Agamic terms, as we saw, words speak
louder than actions, so it is no surprise when
offerings of lamps and services end with the chant-
ing of mantras and singing of hymns (formerly
with dancing and singing by the tevataci, too).
These praise the deity by proclaiming his supreme
place in the cosmic order of things, and flatter
him by lauding his benevolence. Devotees can
therefore be confident that, if god has indeed been
506
Anthony Good
Table 2: Lamps Used in Worship at Kalugumalai, Madurai,
and Tiruchendur.
Name of Lamp Order in Which Shown3
* A B C D
single-wick oil lamp (urukkuli) 1
3-, 5- or 7-tier lamp (alahkara- or puspatlpam) 1 1 2 1
serpent lamp (carppa tipam) 2 2 3,4 2
man-beast lamp (purusamiruka- tipam, Karutan) 3 3 10 3
elephant lamp (yanai tipam) 4 4 5 5
lion lamp (cihka tipam) 5 5 8
tiger lamp (puli tipam) goat lamp 6 6 6 6
swan lamp (anna tipam) 7 7 8 9
horse lamp (kutirai tipam) 8 8 9 7
10-sided lamp? (pattaraka tipam) 9 9
trident lamp (cilia tipam) 10 10 7
pot lamp (kumpa tipam) 11 11 12
bull lamp (risapa or kdlai tipam) 12 12 11
peacock lamp (ritcam or mayil tipam) 13 13 4
rooster lamp (ceval tipam) 14 14 10
turtle lamp (amai tipam) 15 15 13
thrush lamp (accara tipam) energy lamps (cakti tipam): 16 16 11
7-wick lamp (capta tattu) 19 12
9-wick lamp (navacakti tipam) 17b 20
5-wick lamp (pahca muki tipam) 18 21 13
6-tier mountain lamp (meru tipam) 19 18 14
“quadrilateral” (catarkona tipam) 20 17
3-wick lamp (tirucula tipam) 21 22 14
2-wick oil lamp (tatpurusa tattu) 15
1-wick plate (ottai malar tattu) 22 23 16c
full pot lamp (purna kumpa tipam) 23 24 17
natcattira tipam 15
camphor light (1, 5, or 7 flames) 24 25 18 16
a (A) dictated by K. G. Paramesvara Pattar on the 7th night
of Tai Pucam festival; (B) the subsequent performance; (C)
lamps shown in the Minaksi temple (Fuller, pers. comm.);
(D) lamps shown in Tiruchendur (Kalyanasuntaram 1980:
56).
b After mentioning this lamp, Paramesvara changed his mind
and said the first “energy lamp” had 11 wicks (ekataci);
in practice, though, lamps with 7 and then 9 wicks were
shown.
c For (16) Fuller gives the name Icanya tattu.
properly materialised by correct performance of
the preparatory stages of the puja, and is pleased
by the quality of the food, sensory stimulation,
and entertainment provided, the piracatam which
is subsequently distributed will indeed be fully
imbued with his divine grace.
Field research in 1983-84 was funded by ESRC grant
no. G00230100, visits in 1982 and 1985 were supported
by the University of Edinburgh Flayter Fund, and I made
a self-funded visit in 1992. I thank the Trustee (E.
Thangaswami), Executive Officer (R. Tamilanandan),
and staff of Kalugumalai temple for their friendly as-
sistance, and especially Dr. D. Venkatesan, who helped
gather the data. Marie-Louise Reiniche kindly showed
me sections of her monograph on worship at Tiru-
vannamalai in advance of publication (L’Hernault and
Reiniche 1999), and Chris Fuller generously provided
unpublished details of daily worship in Madurai.
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iropos 96.2001
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2/01
Anthropos
96.2001: 509-525
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz
in einer iranischen Ca&ay£r-Gesellschaft
Burkhard Ganzer
Abstract. - The extreme extension of the procreation period
°f men as well as women in an Iranian casâyer-group results
ln a marked discrepancy between the orders of genealogical
generation and cohort. In the ensuing role-dilemma, the value
°f the genealogical status as against relative seniority is emp-
hasized by means of a behaviour of ritual deference. In general,
however, the conditions of social life and the cognitive milieu
ln societies like that under discussion would not seem to favour
the emergence of sharp role distinctions. Accordingly, the
suitability of an “negotiation approach” for the interpretation
°f identity concepts in these societies is called in question.
[Iran, Doshman-Ziyari, nomadic pastoralist tribes, role theory,
identity]
Burkhard Ganzer, Dr. phil (Tübingen). - Feldforschung
1996-97 in Südwestiran. - Publikationen u. a.: Kategorie und
^erwandtschaftsterminologie in der Theorie der präskriptiven
Allianz (Frankfurt 1979); Altruismus, Egoismus, Interaktion.
Bemerkungen zu M.D. Sahlins’ Reziprozitätskontinuum (Zeit-
schrift für Ethnologie 1981); Lewis Henry Morgan. In: W. Mar-
sehall (Hrsg.), Klassiker des anthropologischen Denkens (Mün-
chen 1990); Zur Bestimmung des Begriffs der ethnischen Grup-
Pe (Sociologies 1990); Kulturelle Distanz und “ethnographic
refusal”. Zur Ethnographie iranischer Nomadengesellschaften
(Anthropos 2000).
I
üas Bild der iranischen Nomadenfamilie bzw.
des nomadischen Haushalts, das Fredrik Barth
ünd andere in ihren Schriften entworfen haben,
Ermittelt dem Leser nicht das Gefühl, einer
auffallend andersartigen Institution gegenüberzu-
stehen. Vor dem Hintergrund der praktischen
Orientierung dieser Gesellschaften und ihrer
ausgeprägten Armut an Ritual zeigen sich unab-
hängige und selbständige Haushalte, in denen,
bei aller Dominanz des Mannes, die Frauen in
zahlreichen Angelegenheiten - mindestens allen,
die mit der Nahrungsmittelproduktion, mit Ver-
wandtschaft, Heirat und Familie zu tun haben -
ein wirkungsvolles Mitspracherecht besitzen und
sich ganz allgemein einer vergleichsweise freien
Stellung erfreuen. So kann Barth befinden: “The
internal authority pattern of the Basseri is thus
very similar to that of the urban Western family”
(1964: 15).
Auch in quantitativer Hinsicht trifft das Gesagte
zu. Mit 5,7 Personen (Barth 1964: 12) erscheint
der statistische Durchschnittshaushalt keinesfalls
als von exotischem Umfang, besonders, wenn man
berücksichtigt, daß in dieser Zahl auch hier und
da attachierte weitere, nicht zur Kernfamilie gehö-
rende Einzelpersonen enthalten sind. Auch wenn
dieser Durchschnitt wohl nicht den europäischen
Verhältnissen in der Stadt entspricht, so doch si-
cherlich denen, die bis vor einigen Jahrzehnten in
Europa auf dem Lande vorherrschten.
Doch ist der Eindruck dieser Übereinstim-
mung trügerisch. Denn die Zählung in ihrem Mo-
mentaufnahmencharakter verdeckt die Tatsache,
daß vielen dieser Haushalte, diachron betrachtet,
noch weitere Kinder zuzurechnen sind, nämlich
einerseits diejenigen, die am Tag der Datenerhe-
bung bereits selbständig waren und den Haushalt
verlassen hatten, und andererseits die zu die-
sem Zeitpunkt noch gar nicht Geborenen. Da-
mit aber wird ein Zug mitsamt seinen strukturel-
len Folgeerscheinungen ausgeblendet, in dem die
510
Burkhard Ganzer
casäyerx-Gesellschaften sich doch, und zwar mar-
kant, von den europäischen unterscheiden, näm-
lich die extrem ausgedehnte Prokreationsphase des
Mannes sowohl wie der Frau.
Nähere Angaben zu diesem Charakteristikum
finden sich bei Barth nicht. Auch in dem für
die AAdycr-Bevölkerung veranstalteten speziel-
len Census von 1987 (Markaz-e ämär-e Iran
1369[1991]; vgl. Amirahmadi 1993) wurden Da-
ten, die darüber Aufschluß geben könnten, wie
etwa die Anzahl der Geburten einer Frau, nicht
erhoben. Die Beobachtungen, auf die die folgen-
den Erörterungen sich stützen, können hierfür zwar
nicht entschädigen, da sie sich im wesentlichen
auf eine einzige Gruppe, die Doshman-Ziyari der
Provinz Kohgilüye wa Boyr-Ahmad1 2, beschrän-
ken, doch gestattet die große kulturelle Ähnlichkeit
der casäyer im Südwesten Irans zweifellos, die
Aussagen wenigstens in diesem Rahmen bis zu
einem gewissen Grade zu verallgemeinern.
II
Bei den Doshman-Ziyari wirken die sozialen und
kulturellen Gegebenheiten dahin, daß die fakti-
sche Ausdehnung der Reproduktionsphase mit der
der biologischen fast zusammenfällt und so der
Wertschätzung zahlreicher Nachkommenschaft,
besonders von Söhnen, die hier wie in allen
Gesellschaften dieser Art ausgeprägt ist, in bei-
nahe optimaler Weise entsprochen werden kann
(Amänollahi-Bahärwand 1360[1982]: 103). Die
jungen Männer der Doshman-Ziyari heiraten mit
durchschnittlich ca. 20 Jahren früh. Infolge der
Tatsache, daß die Männer nach der Eheschließung
in erweiterten Haushalten mit den Eltern und
Brüdern weiter Zusammenleben, der Besitz des
Haushalts also nicht in “viable” Teile zerlegt
zu werden braucht, und daß, dank der Endoga-
mietendenz, die finanziellen Aufwendungen für
die Eheschließung sich im allgemeinen in einem
1 Offizielle Bezeichnung und Selbstbezeichnung des tribal
organisierten, Viehzucht betreibenden und ursprünglich -
und partiell auch jetzt noch - nomadischen Teils der Bevöl-
kerung Irans. Zur genaueren definitorischen Bestimmung
siehe Firüzän 1362[1984]: 11 ff.; Amirahmadi 1993 und
Tapper 1994: 197 f.
2 Kohgilüye wa Boyr-Ahmad, ca. 200 km nordwestl. von
Shiraz gelegen, ist die kleinste Provinz (ostän) Irans und
besitzt eine fast zur Gänze aus casäyer bestehende, in 6
Stämmen organisierte Bevölkerung. Die Doshman-Ziyari
bilden mit ca. 15.000-18.000 Personen - Angaben sind
unsicher, vgl. Afsär-Sistäni 1366[1988]: 595; Y. Gaffäri
1374[ 1996]: 17; Markaz-e ämär-e Irän 1369[1991]: 13 - die
zweitkleinste dieser Gruppen.
erträglichen Rahmen halten, sind zwei in ver-
gleichbaren Gesellschaften häufig anzutreffende
Hinderungsgründe früher Eheschließung hier nicht
gegeben. In besonderen Fällen kann die Verhei-
ratung sogar noch früher erfolgen, etwa wenn der
Sexualdrang eines Jugendlichen, der nicht über
ausreichende Selbstkontrolle verfügt und damit die
Ehre seiner Familie zu schädigen droht, in legale
Bahnen gelenkt werden muß.
Auf der anderen Seite wird die Zeugungstätig-
keit bis zum Erlöschen der Funktion aufrechter-
halten. Es gibt hier keine Vorstellung einer schick-
lichen Begrenzung, eines “Zu-alt-Seins” für die
sexuelle Aktivität, wie es auch auffälligerweise
gerade ältere Männer sind, die - wenn auch halb
im Scherz - mit Potenz und sexueller Bedürftigkeit
prahlen. Die Zeitspanne, in der ein Mann sich
fortpflanzt, kann daher fast 50 Jahre umfassen. Mit
dieser Ex tensión übertrifft sie die der Frau, obwohl
in deren Fall infolge des frühen Heiratszeitpunkts
der Mädchen der faktische Beginn der Reproduk-
tionsphase fast mit dem Einsetzen der biologischen
Funktion zusammenfällt. Da es eine normative
Begrenzung des Fortpflanzungsalters nach oben
hin auch bei der Frau nicht gibt und auch bei ihr
ein Persistieren des sexuellen Appetits, auf dessen
Befriedigung sie zudem einen Anspruch hat, für
ausgemacht gilt, wird ihr prokreatives Vermögen
im allgemeinen voll ausgeschöpft.3 Kann dies,
wenn sie erheblich jünger ist als ihr Ehemann
und früh zur Witwe wird, in ihrer ersten Ehe
nicht geschehen, so tritt die Institution des Levi-
rats in Funktion, die auf der Forderung beruht,
eine Witwe nicht ohne Ehemann zu lassen, so-
lange sie noch in der Lage ist, Kinder zu gebä-
ren. In einer Konstellation dieser Art wurde die
Ehefrau zweier Führer der Doshman-Ziyari zur
Mutter eines (Halb-)Geschwister-Sets, dem fünf
der sechs Khane entstammten, die zwischen 1906
und 1946 an der Spitze des Stammes standen.
Der Mann kann den verbleibenden, gewisserma-
ßen überschüssigen Rest seiner Reproduktions-
phase auf dem Wege polygyner Verbindungen
- vorausgesetzt, er ist materiell zu solchen in
der Lage - ebenfalls noch nutzen. Mehrheiraten
bei den Doshman-Ziyari sind deshalb überwiegend
von der Art, daß nach langjähriger Einehe eine
zweite, sehr viel jüngere Frau hinzugenommen
3 Die sädät (sing, seyyed: Abkömmlinge des Propheten)
behaupten, daß ihren Frauen, als Zeichen des besonderen
göttlichen Segens, der auf dieser Gruppe ruht, zehn weitere
Jahre der Gebärfähigkeit geschenkt seien, diese also bis
etwa zum 55. Lebensjahr reiche. Dem wurde allerdings
von Ärzten entschieden widersprochen (obwohl sich die
Behauptung auch in Khomeinis resale findet).
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen Casa;yer-Gesellschaft
511
wird. Die Polygynie ist in diesen Fällen ihrer
Intention nach also seriell, hat nicht die Vermeh-
rung von Prokreationspotential und sexuellem Reiz
zum Zweck, sondern deren Ersatz, wo diese in
der ersten Ehefrau erloschen bzw. schwach und
unbefriedigend geworden sind.
Die Streckung der reproduktiven Phase wirkt
sich im Falle von isolierten Haushalten, wie den
von Barth diskutierten, auf die Arbeitsorganisation
aus, insofern durch sie die Zeitspanne, in der ein
Haushalt die erforderliche Arbeitskraft nicht aus
seinem eigenen Personal zu bestreiten vermag,
verkürzt wird. Entsprechend herabgesetzt wird da-
durch auch das Risiko von Unannehmlichkeiten
und Konflikten, das die Indienstnahme von Lohn-
hirten typischerweise mit sich führt (vgl. Barth
1964:21; Beck 1980: 338 ff.). Bei den Doshman-
Ziyari, die das Problem der Aufbringung fami-
lieneigener Arbeitskräfte eigentlich schon durch
ihre erweiterten Haushalte gelöst haben, wirkt der
genannte Zug verstärkend, so daß heutzutage bei
den normalen Herdenbesitzern meist nur der eine
Teil des entstehenden Arbeitskräftepools, die jun-
gen Mädchen, für die Hütearbeit benötigt wird und
die Jungen für den Schulbesuch freistehen.
Aus der maximalen Ausnutzung der reproduk-
tiven Phase resultiert theoretisch eine hohe Kin-
derzahl - ob sie auch faktisch hoch ist, hängt
vor allem vom Maß der Kindersterblichkeit ab.
T>iese hat der iranische Staat in den beiden letzten
Jahrzehnten so wirkungsvoll bekämpft, daß er sich
nunmehr zu einer korrigierenden Politik der Ge-
burtenbeschränkung genötigt sieht. Während aber
die Erhöhung der durchschnittlichen Kinderzahl
die Ausdehnung der Prokreationsphase nicht tan-
giert hat, werden die gegenläufigen Maßnahmen
der Geburtenkontrolle, da sie eine vorzeitige Be-
endigung der Fortpflanzungsaktivität bewirken, die
Besonderheit notwendigerweise zum Verschwin-
den bringen.
III
V°n dieser soll nun ein eher struktureller als prakti-
scher Aspekt betrachtet werden, nämlich die Aus-
wirkung, die sie auf das Verhältnis der genealogi-
Schen Generation zur Generation in dem anderen
Sinne der “Kohorte” (Kertzer 1983) hat, die durch
das Kriterium einer “bestimmten Reihe benachbar-
ter Geburtszeitpunkte” gegeben ist (Buchhofer et
1970: 308). Im Westen ist man gewohnt, das
'yerhältnis dieser beiden Strukturen als das der
Kongruenz zu denken, d. h. man attribuiert der
2u einem genealogischen Status gehörenden Rolle
Anth
einen Altersaspekt, mit dem das Lebensalter des
Status-Inkumbenten übereinstimmen muß, wenn
er die Rolle konsumieren, also in angemessener
Weise ausfüllen soll. Daß dieser Sachverhalt als
der normale konzipiert wird, zeigt sich auch daran,
daß man es für tunlich oder notwendig befand,
durch terminologische Unterscheidung auf das Be-
stehen einer Divergenz aufmerksam zu machen
(vgl. Vinovskis 1977; Eider 1975). Denn auch in
westlichen Gesellschaften gilt
... when a population is divided on genealogical princi-
ples into various generations, there is substantial over-
lapping in age among the various generations. To the
extent that this is true, it is impossible to properly
characterize the generations in terms of their common
characteristics vis-à-vis other generations. It is, in short,
inappropriate to refer to them in cohort terms; members
of thè same “generation” have lived through different
historical periods (Kertzer 1983: 130).
Hierbei ist jedoch das Wort “population” zu beach-
ten, denn es zeigt an, daß die Sichtweise, die der
Autor hier einnimmt und unter deren Bedingung
allein der obige Satz zutrifft, die soziozentrische
ist. Geht man nämlich stattdessen von einem Ego
aus und betrachtet jenen Kreis seiner Verwand-
ten, in dem die Verwandtschaftsrelation bewußt
ist und Folgen für die Praxis hat, so ergibt sich
ein anderer Schluß. Entsprechend dem soeben Be-
merkten ist in modernen westlichen Gesellschaften
der Bereich des Lebensalters, in dem Elternschaft
gebilligt wird, aufgrund normativer Vorstellungen
von der Elternrolle in seiner Ausdehnung und
Plazierung einigermaßen festgelegt. In dem Maße,
in dem Eltern von unten her einen Abstand zu
dieser Zone aufweisen, erscheint ihre Fähigkeit,
die Anforderungen ihrer Rolle zu erfüllen, als
zweifelhaft, wie andererseits Abweichungen nach
oben sie dem Bereich der Elternrolle entfremden
und dem einer anderen, der der Großeltern, annä-
hern. Die tatsächliche Einschränkung geht aber im
einzelnen Fall noch weiter; bei der durchschnittlich
sehr begrenzten Kinderzahl und dem herrschenden
Bestreben, die Abstände zwischen den Geburten
relativ klein zu halten, macht die tatsächliche
Alterszone der Elternschaft überwiegend nur einen
Teilbereich der potentiellen aus, innerhalb derer
sie je nach den Gegebenheiten weiter oben oder
unten plaziert wird. Infolgedessen liegen die End-
glieder einer Geschwisterreihe hinsichtlich ihres
Altersunterschieds im allgemeinen nicht sehr weit
auseinander.
Die normative Bindung der Geschwisterreihe
an ihre Alterszone besteht auf allen Generations-
ebenen. Verhältnisse, in denen etwa der Onkel sich
'ropos 96.2001
512
Burkhard Ganzer
in der Nähe des Cousins oder aber des Großvaters
befindet, werden als anomal empfunden. Zwar
trifft sicher zu, daß, wie Fortes (1984: 103) be-
merkt, heutzutage solche Verhältnisse keine “Prob-
lems of personal or social adjustement” mehr ver-
ursachen. Doch ist nicht zu bestreiten, daß sie nicht
völlig frei sind von der moralisch-ästhetischen
Bedenklichkeit, die der ursprünglichen Anomalie,
der sie ihre Entstehung verdanken, anhaftet. Für
den Nahbereich der Verwandtschaft hat also in
der westlichen Gesellschaft die Normvorstellung
der Kongruenz von Generation und Kohorte tat-
sächlich Gültigkeit und wird überwiegend auch
realisiert.
Wie nimmt sich nun, angesichts der andersarti-
gen demographischen Gegebenheiten, dieses Ver-
hältnis bei den Doshman-Ziyari aus? Betrachten
wir die folgenden Fälle:
Abb. 1 (a, b)
90
—J ?
À À t o 1 À Á ¿
Abb. 2 (a, b)
Abb. 2 zeigt die Wirkung der Sekundärheiraten.
Die viel jüngere Frau von B (C) wird nach dessen
Tod in leviratischer Zweitehe wieder verheiratet -
und zwar nicht mit dem Bruder A ihres Mannes,
sondern dem Neffen D, der nun seinerseits er-
heblich jünger ist als sie selbst. Der Sohn aus
dieser zweiten Ehe (E) hat infolgedessen uterine
Halbgeschwister, die ihn altersmäßig beträchtlich
überragen - sie sind zugleich die Kinder seines
agnatischen Großonkels. D seinerseits heiratet aus
den im Abschn. II genannten Gründen in zweiter
(polygyner) Ehe eine Frau, die jünger ist als E, ihr
Stiefsohn. Aus dieser Ehe entstehen dem letzteren
agnatische Halbgeschwister etwa im Alter seiner
eigenen Kinder. Im ganzen gehören also E’s Halb-
geschwister ihrem Alter nach sowohl der F+l- als
auch der F-l-Generation an. Sein Geschwister-Set
erstreckt sich über drei der durch den primären
Generationstakt abgegrenzten Altersschichten.
Abb. la zeigt die Verwandtschaftsbeziehungen
eines Teils der Angehörigen eines Haushalts,
Abb. lb zugleich die Altersverhältnisse dieser Per-
sonen. Der älteste Sohn C des Haushaltsvorstands
B zählt 40 Jahre, sein jüngster Sohn D drei Jahre.
Der Generationstakt beträgt für den ältesten Sohn
ca. 20 Jahre, für den jüngsten fast das Dreifache.
Anders ausgedrückt: der Altersabstand zwischen
dem jüngsten Sohn und seinem Vater ist erheblich
größer als der zwischen dem ältesten Sohn und
dessen Großvater.4 * Altersgenossen dieses jüngsten
Sohnes D können Väter haben, die weit jünger
sind als sein ältester Bruder. Zugleich sind, infolge
der Spreizung der Geschwistergruppe über die
Altersschichten, bestimmte der kollateralen G-l-
Verwandten von D, (E), nicht nur nicht jünger
als er, sondern älter. Aus anderem Blickwinkel
betrachtet, bedeutet dies, daß der Enkel von C,
(F), sich etwa im selben Alter befindet wie C’s
jüngster Bruder (D).
4 Auf die Konsequenzen einer derartigen Spreizung des
Bruder-Sets für die Berechnung des durchschnittlichen Ge-
nerationstakts hat Schlee (1994) in einer Kritik an Brau-
kämper aufmerksam gemacht.
Abb. 3 (a, b)
Im dritten Beispiel (Abb. 3) zeigt sich ein noch
extremerer Effekt dieser Faktoren. B hat in zweiter
Ehe eine Frau (C) geheiratet, die etwas jünger
ist als sein Sohn (D) aus der ersten Ehe. Die
Kinder aus dieser zweiten Verbindung (G) sind
etwas jünger als die Enkel (F) aus der ersten,
oder, in veränderter Perspektive ausgedrückt: die
(Halb-)Onkel/Tanten (G) von D sind jünger als
dieser selbst. Die Mutter von G wurde nach dem
Tode ihres Mannes in leviratischer Zweitehe mit
einem seiner Halbbrüder verheiratet. Dieser (E) ist
wesentlich jünger als sie, gehört der Altersschicht
von F an, obwohl er genealogisch ein Sohn von
dessen t/rgroßvater, also sein Halbgroßonkel ist -
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen r<zvay<?r-Gesellschaft
513
eine Sachlage, die die Wirkung der vollen Aus-
schöpfung der Prokreationsphase, d. h. die Diskre-
panz zwischen dem primären Generationstakt und
dem, der durch die Abfolge der jüngsten Kinder
der jeweils letzten Ehen gesetzt ist, eindrucksvoll
zeigt. Die Kinder (H) dieses Mannes sind ute-
rine Halbgeschwister von G, im Alter zwischen
G selbst und dessen Kindern liegend, während
die agnatischen Halbgeschwister von G sich etwa
auf dem Alterslevel der Mutter befinden. Etwas
weniger ausgeprägt als im 2. Fall übersteigt also
auch hier der Geschwister-Set die Kohortengren-
zen nach oben und unten.
Was wir in diesen drei Beispielen vor uns ha-
ben, ist ein durch sein Ausmaß auffälliges Mißver-
hältnis der Ordnungen von Generation und Kohor-
te, das, graphisch betrachtet, als Schräg- oder Win-
kellage der Generation im Verhältnis zur Kohorte
erscheint. Hervorgebracht wird es durch eine mehr
oder weniger gravierende Dislokation des Gene-
rationsstatus, deren Ursache die oben genannten
Mechanismen sind. Die Geschwistergruppen, in
denen die genealogischen Generationen Gestalt an-
nehmen, decken sich hinsichtlich des Lebensalters
ihrer Glieder nicht mit den “shifting social gener-
ations” (Baxter and Almagor 1978: 164), halten
sich nicht innerhalb der Grenzen des zugehörigen
Altersbereichs, sondern überschreiten diese, und
zwar in einem Ausmaß, das mit dem Terminus
“overlapping” aus dem obigen Zitat von Kertzer,
sofern dieser eine Überschneidung in den Randbe-
reichen meint, nicht mehr angemessen bezeichnet
wäre.
IV
^as läßt sich zu den Folgen dieser Sachlage
sagen - ist das Auseinanderklaffen der beiden
Ordnungen problematisch, führt die kategoria-
Verwirrung zu Schwierigkeiten irgendwelcher
Art?
In der Ethnologie ist das Problem dieser Diver-
§enz in erster Linie im Zusammenhang mit Alters-
ünd Generationsklassen, also für Gesellschaften
Ostafrikas erörtert worden, da dort das Verhältnis
v°n Generation und Kohorte systemischen Cha-
rter besitzt und daher vermutet werden kann,
daß Diskrepanzen folgenschwer sind. Die Exten-
Sl°n der Geschwistergruppe, auf die sich auch
dort Polygynie und Levirat (und andere Formen
d£r “widow inheritance”) verstärkend auswirken,5
rtluß eingedämmt werden, da das Funktionieren
5 Stewart 1977; Spencer 1978: 133 f.; Müller 1990.
Anthropos 96.2001
des Systems an die Voraussetzung gebunden ist,
daß “fathers will beget sons within a limited time
span, and that therefore there will be approximate
accord between age and generation” (Baxter and
Almagor 1978: 163). Um das durchzusetzen, ver-
fügen solche Systeme über zusätzliche Regeln und
Vorkehrungen, die die Entstehung anomaler Indi-
viduen verhindern sollen (164). Eine Maßnahme
dieser Art ist der “token infanticide” der Boran,
bei dem Kinder, die nach den Regeln des Systems
unnormal sind, auf einem Dunghaufen ausgesetzt
werden und danach zwar am Leben bleiben - in
Familien einer endogamen Schmiede- und Jäger-
kaste aufwachsen -, aber doch aus dem System
ausgeschieden werden (Baxter 1978: 172 ff.).
Bei den Doshman-Ziyari sind Generation und
Altersgruppe nicht in dieser Weise institutionali-
siert; das verschärfende Moment der Systematisie-
rung ist hier also nicht gegeben. Abwesend ist das
Problem darum jedoch keineswegs. Es verhält sich
nicht so, daß der Generationsstatus, wo er sich
von der ihm zugehörigen Alters Schicht entfernt,
unkenntlich würde, sich in den umfassenderen und
einzig bedeutsamen des (relativen) Alters auflöste
- vergleichbar etwa mit der Art, in der, nach der
Auffassung von Barth (1973), das verwandtschaft-
liche Feld hinsichtlich der Merkmale agnatisch vs.
matrilateral unstrukturiert ist und lediglich durch
den Gradienten nah/fern differenziert wird. Die ge-
nealogische Position hat ihr Eigengewicht, besitzt
einen Rang aus eigenem Recht.
Für die Frauen gilt dies nur in geringerem
Maße, d. h. bei ihnen wird der Generationsstatus
durch die sozial primäre Eigenschaft, die in ihrem
Fall die Eignung zur Verheiratung ist, tatsäch-
lich im wesentlichen neutralisiert.6 Daher läßt das
durch die Frau definierte Generationsverhältnis der
männlichen Elemente einer in-law-Gruppierung
keine Schlüsse auf die Altersrelation der Protago-
nisten, und nur in eingeschränktem Maße solche
auf ihre Interaktionsbeziehungen zu. So standen
z. B. die Beteiligten an einem intertribalen Kom-
plott, in dem zwei Khane - einer ein Doshman-
Ziyari - die Ermordung zweier anderer planten,
6 Die folgende Anekdote um einen Khan der Tayyebi, der
westlichen Nachbarn der Doshman-Ziyari, illustriert diese
Äquivalenz: Besagter Khan hatte den Bruder seiner Frau,
den Führer der mächtigen Boyr-Ahmadi, dadurch verhöhnt
und beleidigt, daß er ihm nach langjähriger Ehe seine
Frau mit dem Bekunden zurücksandte, er habe ihr (nach
dem persischen Ausdruck) “die Scheidung gegeben” (taläq
dädan), da sie ihm nun zu alt geworden sei; sollte er,
ihr Bruder, jedoch am Weiterbestehen der familiären Ver-
bindung interessiert sein, so möge er ihm zum Ersatz seine
Tochter schicken (Taqawi-Moqaddam 1377[1999]: 162).
514
Burkhard Ganzer
in einer Kette von Schwiegervater-Schwiegersohn-
Verbindungen, die durch vier Generationen reich-
te (siehe Loeffler 1978: 162, für einen ähnlichen
Fall).
Bei den Männern jedoch ist dieses Eigenge-
wicht, der autonome Rang des Genealogischen
klar erkennbar. Es wirkt sich hier zunächst auf
das Binnen Verhältnis einer Statusgruppe aus, d. h.
sofern diese nicht von außen, sondern in ihrer
internen Verfassung, als Gruppe von Brüdern be-
trachtet wird. Zwischen den Brüdern selbst wirkt
ehteräm (Respekt, Wertschätzung), und dies, nimmt
man das Alter unterhalb der Schwelle aus, an der
ein Individuum soziale Normen zu begreifen und
auf ihre Forderungen zu respondieren beginnt, un-
abhängig vom Alter. In dem Verhältnis der Brüder
ist, bei aller Verbundenheit und Einigkeit nach
außen, ein Moment von fasele, Abstand, enthalten,
ein Reflex des Appelativen und Verpflichtenden,
das in der Tatsache ihrer gemeinsamen Zugehörig-
keit in identischer Position zu dem verwandtschaft-
lich-genealogischen Gesamtzusammenhang liegt.
Vom Standpunkt des Sohnes einer der Brüder
betrachtet, bedeutet dies, daß die Eigenschaft der
ehteräm-Würdigkeit vom Vater auf dessen Brüder
extendiert wird und sämtliche Inkumbenten des
Status FB auszeichnet. Die Doshman-Ziyari ver-
sichern darum übereinstimmend, daß Egos Pflicht,
einem Angehörigen der Kategorie diesen Respekt
zu erweisen, durch den Ausgleich, ja selbst die
Umkehrung, der Altersrelation nicht hinfällig wird.
Von der Zeit an, wo ein solcher Verwandter alt ge-
nug ist, um bei den entsprechenden Gelegenheiten
als Teilnehmer einbezogen zu werden, erfährt er
deshalb von seiten seines genealogisch Nachgeord-
neten die seinem Status gebührende ehrerbietige
Bevorzugung - also z. B. beim Eintritt in einen
Raum oder beim Passieren einer Engstelle, bei der
Plazierung der Gäste in einem Empfangsraum, die
einem Schema folgt, nach dem der beste Platz
“oben”, d. h. am weitesten entfernt von der Tür
sich befindet, wo die Sphäre der Haushaltsaktivi-
täten, der Frauen und der Familienintimität noch
bemerkbar ist - bei der Benutzung des Hand-
waschbeckens zu Beginn eines Gastmahls, des-
sen eigentlich mechanisches Herumgehen durch
Eingriffe aufgrund von Rangerwägungen gestört
wird, beim Zuteilen von Speisen, Genußmitteln
und Komfort aller Art usw. Da alle diese presta-
tions nicht sogleich akzeptiert werden, sondern es
die Etikette gebietet, daß der Benefiziar sich ziert
und versucht sie einer anderen Person zukommen
zu lassen, die dadurch für den Moment als die
würdigere definiert wird, ergeben sich für den
älteren Generationsjunior vielfältige Möglichkei-
ten, die Deferenz gegenüber dem jüngeren G+l-
Verwandten in Verhaltensakten zum Ausdruck zu
bringen.
Die beiden Status der FB-BS-Dyade in einem
derartigen Fall sind in hohem Maße inkonsistent.
Denn obwohl die dem FB bezeugte Achtung dem
Verwandtschaftsstatus gilt und die Ehrwürdigkeit
und die Pflicht zur Ehrerbietung nicht mit dem
Altersunterschied verschwinden, bleibt doch die
Tatsache bestehen, daß aus natürlichen Gründen
das Merkmal des Alters mit dem G+l-Status bis
zu einem gewissen Grad assoziiert ist.7 Die genea-
logische Kategorie schließt den jugendlichen FB
als vollgültiges Mitglied ein - wird die Kategorie
des FB jedoch nicht als “kintype” genommen,
sondern als konkreter sozialer Status verstanden,
so weist sie eine Zugehörigkeitsgradation auf, de-
ren Optimum durch die Altersähnlichkeit mit dem
Vater bezeichnet ist. Anders ausgedrückt: der dem
Vater auch in dieser Beziehung ähnliche FB ist
der typischere Vertreter der (sozialen) Kategorie;8
im Verhältnis zum jüngeren des vorher genannten
Beispiels weist er das Merkmal der “category
exemplariness” (Cuyckens 1984: 179) auf. Nicht
seine genealogische, aber seine soziale, umfassen-
de Qualität als Onkel wird - etwa analog zur
Definitionslockerung in polysemischen Verwandt-
schaftskategorien (vgl. Scheffler and Lounsbury
1971: 6 ff.) - durch das Verschwinden bzw. die
Konvertierung des Altersunterschieds zu Ego be-
einträchtigt. Die Konsumation seiner Rolle, d. h.
ihre volle Realisierung, erfordert also die Ähn-
lichkeit mit dem Vater auch in diesem sekundä-
ren Merkmal, setzt voraus, daß die einander ent-
sprechenden Ränge der beiden Statusdimensionen
im Rollenträger Zusammentreffen. Diese Voraus-
setzung aber ist hier in auffälliger Weise nicht
gegeben. Dies kommt auch darin zum Ausdruck,
daß ehteräm in der Interaktion zwar erwiesen, aber
nicht durch den jüngeren Onkel gefordert wird.
Die Komplementarität des Rollenverhaltens ist
weitgehend außer Kraft gesetzt, wie auch andere
Rollenmomente, besonders Befehl und Gehorsam,
in diesem Sonderfall der Beziehung nicht in Funk-
tion sind.9
7 Ein ähnliches Spannungsverhältnis zeigt sich bei den Ehen
älterer Männer mit sehr jungen Frauen: obwohl sie gesetz-
lich nicht zu beanstanden sind und nicht selten Vorkommen,
werden sie keineswegs als mit der natürlichen Ordnung völ-
lig übereinstimmend empfunden, wie die nicht öffentliche
Reaktion auf derartige Verbindungen klar zeigt.
8 Zur Thematik der Prototypen siehe z. B. MacLaury 1991-
9 Bei den Tallensi machen es die Heiratsregeln möglich,
daß jemand einen klassifikatorischen Vater (FFWS) hat, der
sehr viel jünger ist als er selbst. Fortes beschreibt, wie ein
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen caMyer-Gesellschaft
515
Die Wahrnehmung von Anomalie, von einer
in der Konfiguration der Rollen gegebenen Un-
stimmigkeit ist unter solchen Umständen wohl
unvermeidlich. Sie zeigt sich hier z. B. daran,
daß die Doshman-Ziyari den Autor stets auf Fälle
dieser Art als auf etwas Besonderes, Ungewöhn-
liches aufmerksam machten. Es fehlt hier auch
ein die Diskrepanz entschärfendes Moment, wie
es z. B. bei den Tallensi durch die komplementä-
re Verteilung der beiden Rangtypen gegeben ist.
Dort gebührt dem klassifikatorischen Vater (vgl.
Fußnote 9) in den internen Angelegenheiten der
Lineage der Vorrang, obwohl mit seinem klassi-
fikatorischen Sohn ein älterer Agnate zur Verfü-
gung steht. In den politischen Beziehungen der
Clans liegt das Rangprivileg jedoch beim Alter, so-
daß beide Merkmale zu ihrem Recht kommen und
nicht miteinander konkurrieren (Fortes 1984: 102).
Eine solche Sphärentrennung findet sich bei den
Doshman-Ziyari nicht. Daß dennoch bei ihnen
alle massiveren Äußerungen von Rollenkonflikt -
Befangenheit, Verhaltensunsicherheit, das Gefühl
der Beteiligten, sich in einer “schiefen” Lage zu
befinden, etc. - fehlen, läßt die Annahme zu,
daß hier eine Bemühung um die Gestaltung der
Situation wirksam ist, und daß die Akteure die
Gegebenheiten der Situation auf eine Weise wahr-
nehmen, in der der diskrepante, konfliktträchtige
Gehalt der Rollen durch eine Art von Abstraktion,
auf die Wertvorstellungen und eine moralische
Intention prägend einwirken, neutralisiert wird.
Hier mag ein kurzer Blick auf Francis Hsus
Theorie der Interdependenz von dyadischen Bezie-
hungen in Verwandtschaftssystemen von Nutzen
Sein, und zwar auf die zentrale Teilthese, die die
charakteristischen Attribute dieser Dyaden betrifft.
Enter denen sind “the logical or typical mode[s]
°f behavior and attitude intrinsic to each dyad”
(1971:8) zu verstehen. Im Falle der Bruder-Bru-
her-Dyade ist dies im besonderen die Eigenschaft
her Gleichheit: “Of all the dyads in the nuclear
family, brothers are more likely to be equal in age
and occupy more nearly equivalent positions in
Ihe social System than others” (17). Die Gleich-
heit bringt den zweiten charakteristischen Zug der
Dy ade, die Rivalität, hervor oder begünstigt zu-
mindest seine Entstehung (17). Der “content” der
Beziehung, d. h. die “characteristics which govern
the tenacity, intensity, and variety of interaction
atnong individuals” (6), ist in Hsus These also
solcher Sohn seinen Vater wegen einer Verfehlung zwar
rügt, durch die besondere Beziehung zu ihm aber gehemmt
wird ihn zu schlagen, wie er es bei einem normalen Jünge-
rn tun würde (1984: 102).
Anthropos 96.2001
als wesentlich politischer - im weiteren Sinne -
bestimmt.
Hiermit ist das oben Dargestellte kaum zu
vereinbaren; die große Altersspanne der Brüder-
gruppe nimmt der Hypothese für die weiter aus-
einanderliegenden Glieder des Bruder-Sets ganz
die Grundlage. “Gleich” sind in der letzteren
Konstellation nicht die Brüder, sondern der Nef-
fe und der Onkel. Mit der “general equality”
zwischen solchen Brüdern fehlt aber auch die
Voraussetzung dafür, daß der wesentliche Gehalt
ihrer Beziehung in Rivalität besteht - schon gar
in Rivalität der verschärften Bedeutung, die Hsu
dem Begriff beilegt.10 11 Unter solchen Umständen
sind die politischen Konkurrenzrelationen weniger
zwischen den Brüdern zu erwarten als zwischen
diesen und Angehörigen anderer genealogischer
Generationen, die im politischen Sinne kompatibel
sind, d. h. ihrer gesamten Beschaffenheit nach als
Rivalen zu fungieren vermögen. Tatsächlich stehen
Gegner in Machtauseinandersetzungen häufig in
der Relation FB-BS zueinander. In den dreißi-
ger Jahren z. B. ergab sich dieses Verhältnis in
der Führerschaft der beiden Moieties, in die der
Stamm einige Jahre zuvor aus Betreiben der ris-
sefidän11 geteilt worden war, um zwei konkurrie-
rende Brüdergruppen innerhalb der Khan-Linea-
ge - patrilaterale Parallelcousins, infolge levirati-
scher Zweitheirat ihrer Mutter jedoch auch uterine
Brüder (Taqawi-Moqaddam 1377[1999]: 271)12 -
gleichmäßig in den Genuß der kaläntar-Würde13
kommen zu lassen. Diese Teilung samt Verdoppe-
lung des kaläntar-Amtes, von der die ris-sefidän
sich ein Ende der ruinösen Machtauseinanderset-
zungen erhofft hatten, wurde später durch den
Militärbefehlshaber Kohgiluyes auf der Basis einer
Haushaltszählung fixiert und bekräftigt. Als einer
der beiden amtierenden kaläntarän im Gefängnis
starb, ging sein Rang auf seinen Neffen (BS)
über, der danach für ein Jahrzehnt zum Gegen-
spieler seines Onkels wurde (Taqawi-Moqaddam
1377[1999]: 328 f.). Auch in der Geschichte der
benachbarten Boyr-Ahmadi gab es häufig solche
obliquen Auseinandersetzungen; hier nicht selten
10 “Rivalry embraces competition, but it is more extreme.
Competitive parties all want the same objective, but rival
parties may desire the ‘destruction’ of each other” (Hsu
1971: 17).
11 “Weißbärte”: Führer von Untergruppen.
12 Die Angaben Magidis (1371 [1993]: 378 ff.) zu den genealo-
gischen Verbindungen sind fehlerhaft.
13 Älterer, vom Staat verliehener Titel der Stammesführer
bzw. - im Falle großer Stämme wie der Boyr-Ahma-
di - der Führer großer Untereinheiten (vgl. Safi-Nezäd
1368[ 1990]: 494; Loeffler 1978: 148).
516
Burkhard Ganzer
in der krassen Form, daß der schließlich unterle-
gene Teil durch das Mittel der Blendung dauerhaft
als Konkurrent ausgeschaltet wurde (Safi-Nezäd
1368[1990]: 212 ff.; Loeffler 1978: 158,161).
Man kann also feststellen, daß die Beziehung
der Brüder in dem Maße, in dem die Altersdistanz
zwischen ihnen anwächst, ihren eigentlich typi-
schen “behavioural content” - Kooperation sowohl
wie Rivalität, die aus der hinreichenden Gleich-
heit der sozialen und lebensmäßigen Statur der
Brüder entstehen - einbüßt und in diesem Sinne
depolitisiert wird. In der Wahrnehmung der Be-
ziehung findet ein Prozeß der Abstrahierung statt,
d. h. ein Ausblenden der in diesem Verständnis
politischen Status- und Rollenkomponenten und
eine kognitive Beschränkung oder Konzentration
auf die genealogische Beziehung per se mit ihrer
spezifischen, präpolitischen Moralität.
Diese Modifikation teilt sich den Dyaden mit,
in denen die Bruderrelation als Verbindungsglied
enthalten ist, also auch der hier diskutierten Be-
ziehung FB-BS. Je weiter die die Verbindung bil-
denden Brüder altersmäßig auseinanderliegen, je
jünger also FB in Beziehung zu BS ist, desto
nackter steht der superiore Verwandtschaftssta-
tus als solcher da, ist superior nur durch sich
selbst. Die verwandtschaftlichen Rangverhältnisse
werden unter diesen Umständen in ihrer reinen
Form erlebt, abgelöst von den realeren, “politisch”
konkreteren der Seniorität, ja sogar zu diesen in
Widerspruch stehend. Die Art und Weise, in der
die Individuen diese Eigenart erfahren, ist da-
bei nicht einheitlich, sondern ändert sich mit der
Position des Betreffenden im Verwandtschaftssy-
stem und mit seinem Anciennitäts- und Alters-
status.14 Die Varianz in dieser Hinsicht ist der
Grund dafür, daß zwar - in diesem wohlgefüllten
Verwandtschaftssystem - jedes Individuum seinen
Komplementärstatus auch selbst im Verhältnis zu
einer anderen Person innehat, die Rolle, in der er
dieser gegenüber agiert, sich aber von der seines
eigenen Komplements deutlich unterscheidet. Das
jüngste Glied eines extendierten Bruder-Sets (Ego
A, Abb. 4) beispielsweise findet bei seinem Eintritt
in das soziale Leben einen älteren BS, am präg-
nantesten den ältesten Sohn seines ältesten Bruders
(Ego B), bereits vor und macht nach und nach die
Erfahrung, daß er Gegenstand einer bestimmten
Art von formeller Respektierung von dessen Seite
ist. Daß er später selbst, wie dieser “role-other”,
14 Vgl. Tornay (1987), der zeigt, wie bei den äthiopischen
Nyangatom die Wahrnehmung sozialer Ereignisse durch
den Unterschied der Generationsklassenzugehörigkeit mo-
difiziert wird.
Abb. 4
einen jüngeren FB haben wird, ist angesichts sei-
ner Position am Ende der Geschwisterkette jedoch
unwahrscheinlich. Die Erfahrung des Verhältnisses
von seiner anderen Seite, also von der Position
des älteren BS aus, dem es obliegt, einem jün-
geren Onkel gegenüber Deferenz zu erweisen,
bleibt ihm mithin erspart oder vorenthalten. Ein
weiterer Unterschied besteht darin, daß für A die
Inkonsistenz seines Status (und des reziproken des
BS) mit dem relativen Alter in der Serie dieser
BS abnimmt, wohingegen für B die Abnahme des
relativen Alters in der Reihe der FB mit der Ver-
schärfung der Inkonsistenz einhergeht. Solange in
den beiden Bruder-Sets noch neue Glieder hinzu-
geboren werden, ändern sich also die Relation und
die Anforderung an die Rollengestaltung, die die
variable Dekonkretisierung mit sich bringt, für die
beiden Ego in der einen oder der entgegengesetz-
ten Weise. Diese Unterschiede dürfen allerdings
nicht überbewertet werden. Dank der intensiven
Interaktion generalisiert sich die Erfahrung dieses
Zugs und wird zum Bestandteil des allgemeinen
kulturellen Bewußtseins.
V
Soll das Verhalten in derartigen Rollenkombinatio-
nen in allgemeiner Weise charakterisiert werden,
so liegt es nahe, von Ritualisierung zu sprechen.
Der Begriff Ritual deutet auf einen Zug der Nicht-
normalität hin, wie er dem hier durch die Diskre-
panz hervorgebrachten Rollenverhalten zweifellos
eignet, und zwar umso stärker eignet, je ausgepräg-
ter diese ist. Allerdings ist mit der Nichtnormalität
etwas anderes als die Konventionalisierung des
Verhaltens gemeint. Dies gilt es hervorzuheben, da
im Falle der Doshman-Ziyari der Einwand Goodys
gegen die Inanspruchnahme dieses Moments als
Ritualindiz, nämlich daß Konventionalisierung,
Gleichförmigkeit etc. das soziale Leben insgesamt
charakterisieren (1977:28), nicht nur in dieser
allgemeinen, sondern in noch spezifischerer Weise
zutrifft. Denn wie formell die Verhaltensformen,
die die Deferenz ausdrücken, auch erscheinen mö-
gen, sie sind doch keine anderen als die, die
in jeder anderen Rollenkombination, in welcher
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen Casayer-Gesellschaft
517
Bezeugung von ehteräm gefordert ist, praktiziert
werden. In der Eigenart des Verhaltens, der Stereo-
typik, kann die Besonderheit solcher Rollen-Sets
also nicht gesucht werden.
Es ließe sich jedoch argumentieren, daß der
Ritualcharakter von Handlungen nicht notwendi-
gerweise exklusiv an dieses Moment gebunden
ist und die erste Vorbedingung der Ritualisierung,
die Nichtnormalität, auch auf andere Weise als
durch Formalisierung und Routinebildung erfüllt
werden kann. Denn nicht durch diese zeichnen sich
die fraglichen Rollen-Sets aus, sondern durch eine
andere, relationale Eigenart, nämlich das spezielle
Verhältnis in dem der Sinn und das Objekt des
Verhaltens sich hier zueinander befinden. Da die
Deferenz durch ihr Objekt, den FB mit seinem
inkongruenten Status, nicht mehr plausibel moti-
viert ist, erscheint dieses Verhältnis als gestört, als
anomal. In dieser Weise auffällig, vermag es die
betreffenden Handlungsabläufe und Beziehungen
als besonders zu markieren, sie aus dem Strom
des normalen Verhaltens herauszuheben. In be-
sonderem Maße gilt dies in Fällen wie dem des
jüngeren Onkels, in denen die Diskrepanz in ihrer
paradoxen Extremform, d. h. der Umkehrung der
normalen Beziehung zu dem Objekt, erscheint.
Entsprechendes trifft auch auf die zweite Be-
dingung zu, die in den meisten Ritualkonzeptio-
nen als verbindlich angesehen wird, nämlich das
Bezogensein des Handelns auf eine transzendente
Entität oder Idee. Zwar weist der hier disku-
tierte Verhaltenskomplex ein eigentlich religiöses
Element nicht auf, doch besteht sehr wohl eine
Beziehung zu etwas Überindividuellem und darum
m bestimmtem Sinne doch Transzendentem; dieses
lst eben die genealogische Anciennität, die, als
Moment des allgemeinen Deszendenzzusammen-
hangs, einen Wert von zentraler Bedeutung in der
Kultur der Doshman-Ziyari darstellt. Gegen die
Beschaffenheit der Lage, die ihn seiner konkreten
sozialen Bedeutsamkeit zu berauben droht, soll
dieser Wert bekräftigt und als gültig dargetan
Werden. Das Ausdrucksmittel, das dies auf ein-
prägsame und nachdrückliche Weise vollbringt, ist
die symbolische Selbstverminderung, die um des
Wertes geleistete Entäußerung von einem Recht
°der Gut, als die das Deferenzverhalten hier inter-
pretiert werden kann. Denn Ehrerbietung, die kein
bereichend legitimierendes Objekt mehr besitzt,
stellt eine unpassende, sinnwidrige, die Integri-
tät des Handelnden verletzende Attitüde dar. Ak-
*eptiert der Handelnde sie oder nimmt sie gar
reiwilfig und mit Absicht an, so gibt er etwas
/^osentliches an seiner Person preis. Von dieser
eschaffenheit ist die Situation des Neffen, der
seinen jüngeren Onkel in der beschriebenen Weise
bevorteilt: er leistet einen Verzicht auf das Präro-
gativ der seinem Status als konkrete, qualifizier-
te Person angemessenen Verhaltensart, ja nimmt
es hin, daß diese in ein eigentlich parodiehaftes
Gegenteil verkehrt wird.15 * Die Tolerierung dieses
Mißverhältnisses kommt im ganzen einem Opfer
gleich - wenn man diesen Begriff in einem all-
gemeineren Sinne zu akzeptieren gewillt ist, der
weder das Moment der Macht und ihrer Beein-
flussung (vgl. Beattie 1980) noch überhaupt der
Beziehung zu einem Numinosen oder zu Gottwe-
sen (vgl. Peters 1984) enthält, sondern den “act
of abnegation implicit in every sacrifice” (Hubert
and Mauss 1981: 102), zugunsten oder zu Ehren
eines abstrakten Etwas von hohem Wert, avisiert.
Durch das Festhalten an dem Deferenzverhalten
in seiner paradoxen Deplaziertheit wird auf diese
Weise eine Art Verehrung zum Ausdruck gebracht,
die von der religiösen Beziehung nicht gänzlich
verschieden ist und darum dem Verhalten ebenfalls
jenen Charakter vermitteln kann, den man bei
der letzteren rituell nennt. Nicht anders als bei
der Distinktivität des rituellen Handelns ist man
also auch hinsichtlich seiner Wertverbundenheit
nicht auf ein restriktives Verständnis verpflichtet:
Die Entität oder die Idee, auf die das Handeln
bezogen ist, müssen nicht notwendigerweise re-
ligiösen Charakters sein; es genügt, daß sie in
irgendeinem Sinne als venerabel empfunden wer-
den. Aus diesem Verhältnis wäre wohl auch der
Normenrigorismus zu interpretieren, der sich bei
den Doshman-Ziyari an vielen Stellen zeigt. Die
Gastfreundschaft (mehmän-nawäzi) beispielsweise
ist ein Wert von so hoher Bedeutung, daß das
Augenmerk des Gastgebers nicht primär auf den
Bedürfnissen des Gastes liegt, die individuell ver-
schieden sein mögen, sondern auf der minutiösen
Befolgung des Normenkanons selbst. Die resultie-
renden Handlungsabläufe nehmen dadurch auch
hierbei eine Unwandelbarkeit an, die ritualistische
Züge trägt.
Das Rituelle in Zusammenhängen dieser Art
ist nicht leer, erschöpft sich nicht im stereotypen
Vollzug von Handlungen. Auch ist es - worauf der
Unterschied der Begriffe rituell und ritualistisch
15 In Nadels Theorie der Sozialstruktur wäre das Merkmal des
relativen Alters in diesem Fall den “sufficiently relevant
attributes” zuzurechnen, deren “variation or absence ...
make [s] a difference to the perception and effectiveness
of the role, rendering its performance noticeably imperfect
or incomplete” (1957: 32). Daß die Sanktionen (“corrective
disapproving, or punitive behaviour”), die eine Abweichung
oder ein Fehlen normalerweise hervorbringen, hier fehlen,
erklärt sich aus den genannten Tatsachen.
518
Burkhard Ganzer
in analoger Weise schon hindeutet - nicht von
der Natur der Institution, sondern stellt etwas In-
tentionales dar. Das, worin es wesentlich besteht,
ist die Vergegenwärtigung der Sinnbeziehung, die
den Handlungen innewohnt, und die Erfüllung der
Handlungen mit dem Bewußtsein dieser Bezie-
hung. Beides wird gestützt durch die Gewißheit,
daß die Zeugen der Bemühung diese in ihrer
Äußerungsweise verstehen und sie gutheißen.16
Zwischen den Handelnden und den Zeugen aktua-
lisiert sich so der gesellschaftliche Konsens in der
Anerkennung und Befürwortung eines allgemein
Verpflichtenden, vollzieht sich die Erfahrung der
Wertegemeinschaft und der alle sozialen Diffe-
renzen und Spaltungen unterziehenden Einheit der
moral Community.
VI
Mit dem Begriff der Einheit ist ein Moment ge-
nannt, dem in der Gesellschaft und Kultur der
Doshman-Ziyari eine allgemeinere Bedeutung zu-
kommt. Noch in anderer Weise als der soeben be-
schriebenen steht es mit dem Problem der Rollen-
diskrepanzen in einem Zusammenhang. Dieser be-
steht darin, daß Einheit, sehr allgemein gefaßt, das
Charakteristikum von Gegebenheiten darstellt, die
hier dem Akutwerden nicht nur von Diskrepanzen,
sondern von Rollendistinktionen überhaupt in der
Wahrnehmung entgegenstehen. Diese Behauptung
könnte allerdings überraschen, denn es wird in ihr
die Existenz einer derartigen Hinderungswirkung
als gegeben hingestellt, obwohl das Argument des
vorigen Abschnitts, in dem die Abstrahierung und
ritualistische Behandlung eines bestimmten Status-
attributs behandelt wurde, gerade an der Tatsache
von dessen Prägnanz ansetzte. Doch besteht die
Unstimmigkeit nur zum Schein. Denn die ge-
nannte Reaktion oder Verfahrensweise ist durch
die Besonderheit des betreffenden Statusattributs
motiviert, nämlich daß es eine Institution von
bedeutendem Wert repräsentiert, und tritt nur in
vergleichbaren Fällen auf. Ohne einen derartigen
speziellen Grund für die Bewahrung der Prägnanz
eines Statusattributs würde eine Unstimmigkeit,
16 Der Bedeutungsverlust der Handlungen und die Schwie-
rigkeit, ihren vollen Sinn zu kommunizieren - von Goody
als typische Züge von Ritual betrachtet (1977: 31 f.) - sind
im vorliegenden Fall nicht gegeben; dieser würde also eher
den von Goody kritisierten Ritualbegriff Monica Wilsons
stützen: “... men express in ritual what moves them most,
and since the form of expression is conventionalized and
obligatory, it is the values of the group that are revealed”
(in Goody 1977: 32).
die zwischen ihm und anderen besteht, kein auf-
fälliges Rollenverhalten hervorrufen.
Einheit stellt nun allerdings nicht eben einen
privilegierten Begriff in der neueren Ethnologie
dar, ja man kann sagen, daß diese keinen geringen
Teil ihrer Energie daran verwendet hat, Einheit
aller Art kritisch aufzulösen und der Behauptung
von Einheit, wo immer sie vorgebracht wurde,
mit Eifer entgegenzutreten. Die Ethnologie des
Nahen Ostens macht hierin keine Ausnahme; es
ist im Gegenteil infolge des großen Einflusses,
den die Auffassungen von Clifford Geertz und
seiner Schüler, und auf andere Weise die von
Fredrik Barth (vgl. Ganzer 1988), erlangt haben,
die Tendenz hier sogar besonders ausgeprägt. In
Lawrence Rosens “Bargaining for Reality” (1984)
etwa stehen die Leugnung der vorhandenen so-
zialen Gruppierungen, die Auffassung, daß größe-
re Formen, Beziehungen, ja die soziale Realität
schlechtweg aus Prozessen von “negotiation” und
“bargaining” entstehen und grundsätzlich “open-
ended” und “malleable” sind, die prinzipielle Fun-
dierung aller Prozesse und darum auch sämtlicher
analytischer Unternehmungen in der Einzelperson,
insgesamt antithetisch zu der Voraussetzung von
Einheit.
Rosens Konzeption ist im Rahmen der Unter-
suchung einer Stadt mit der an sie angrenzen-
den Region, also in einem verhältnismäßig di-
versifizierten und komplexen Milieu entstanden
und hat ihre Anwendung auch überwiegend in
diesem Rahmen gefunden. Ihre Tauglichkeit für
andere Segmente der Bevölkerung des Nahen
Ostens konnte als zumindest problematisch be-
trachtet werden.17 Neuerdings hat aber Tapper ei-
nen der Kernbegriffe dieser Richtung auf ein sol-
ches andere Segment, nämlich die Casäyer-Bevö\-
kerung Irans, angewendet, indem er von dieser be-
hauptet: “Much daily interaction between individu-
als can be interpreted as the continuing negotiation
of identities” (1994: 205). Daß Tapper die Auf-
fassungen der Geertz-Schule auch in ihren extre-
meren Aspekten teilt, ist nicht anzunehmen. Was
die Idee des Aushandelns alternativer Identitäten18
17 Dies allerdings auch aus allgemeinen Gründen: Bei dem
“negotiating” in Rosens Beispielen nämlich geht es, näher
betrachtet, nicht um Identität oder Realität in einem vertret-
baren Sinn, sondern stets nur um Statuskomponenten, die
bei der Verfolgung von Zwecken variabel hervorgekehrt,
und um soziale Verbindungen, die unterschiedlich gewichtet
werden.
18 “These various identities are not exclusive, but are alter-
natives, and individuals can and do claim more than one,
shifting between them according to circumstances” (Tapper
1994: 205).
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen Ca.fdy<?r-Geselischaft
519
jedenfalls aber impliziert ist das Vorhandensein
einer begrenzten Anzahl distinkter, isolierter und
auch manipulierbarer Merkmale, die durch eine
selektiv operierende kulturelle Sinnfunktion ge-
genüber ihrer Merkmalsumgebung, die undeutlich
bleibt, profiliert und mit der besonderen Bedeutung
des Identitätskriteriums ausgestattet werden. Die
von Tapper selbst hierbei genannten Identitäten
- Religion, nomadische Lebensweise, Stammes-
verfassung, Sprache, Zeremonien (1994: 204 f.) -
könnten allerdings, da sie von sämtlichen in die
“daily interactions” Einbezogenen geteilt werden,
schwerlich Objekt eines solchen Aushandelns sein.
Nicht einmal nur in Fällen wie dem der Dosh-
man-Ziyari ist das so; bei ihnen aber, die auf
allen Seiten von anderen Lor-Stammesgruppen
umschlossen sind, sodaß bis zum Beginn der Mo-
dernisierung die normalen Stammesangehörigen
so gut wie nie mit Individuen zusammenkamen,
die in Hinsicht dieser Kriterien andersartig waren,
liegt es klar auf der Hand. Tappers Satz kann
sich offenbar, wenn er anwendbar sein und die
Rede von der Alternativität der Identitäten und der
Möglichkeit des “shifting” einen Sinn haben soll,
uur auf speziellere Merkmale beziehen, d. h. auf
solche, die eine Diskriminierungsfunktion wahrzu-
uehmen imstande sind. Auf jeden Fall aber wird
in der Einschätzung der “daily interactions”, die
m dem Satz zum Ausdruck kommt, ein kognitives
Milieu bei den casäyer als gegeben vorausgesetzt,
das Status und Rollen in der oben skizzierten Wei-
Se erscheinen läßt und in dem die Diskrepanzen
zwischen diesen scharf konturiert hervortreten.
Einer solchen Sicht der Dinge stehen jedoch
bestimmte grundlegende Tatsachen entgegen. No-
üiadengesellschaften zeichnen sich durch einen
niedrigen Grad sozialer Arbeitsteilung aus (Gell-
ner 1984: xif.). Auch die Doshman-Ziyari, ganz
^;ie die übrigen Lor-casäyer Südwestirans, kannten
neben der Arbeitsteilung zwischen den Geschlech-
tern nur die Spezialisierung der Bediensteten der
Miane sowie die Monopolisierung bestimmter
Dienstleistungen (Schmiedearbeiten, Haareschnei-
den, Musizieren bei Hochzeiten etc.) durch beson-
dere, sozial nicht vollberechtigte Gruppen fremder
Herkunft (vgl. H. Gaffäri 1368[1990]). Alle übri-
§en Aktivitäten, sogar verhältnismäßig anspruchs-
volle wie der Hausbau oder die Herstellung der
olzernen Pflüge, waren - individuelle Unterschie-
e abgerechnet - Angelegenheit aller erwach-
sen casäyer. Da es keine Ämter, Ritualfunk-
lonen oder sonstigen speziellen Status gab, die
dem allgemeinen des Viehzüchters/Kleinbauern
atten hinzutreten können, blieb die Menge der
Verschiedenen Status und Rollen gering. Es fehlte
Anth
roPos 96.2001
darum die von Gluckman als “multiplicity” be-
zeichnete Anreicherung einzelner Beziehungen mit
weiteren, unterschiedlichen Rollen und folglich
auch die besondere Sorte Ritual, mittels dessen,
nach Gluckmans Theorie, die gebündelten Rollen
markiert und voneinander unterschieden werden
(1962: 26 f.).19
Die Modernisierungsentwicklungen, die nach
der Gründung der Islamischen Republik einsetz-
ten, haben hierin keine grundlegende Änderung
bewirkt. Zwar hat sich infolge der Bemühungen
des Staates, das Erziehungswesen in den Stam-
mesgebieten zu fördern und geeigneten Jugend-
lichen Universitätsausbildungen zu ermöglichen,
der Prospekt der Status und Rollen beträchtlich
erweitert. Da sich deren Inkumbenten jedoch in
ihrer allgemeinen Lebensführung treu an den tri-
balen Wertekanon und die allgemeineren Normen
der Islamischen Republik halten und eine “Biogra-
phisierung der Lebensführung” (Fischer und Kohli
1987: 40 f.) noch kaum begonnen hat, sind diese
neuen Statusmerkmale in die vertrauten, intakten
Identitäten eingebettet, können diesen gegenüber
nicht das Gewicht alternativer Identitätsstiftung
erlangen. Irritierend wirken sie auf das traditionale
Gefüge lediglich in der Dimension des Ranges,
d. h. nur dort entstehen u. U. Situationen der Wahl
und der Entscheidungsmalaise. In keinem Sinne
stehen jedoch dabei Identitäten zur Disposition.
Das Eindringen eigentlich neuartiger, exogener
Rollen- und Identitätsvorstellungen wird anderer-
seits durch die doppelte Abschirmung erschwert,
der die Doshman-Ziyari durch ihre Lage inmit-
ten einer kulturell weitgehend gleichartigen, tribal
strukturierten Bevölkerung und im großen durch
die kulturelle Selbstisolation der Islamischen Re-
publik unterworfen sind. Aber auch das wenige
dieser Art, das - in erster Linie auf dem Wege des
mit der Elektrifizierung des garmsir20 allmählich
vordringenden Fernsehens - in den Gesichtskreis
der casäyer gelangt, wird in seiner Wahrnehmung
als andersartig beeinträchtigt. Das hindernde Mo-
ment ist der Vorrang, den die Dimension des Mo-
ralischen im tribalen wie im staatlich-islamischen
Diskurs genießt (vgl. hierzu Najmabadi 1987).
Dank seiner werden Charaktere ganz überwiegend
unter dem Maßstab gut/schlecht beurteilt (Jensen
19 Die im Abschn. IV beschriebene Ritualisierung betreibt
nicht, wie die von Gluckman konzipierte, die Separierung
der Rollen, sondern versucht im Gegenteil einer anderweitig
verursachten Trennung der Rollen in Richtung Einheit
entgegenzuwirken.
20 Der tiefergelegene (ca. 700-1.600 m ü.d.M.) südwestliche
Teil des Gebiets.
520
Burkhard Ganzer
1990: 197) und erwecken Interesse fast ausschließ-
lich in Hinsicht dieser Fundamentalqualität. Es
läßt auch die staatliche Zensur von vornherein nur
Fernsehprogramme zu, deren Figuren sich dieser
Reduktion fügen. Eine Konfrontation mit andersar-
tigen Identitäts- und Rollenmustern hat daher, trotz
der in anderer Hinsicht rapiden Modernisierung,
in nennenswertem Maße bei den Doshman-Ziyari
noch nicht stattgefunden. All dies hat zur Folge,
daß eine allgemeine Tendenz zum Prägnantwerden
der Status- und Rollenmerkmale, zu ihrer Abstrak-
tion, Isolierbarkeit und Anreicherung mit “func-
tional load” - also zu eben jenen Charakteristika,
die eine bewegliche Identitätstaktik, wie sie in
Tappers Zitat avisiert wird, als Funktionsvoraus-
setzung erfordern würde - hier noch kaum zu
bemerken ist.
Die Qualität der Prägnanz ist hierbei noch in
anderer Weise zu verstehen: sie charakterisiert ein
für die Identitätszuschreibung in Betracht kom-
mendes Merkmal eines Individuums nicht nur pa-
radigmatisch, in Hinsicht alternativer gleichartiger
Merkmale also, sondern auch syntagmatisch, d. h.
in Relation zu der Gesamtheit von dessen sonsti-
gen Eigenschaften, die von der identitätsfixieren-
den Funktion außer acht gelassen werden. Diese
Resteigenschaften bleiben blaß und undeutlich, sie
bilden den Hintergrund, vor dem sich die rele-
vanten Merkmale, auf die sich Wahrnehmung und
Einstufung der Person fast gänzlich beschränken,
plastisch-profiliert abheben. Damit ein dieserart
asymmetrisches Verhältnis sich herausbilden kann,
darf die Kenntnis von dem betreffenden Indivi-
duum nur eine begrenzte sein, darf über Allgemei-
nes und Schematisches nicht hinausgehen. Die an
der Aushandlung beteiligten Individuen müssen im
ganzen, als Personen, hinlänglich unbestimmt sein,
damit das manipulative Taktieren mit den identi-
tätstragenden Eigenschaften überhaupt in Funktion
treten kann.
Doch auch hierzu befindet sich das soziale
Leben der Doshman-Ziyari seinen gesamten Um-
ständen nach in einem ausgeprägten Gegensatz -
so sehr, daß es sich ausnimmt, als stehe es unter
der Maxime, die vollständige Bekanntschaft der
Individuen miteinander hervorzubringen. Dies gilt
zunächst für das materielle Substrat des Zusam-
menlebens, die Behausungen und für das Woh-
nen in ihnen. Die Doshman-Ziyari leben heute,
wie erwähnt, in patrilokal erweiterten Haushalten,
physisch betrachtet mehrheitlich in kleinen Ge-
höften, in denen idealerweise jede Einzelfamilie
einen eigenen Raum besitzt. Das ist allerdings der
Zustand, der erst durch die Dorfbauprogramme
der Islamischen Republik (und auch noch längst
nicht überall) hervorgebracht worden ist - vor
der Revolution, in den alten Dörfern, die ver-
steckt hoch an den Berghängen, nahe den Wei-
den und Eichenwäldern lagen,21 bewohnten in der
Regel die einen Haushalt bildenden Einzelfami-
lien gemeinsam eine einräumige Lehmhütte. Die
Aggregation war dort also noch weit extremer
ausgeprägt, als sie es auch unter modernisierten
Umständen noch ist. Die Doshman-Ziyari halten
diese Verhältnisse, trotz ihrer schamerzeugenden
materiellen Rückständigkeit, in moralischer Hin-
sicht den gegenwärtigen für überlegen; der famili-
är-verwandtschaftliche Zusammenhalt, cätefe22 im
allgemeinen und die Niederhaltung egoistischer
Bestrebungen waren ihrer Überzeugung nach dort
ungleich besser verwirklicht. Enge und Konstanz
des Zusammenlebens sind also nicht einfach ein
Reflex der materiellen Beschränktheit, sondern ei-
ne Beschaffenheit der Dinge, die aus prinzipiellen
Gründen hoch geschätzt wird. Alleinsein gilt als
naturwidrig und wird so weit es eben geht ver-
mieden. Auch unter modernen Bedingungen bildet
daher bei den Doshman-Ziyari Dauergeselligkeit
ein zentrales Moment des Lebensvollzugs eines
jeden Individuums.
Vollständige Vertrautheit mit anderen Perso-
nen und weitreichende Kenntnis ihrer Lebens-
umstände sind aber nicht auf den Bereich von
Haushalt und Dorf beschränkt; auch mit Ange-
hörigen anderer Untergruppen kommen die Dosh-
man-Ziyari auf vielfältige Weise fortwährend in
persönliche Berührung: HeiratsVerbindungen mit
solchen Gruppen, die vereinzelt sogar anderen
tawäyef (Sing, täyefe)23 * * * angehören, weiten den
Kreis der Verwandten und indirekt auch der Be-
kannten erheblich aus. Zeremonielle Anlässe aller
Art - Hochzeiten, Begräbnisse, Versöhnungsfeier-
lichkeiten etc. - haben, besonders wenn sie Perso-
nen von höherer sozialer Bedeutung betreffen, die-
sen Erweiterungseffekt, da zu ihnen stets auch An-
gehörige anderer Gruppen, auch fremder tawäyef,
geladen werden. Für ein Drittel des Jahres wer-
den, dank der andersartigen Verteilung der täyefe-
21 Diese Lage bot Schutz gegen die beständig drohenden
Raubüberfälle. Ihr Nachteil war die erschwerte Wasserver-
sorgung.
22 Wertschätzung der Mitmenschen und wohlwollendes “Zu-
gewandtsein” (dies die Wortbedeutung), die in vielerlei
“interpersonal rituals” (Goffman 1956:478) zum Ausdruck
gebracht wird und eine hochrangige Forderung im Normen-
system der casäyer darstellt.
23 Die acht lokalisierten, idealisiert unilinearen und weitg^'
hend endogamen Untereinheiten 1. Ordnung des Stammes-
Das Wort wird häufig auch auf den Stamm im ganzen
angewandt.
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen Casdyer-Gesellschaft
521
Territorien im sardsir24, Gruppen zu Nachbarn,
die im garmsir weit voneinander entfernt leben.
Auch der Effekt natürlicher Kommunikationshin-
dernisse, wie sie z. B. der im Winter und Frühjahr
unpassierbare Fluß Marun für eine der großen
Untergruppen der Doshman-Ziyari darstellt, wird
durch den saisonalen Wohnortwechsel gemildert.25
Im Sommer- wie im Wintergebiet gleichermaßen
bewirkt das völlige Fehlen von kommerziellen Be-
herbergungseinrichtungen, daß Personen, die z. B.
zu Besuchszwecken oder auf der Suche nach verlo-
rengegangenem Vieh unterwegs sind, unvermeid-
lich als Zufallsgäste mit Zufallsgastgebern, die
anderen Gruppen angehören, Zusammenkommen.
Und schließlich stellt der Verkehr mit der Bezirks-
hauptstadt Dehdasht, der durch Straßenbau und
die Einführung von mäsin (Pick-ups) seit der Re-
volution außerordentlich zugenommen und dank
dessen sich dieser Ort zu einer Arena umfassender
Begegnung des il-e Dosman-Ziyäri in seiner Ge-
samtheit entwickelt hat, einen zunehmend wich-
tigen Faktor des allseitigen Bekanntwerdens dar.
In diesem Zusammenhang ist auch das gewohn-
heitsmäßige Durchmustem des sozialen Netzes im
allgemeinen Gespräch, das man hier beobachten
kann, von Bedeutung, die beständige beiläufi-
ge Erörterung der Eigenschaften, Verbindungen
und Febensumstände abwesender Personen. Die
Kenntnis solcher Personen wird durch die Informa-
tionen, die auf diesem Wege transportiert werden
Und sich verbreiten, fortwährend angereichert und
aktualisiert.26 Doch auch was hiervon nicht erfaßt
wird und unspezifiziert bleibt, läßt keine Fücke
ln der Kenntnis einer Person zurück, in der eine
Unbekannte Andersartigkeit verborgen sein könnte.
Da die Febensumstände der Individuen in so ho-
hem Maße einheitlich sind und eine Möglichkeit,
differente Febensläufe zu wählen und zu gestalten
24 Die das Sommerweidegebiet bildenden parallelen Hochtäler
(ca. 2.100-2.800 m ü.d.M.) im Nordosten des Gebietes.
5 In einem vergleichbaren Fall besteht das Hindernis in
einer der langgezogenen, mauerartigen Bergketten, die dem
südwestiranischen Zagros sein Gepräge geben. Da die be-
treffende tayefe die saisonale Wanderung schon seit langem
aufgegeben hat, der Ausgleichseffekt also nicht mehr wirkt,
hat sich hier eine weitgehende Separierung der beiden
Teilgruppen entwickelt.
Vgl. Markus and Kitayama: “Maintaining one’s rela-
tionships and ensuring a harmonious social interaction re-
quires a full understanding of these others, that is, knowing
how they are feeling, thinking, and likely to act in the
context of one’s relationships to them. It follows that those
with interdependent selves may develop a dense and richly
elaborated store of information about others or of the self
in relation” (1991:231).
A,nth
kaum besteht27 - man also mit gutem Grund
von einer “Normalbiographie” (Fischer und Kohli
1987) sprechen kann28 -, entsteht ein Potential
der Extrapolation: die Feerstellen bleiben nicht
offen, sondern füllen sich von selbst und quasi
unvermeidlich mit dem alternativlosen Allgemei-
nen und Vertrauten. Mangelnde Statusvielfalt und
eine weitgehende wechselseitige Bekanntheit der
Akteure wirken also dahin, daß die Situation,
die Goffman “audience-segregation” nennt, nicht
entstehen kann, jenes Arrangement, bei dem “...
those who figure in one of the individual’s major
role-sets do not figure in another, thereby allowing
the individual to possess contradictory qualities”
(1961: 9).29
All das Genannte nun hat den Effekt der Inte-
grierung, der Schaffung von Einheit. Das enge Zu-
sammenleben mit Menschen während ihrer gesam-
ten Febensspanne oder langen Phasen davon, wie
auch die durch sozialen Umgang oder Information
vermittelte Bekanntheit mit weniger Nahestehen-
den, bringt etwas wie eine Synthesis zuwege: alles,
was als Merkmal, “cue”, Identitätszeichen etc. in
Betracht kommt, hat primär und unablegbar die
Qualität, Eigenschaft von Personen zu sein. Solche
Charakteristika haften dem Individuum nicht in
äußerlicher Weise in der Art von Akzidenzien an;
den Interaktionspartnern präsentieren sie sich nicht
als distinkt und abstrakt, sondern sind in eine,
auch in diachroner Hinsicht, umfassende, konkre-
te und durch Gewöhnung konsolidierte Wahrneh-
mung eingebettet, deren Basismoment die Ganz-
heit, die personale Integrität ist. Hinsichtlich seiner
Eigenschaften stellt daher das Individuum kein
Konglomerat von Status- und Identitätsmerkmalen
dar, sondern erscheint als wesentlich kompakt.
Aus diesem Grunde ist die Vorstellung, daß ein
Individuum hier manipulierend über ein Repertoire
von Merkmalen verfügt, die es in Interaktionen auf
variable Weise zur Geltung bringt bzw. zurückhält,
daß seine Einheit als Person also auf Komposition
beruht, von Anfang an vom Charakter des ques-
tion-begging (vgl. hiermit Diamond 1974: 142.).
Auch für Gluckmans bereits erwähnte Theorie gilt
27 Auch bei höherer Schulbildung ist diese Möglichkeit nur
sehr begrenzt, wie die zahlreichen Abiturienten beweisen,
die gezwungenermaßen das traditionale casäyer-Leben füh-
ren.
28 An dieser “Prävalenz des Normalverlaufs” (Kohli 1990: 16)
ändert auch die Tatsache nichts, daß zwischen den tawäyef
gewisse ökologisch und historisch bedingte Unterschiede
bestehen.
29 Vgl. auch die folgende Bemerkung bezüglich der Shetland-
Inseln: “... the richness of communal life entails an im-
poverishment of the self-defining aspects of occupational
roles ... Here doing is not being” (Goffmann 1961: 102).
'ropos 96.2001
522
Burkhard Ganzer
dies, insofern sie eine naturgegebene Trennung der
Rollen voraussetzt, die, wenn sie infolge spezieller
Umstände in einer Gesellschaft nicht realisiert ist,
sekundär durch Ritualisierung hergestellt werden
muß (1962: 24 ff.). Diese inadäquate Auffassung
wäre nicht einmal durch das Goffmansche Konzept
der “role-distance” (1961: 105 ff.), das auf der
Anwesenheit des Moments der invariablen Person
in jedem Rollengeschehen insistiert und insofern
die Tatsache der Einheit berücksichtigt, zurecht-
zurücken. Denn eine solche Distanzierung setzt
voraus, daß, wie in Goffmans Chirurgenbeispiel,
verschiedenartige Statusverhältnisse und gegen-
läufige Nebennormen in der Situation vorhanden
sind, die die primäre Ordnung - im Beispiel die
hierarchische des Operationssaals - konterkarieren
oder zumindest problematisch machen. An derlei
Komplikationen fehlt es jedoch, wie gezeigt, bei
den Doshman-Ziyari.
VII
In einem Aufsatz zur Status- und Rollenproblema-
tik bemerken Stryker and Macke: “... researchers
interested in the possible consequences of status
inconsistency and role conflict must recognize that
statuses and roles are not continuously activated in
the experience of actors, that these may be of little
import generally in the context of some social unit
or particularly to some social actors” (1978: 82 f.).
- In den obigen Darlegungen wurde versucht zu
zeigen, daß man im Falle der Doshman-Ziyari bei
einer solchen einfachen Konstatierung von Be-
deutungslosigkeit nicht haltzumachen braucht und
daß die Indifferenz der Akteure tieferliegende und
allgemeinere Ursachen hat. Ebenso ist wohl deut-
lich geworden, wie wenig angemessen es wäre, auf
die Reaktionsweise der Akteure im Fall der ge-
schilderten krassen Rollendiskrepanz den Begriff
der “coping strategy” (1978: 83) anzuwenden.
Diese Ursachen - anders ausgedrückt das, was
die Wahrnehmung von Differenz behindert bzw.,
wo krasse Diskrepanz gegeben ist, deren Folgen-
losigkeit sichert - sind letzten Endes in der sich
vielfältig manifestierenden lebens- und erfahrungs-
mäßigen Einheit der hier behandelten Gesellschaft
zu suchen.30 Daß die Erklärung damit auf einen
30 Es versteht sich wohl, daß hier nicht von Einheit in jedwe-
dem Sinne gesprochen wird. In Hinsicht der politischen und
mikropolitischen praktischen Interessen besteht eine solche
Einheit nicht - die Doshman-Ziyari stehen im Gegenteil
in dem Ruf, stärker als ihre Nachbarn von Zwistigkeiten
heimgesucht zu sein. Solche treten in den großen, ganze
Gruppen involvierenden Fehden, aber auch in Akten in-
umstrittenen, wenn nicht gar diskreditierten Be-
griff rekurriert, bedarf keiner Hervorhebung. Es
sollen auch die Berechtigung der Kritik an ihm
und die große Bedeutung dieser Kritik für die
Entwicklung der modernen Ethnologie keineswegs
generell in Abrede gestellt werden. Doch gilt es,
da diese Kritik zur Verabsolutierung neigt (siehe
z. B. Appadurai 1991; Beck 1990), die Grenzen
ihrer Berechtigung zu beachten. Manche Autoren
schränken, dies berücksichtigend, ihre Kritik durch
Bedingungen ein oder warnen vor Übertreibungen
(siehe z. B. Ortner 1984: 150). Auch Barth, ob-
wohl wortführend im antiholistischen Lager (vgl.
auch 1995), verwirft den Gedanken der Einheit
(der Kultur) nicht gänzlich, sondern fordert nur,
daß das Maß, in dem sie jeweils gegeben ist, zu
ermitteln sei, nicht einfach vorausgesetzt werden
dürfe (1989:121,130 ebenso 1992:31). Hannerz
betont die fortdauernde Existenz der “... prototyp-
ical small-scale society, in which people exposed
to much the same living conditions have similar
personal expériences and are at the same time
available to a massively redundant communication
flow only from people largely like themselves
... Under such circumstances, just possibly, what
are individual constructions and what received
transmissions perhaps in the end makes little
différence” (1992:42, ebenso 1993: 103). In sol-
chen differenzierten Stellungnahmen wird Varianz
eingeräumt und damit die Auffassung, daß die
Einheit im gegebenen Fall auch eine hochgradige,
bestimmende sein könne, von der Anstößigkeit
befreit, die ihr die Kritik in ihrem totalitären
Impetus beizubringen vermocht hat. Die Dosh-
man-Ziyari - wie ohne Zweifel viele, zumindest
der kleineren, AAayer-Gruppen - sind ein solcher
Fall. Dies gilt, wie oben dargestellt, für die um-
fassende Verbindlichkeit der zentralen Werte des
tribalen Normensystems und Brauchtums (rasm),
die in keiner Weise “contested” sind (vgl. Barth
1992:20), sondern alle Individuen in rückhalt-
loser Befürwortung und einer gleichgerichteten
Bemühung um compliance einen. Es gilt ebenso
für das allgemeine Lebens- und Erfahrungsmilien
der Individuen, das der Entstehung von Rollen-
und Identitätsdifferenzen entgegensteht. Jede Be-
handlung des Rollenproblems in einer derartigen
Gesellschaft, die dieser Gegebenheit nicht Rech-
nung trägt, d. h. auf Desintegration hinausläuft,
muß daher ihren Gegenstand verfehlen.
terfamiliärer Niedertracht, wie dem Abbrennen von Wohn-
häusern, Zerstören von Wasserleitungen u.ä., zutage, d>e
von den Doshman-Ziyari selbst als zest (häßlich, gemein)
angesehen werden.
Anthropos 96.2001
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen Ca,sayer-Gesellschaft
523
Sehen wir uns darum zum Schluß eine Auf-
fassung des Problems an, die Einheit generell
in Abrede stellt, ihr Vorhandensein also auch in
Fällen wie den genannten nicht zugeben würde.
Es handelt sich um die Theorie des Rollenkon-
flikts, genauer, des Wirkungslosbleibens von Rol-
lenkonflikten, die Katherine Ewing 1990 in ei-
nem Aufsatz vorgestellt hat. Ewing beansprucht
für sie allgemeine Geltung, illustriert sie aber
an einem Angehörigen einer nichtwestlichen Kul-
tur, einer jungen Pakistanerin. Kern der Theo-
rie ist ein in Opposition gegen den Psychologen
H. Kohut konstruiertes Modell von “multiple
selves” (1990:252), nach dem das Subjekt den
Widerstreit von diskrepanten Rollenerwartungen
nicht durch Synthese oder sonstigen Ausgleich,
sondern durch ein “shifting” zwischen den Rollen-
zuständen löst. Ewing postuliert für diese Funktion
einen psychischen Mechanismus, den sie “situa-
tional unconscious” nennt. Er bewirke, daß das
Subjekt in der Rolle, in der es agiert, alle anderen
Rollen momentan vergißt, vollständig in der je-
weils aktuellen “self-representation”, die auch mit
bestimmten Erinnerungssträngen exklusiv verbun-
den ist, aufgeht, sodaß die Diskrepanzen zwischen
den Rollen nicht akut werden können. Dank dieser
Zusammenhänge, so Ewing, hat das Subjekt die
Fähigkeit, ein Gefühl von personaler Ganzheit und
Kontinuität aufrechtzuerhalten, obwohl ihm ein
“cohesive self that is a unitary center of experi-
ence” (1990: 258) gänzlich abgeht.
Wenn die Einheit in den vorher erwähnten Auf-
fassungen als lediglich eingeschränkt oder relati-
viert erschien, insofern die Rollen zwar als etwas
vom Subjekt Abgesetztes und Disponibles darge-
stellt wurden, dieses aber doch supponierten, so
wird sie hier mit der Reduktion und Aufteilung des
Subjekts auf die pluralen Rollen völlig zum Ver-
schwinden gebracht. Die “experience of wholeness
and self-continuity”, die die Subjekte, wie Ewing
nicht bestreiten kann, jederzeit haben (1990: 263),
wird als Illusion, als eine durch situative Amnesie
bewirkte Täuschung abgetan.
Diese Theorie darf man wohl als abstrus be-
zeichnen - umso mehr, als die Person, an der
Sle demonstriert wird, das “shifting” zwischen den
Köllen gar nicht realiter, sondern nur in ihrer
Phantasie vollzieht. Daneben ist aber festzuhalten,
daß die Idee der Zerstücklung des Bewußtseins in
^verbundene Fragmentzustände in einigermaßen
krasser Weise die humane Integrität des Subjekts
^erletzt. Es ist darum wohl kein Zufall, daß das
Demonstrationsobjekt aus einer fremden Kultur
gewählt wurde. Auf die eigene Kultur der Verfas-
Serin und, via Introspektion, die Verfasserin selbst
Anthropos 96.2001
angewendet, würde sich der Gedanke des “situa-
tional unconscious” schwerlich halten lassen - an
einem Individuum einer entfernten Kultur exem-
plifiziert, kann er durchgehen, ohne sich sogleich
selbst zu diskreditieren. Die Leugnung der Einheit
läuft also auf eine Diffamierung hinaus, auf eine
Attribuierung des fremden Subjekts mit Eigen-
schaften, die derart sind, daß sie dem westlichen
nur abstrakt-nominell, als Implikat der Allgemein-
aussage, zugemutet werden.
Es läßt sich hieraus vielleicht ein allgemei-
nerer Schluß ziehen. Der, wie man ihn nennen
könnte, Anti-Durkheim-Impuls der ethnologischen
Theoriebildung, dem das Verdienst zukommt, die
Vorstellung von der totalen Eingebundenheit des
nichtwestlichen Individuums in seine Kultur und
Gesellschaft überwunden zu haben, darf nicht in
absoluter Manier zur Wirkung gelangen. Tut er
dies, so schädigt er ebenden Grundsatz der Re-
spektierung des Subjekts der fremden Kultur, dem
er auf andere Weise dient. Denn zu respektieren
ist dieses Subjekt nicht nur in seiner Individualität
und Autonomie, sondern auch, soweit diese reicht,
in seiner Gebundenheit. Daß freilich auch in dieser
Richtung von neuem, und in neuer Weise, über
das Ziel hinausgeschossen werden kann, läßt sich
an manchen Beiträgen zu der Debatte um Person
und “seif’ beobachten, in denen die Gebundenheit
bis zu einem Punkt gesteigert wird, wo sie zur
Entgrenzung des Subjekts führt (vgl. Spiro 1993).
Der Verletzung der Integrität des Subjekts macht
sich die Ethnologie durch die Verabsolutierung
ebensosehr der einen wie der antithetischen an-
deren der beiden Strebungen schuldig.
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^nth
•ropos 96.2001
STUDIA INSTITUTI ANTHROPOS
Boris Wastiau
Mahamba
The Transforming Arts
of Spirit Possession
among the Luvale-
Speaking People
of the Upper Zambezi
360 pages incl. 32 photos
and 5 skizzes
Fr. 75.- / DM 90.- / OS 657.-
ISBN 3-7278-1293-1
This book is about symbolic practice in the spi-
rit possession rituals known as mahamba in the
upper Zambezi region, specifically among the
Luvale-speaking people of North-Western Zambia.
In it, rituals of possession are analysed as trans-
formational practices that operate changes in the
subjects undertaking them, but also as phenome-
na that transform along time in specific historical and sociocultural contexts. The mahamba are numerous in kind, in
turn addressing serious illness, infertility, madness, failure, social distress and other ills. Alternatively displaying the fea-
tures of ad hoc therapeutic rituals or those of overtly religious cults, and calling membership of men as well of women,
mahamba can lead into initiation to a religious sodality, to admission in a professional cast, or simply to the restora-
tion of regular health and social status.
What is specific to the transformations affecting the people and the rituals themselves? Are they related and which can
be the cultural and/or sociological factors determining them? How is symbolism produced and what is the role of shri-
nes and artworks? A historical perspective and the analysis of two sets of contemporary rituals are combined to advan-
ce elements of answer. The main hypothesis is that a process of poiesis, the generation of symbolic fields, is due to the
existence of a core processual structure that endures in possession rituals, whatever the sociological function that they
fulfill. It is contended that the mahamba are instruments for structuring history that people constantly reprocess to face
their predicament.
SCHWEIZ
EDITIONS UNIVERSITAIRES FRIBOURG SUISSE
Anthropos
96.2001: 527-544
Reconsidering Identity
Martin Sôkefeld
Abstract. - The paper discusses and defends the analytical
usefulness of the concept of identity which has been pervasively
criticized by authors like Richard Handler or Rogers Brubaker
and Frederick Cooper. Starting with reviewing the problematic
of concepts in social anthropology and continuing with discuss-
ing the rise of identity discourse, it is argued that concepts in
social and cultural sciences are always suspended between their
employment in scientific and in nonscientific discourse. This
dual hermeneutics of concepts is, however, not a shortcoming
which has to be overcome but a productive element that contrib-
utes to their refinement. It is argued that in the case of identity
dual hermeneutics leads to a reconceptualization of identity
as qualified by the conditions of difference, multiplicity, and
intersectionality. In the final parts of the paper, implications
of this reconceptualization of identity for a concept of self are
explored. [Theory, identity, self]
Martin Sôkefeld, M. A. (Köln 1990), Dr. phil. (Tübingen
1996). He did field research on interethnic relations in Gilgit,
Northern Pakistan between 1991 and 1993. From 1997 on
he held teaching assignments at the Institute of Social and
Cultural Anthropology, University of Hamburg. Since 1999 he
is assistant professor at the same institute, where he is working
°n migrants from Turkey with a research project on Alevi
identity in the German diaspora. - Publications: see References
Cited.
1 Introduction
The intention of this paper is to explore the concept
°f identity generally, not limited to a specific
ethnographic context, although I will draw on
such contexts. The concept of identity has recently
c°me under heavy attack. Two directions of cri-
dque seem to be of particular weight. The first
°f these denies that identity is a useful concept
ln cross-cultural context (Handler 1994; Rouse
1995), and the second argues that identity has been
charged with so many different meanings that it
has ceased to be meaningful at all and should
be replaced by a range of other, more specific
concepts (Brubaker and Cooper 2000). Both argu-
ments contribute importantly to the questioning of
“identity” and they certainly have to be taken very
serious. However, I am still of the opinion that
“identity” does important work within the social
and cultural sciences. My text will, therefore, be
a defence of “identity” - if certainly a defence
with a great deal of reservation derived from the
understanding that “identity” today is indeed an
overused concept that should be employed with
much more caution and stricture. I argue that
a concept of identity has to be seen in close
connection with a concept of self and that both
have political implications which have to be taken
into account.
Before entering the debate, however, I will
dwell a little on the general difficulty of concepts
in social anthropology because in my opinion the
quality of “identity” as a concept has an important
impact on the contents and understanding of iden-
tity which has to be considered. I could also say
that I am writing mainly about concepts in social
anthropology, taking “identity” as example. What
1 am doing, then, is essentially the business of
reflexivity.
2 Concepts in Social Anthropology
Social anthropology, like all social and cultural
sciences, is to a great extent a trade in concepts.
The proposition for which I am arguing here is that
528
Martin Sòkefeld
concepts are nobody’s property. Concepts are our
tools to describe and analyse the world, or better,
those sections of the world we are scrutinizing at
a given time under particular circumstances. To
put it in these terms, however, is a quite loose
way of talking. We do not simply take concepts
in order to describe or analyse a given section of
the world, we employ concepts already to select,
to cut out, to trim these sections. Consider the
concepts “culture,” “society,” “religion,” or even
a concept that is seemingly much less problematic
like “village.” These concepts presuppose that the
world can be divided into certain parts and aspects
and they - apparently - show us how to do so.
That is, concepts help us in making the objects we
are scrutinizing, they are also constitutive of what
we describe and analyse. If we were very strict
logicians, we had to abandon the whole business
because we are always guilty of a kind of petitio
principii: The terms we are using to describe
something already contain at least an outline of
the structure of that description. However, logic is
a discipline of pure thought the empirical contents
of which tend toward zero whereas we deal with
the empirical world which contains many logical
shortcomings.
The difficulty of concepts is multiplied for
social anthropologists because we are conscious
of the fact that not all human beings employ the
same set of concepts. Concepts are a matter of
culture, and - this is the basic axiom of social
anthropology - culture differs. Whereas for us
it seems to be a simple task to say whether a
given section of reality is to be termed religion or
not (although it is considerably difficult to define
“religion”), this may not be so for all people and
all cultures. Others may use some label to group
a phenomenon we would call “religion” together
with other phenomena. For example, many Mus-
lims make it an important point to emphasise that
Islam - a matter we unhesitatingly call “religion”
- is not only religion but includes elements we
would categorize as economy, politics and, most
importantly, law.1 Concepts originate from spe-
cific contexts in which they have more or less
precise meanings. But anthropologists very often
take concepts out of their frame of origin and
apply them, for comparative purposes, to other
realms. Concepts like “mana,” “tabu,” or “totem”
are famous classical examples of this delocaliz-
ing technique. Frequently, however, there is too
little reflection about what is implicated in this
1 For a very brief discussion of this subject see Delaney
1991: 18.
transplantation of concepts. To understand the ef-
fects of transplantation we have to recall the very
important insight of structuralism that concepts do
not simply refer to “things out there” but first of
all to other concepts. The meaning of a concept is
not simply its relation to some nonlinguistic entity
(as supposed in referential theories of meaning)
but its relation to other concepts. Concepts and
meanings are inscribed into intricate and multi-
stranded networks of other concepts and meanings.
To take a concept out of its context of origin
and to apply it elsewhere is to insert it into other
networks of concepts and meanings, that is, to alter
its meaning.
An important consequence of this fact is that
concepts become increasingly difficult to define
if they are employed in many different contexts.
More and more semantic relations, examples, and
differences have to be taken into account in order
to arrive at a sufficient definition. Most frequently
this means that concepts become increasingly un-
specific. In the case of religion, this has resulted in
the difficulty to find a definition which is able to
accommodate the case of Buddhism. Religion is
conventionally defined as referring to something
which has to do with belief in superhuman or
supernatural beings but Buddhism in its “pure”
Theravada version does not recognize such beings.
Still, most of us would call Buddhism a religion. A
little trick to find a way out of this difficulty is to
take this unspecificity into the concept, i.e., to de-
fine it not with reference to common elements and
specific differences (as in the classical Aristotelian
way of definition), but with reference to prototypes
only (see Saler 1993 for a thorough discussion of
the problem). This trick is increasingly applied in
social anthropology. However, it implies nothing
less than to give up the idea of precise definitions
in the original sense of delimiting the applicability
of a concept.
Beside this growing unspecificity, the appli-
cation of concepts to other contexts has another
important consequence: It results in their reifica-
tion. When social anthropologists look for mana
not only in the conceptual universe of Polynesia
but elsewhere, they develop an understanding of
mana “in itself.” Before, however, there was no
mana in itself but only mana for Polynesians.
Now mana is not simply a concept of Polynesians
but also one of anthropologists. Thus, the trans-
plantation of concepts to other contexts resulted
in many heavy volumes of books and papers
attempting to define originally specific and more
or less localized concepts in general ways for
comparative purposes. These difficulties apply not
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
529
only to “foreign” concepts like taboo and totem but
equally to “our” concepts, i.e., concepts originally
taken from the context of “Western tradition” and
transplanted elsewhere. “Religion” and, of course,
“identity” are in this respect not different from
totem and taboo.
In the 60s and 70s social and cultural anthro-
pologists practiced a distinction which apparently
saved them from the difficulties of this delocal-
ization of concepts. They distinguished between
emic and etic models, concepts or understand-
ings.2 Ernie concepts are those from within a cul-
ture, capturing its idiosyncratic meanings in par-
ticular cultural circumstances, whereas etic con-
cepts are applied from outside, assigning meaning
from a comparative and cross-cultural perspective,
which, because it is not bound to a specific lo-
cal context, is more generally applicable. Emic
concepts are cultural concepts, limited in their
validity, whereas etic concepts are supposed to be
culture-free or, simply, objective. Emic concepts
are local concepts, etic concepts are nonlocalized
or metalocal concepts. The same distinction is
frequently captured in the prefix “ethno-.” Thus,
ethnoscience is a science in inverted commas, a
science representing a cultural preconception of
the world but not its actual, “objective” conditions.
Real science, in contrast, is never “ethno.” The
distinction between emic and etic or “ethno-”
and non-ethno apparently justified anthropologist’s
application of their concepts to other cultures
(because their concepts are not localized), while at
the same time it provided a renewed impetus for
endeavouring to grasp, in Malinowskis (1922: 25)
famous phrase, “the native’s point of view.”
Implicitly - but very importantly - another
Presupposition is made here, namely, that it is
possible to distinguish neatly between natives and
anthropologists. This distinction may have been
unproblematic in Malinowski’s time, but it is cer-
tainly not so today. Not only do many “natives”
have escaped the spatial and geographical confine-
ment that made them appear “native” in the first
Place (Appadurai 1988), for example, by migrating
t° Europe or the US. Further, a growing number of
natives” have themselves taken to social anthro-
Pology or similar disciplines, they have switched
°n their computers and compose busily all kinds of
necounts the writing of which had appeared to be
a Privilege of Western researchers a few decades
a§o. This is especially obvious in a field of study
me India where “native” scientists have reached
^ For a detailed discussion of the terms see Headland et al.
1990.
Anthropos 96.2001
a degree of originality and quality that in many
instances surpasses the achievements of “Western”
researchers and that provide new perspectives and
approaches not only for the limited field of Indian
studies but for social and cultural sciences in
general. Natives, then, have since long begun to
define concepts themselves. The authority - or, to
say it more bluntly, the power - to define and
delimit concepts has become much more widely
dispersed.
However, the distinction between “native’s”
and “anthropologist’s” concepts between cultural
and cross-cultural concepts has not only become
blurred because natives have become anthropolo-
gists. Greater reflexivity in the anthropological ap-
proach and changes of perspective that are gener-
ally subsumed under the label “postmodern” have
challenged the anthropologists’ power and monop-
oly to define in a much more fundamental way.
This challenge is not produced at the macro level,
between “the West and the rest,” it is a challenge at
the micro level that undermines the very epistemo-
logical barrier supposed to exist between research-
er and researched. In the conventional formulation,
the researcher is the subject and the researched
are the objects of research. Research objectifies,
it deprives the humans that “are researched” (note
the passive voice) of their subjecthood. In the pro-
cess of research the researcher is the agent whereas
those researched are only “reactive,” they respond
to the questions of the researcher, they are his
or her informants. However, the epistemological
barrier also implicates the allocation of agency
and non-agency to researchers and their objects
in exactly the opposite manner with regard to the
practices of everyday life. Here, the researched are
the agents, embedded in their worlds of practi-
cal concerns, whereas the researcher is the inert
spectator looking onto this life world from the
outside. Precisely because he is not really involved
in the constraints of practice, he is able to develop
a higher (objective, cross-cultural, metalocal etc.)
vision of things. According to Pierre Bourdieu, the
researcher belongs to the sphere of theory whereas
the researched inhabit the sphere of practice.3 In
much anthropological representation “the intellec-
tual operations of natives are somehow tied to their
3 Bourdieu applies the distinction between the spheres of
theoretical and practical logic with the intention to liberate
practice from the shortcomings of theory in order to prevent
the misunderstanding that theory could represent practice
(1987: 28). However, his distinction (probably unintention-
ally) cements the epistemological barrier which presupposes
the researched as detached from the sphere of theory, unable
for the theoretical endeavour.
530
Martin Sòkefeld
niches, to their situations” (Appadurai 1988: 38);
the intellectual operations of anthropologists are,
however, not.
This is of course a gross simplification, and
I would contend that a basic axiom of a more
reflexive social anthropology must be that the
epistemological barrier between researcher and
researched is a distorted image of the structure
of relations of production of knowledge in (not
only) social anthropological research. Researcher
and researched are interconnected in a web of rela-
tions of interaction (practice), and both researched
and researcher are continually constructing knowl-
edge and theories, i.e., generalized abstractions far
exceeding the range of practical experience (cf.
Moore 1996). Researcher and researched do not
occupy principally different positions within the
web of social and cultural relations. The differ-
ence between their positions is a matter of degree
rather than of kind (cf. Fuchs 1999: 14; Sokefeld
1997a: 46-48). One is tempted to say that, if not
a basic epistemological and ontological difference
distinguishes researcher and researched, they at
least belong to different cultures - the researcher
being positioned in a culture of science. However,
also the idea of cultural difference has become in-
creasingly unclear and difficult to define. It seems
that the image of different cultures, visualized like
countries on political maps by delimited territories
contrastingly coloured, is giving way to an idea of
difference as standing out in diverse centers with
large, continuous transitional border zones around
and between them (Sokefeld 1999a).4 The culture
of science would then consist only in a number
of central values like objectivity and impartiality
surrounded by zones of values and practices which
are similar to those of nonscience culture.
The similarity in the positions of researchers
and researched again challenges the power of
cultural sciences to define general concepts. Those
whom we study participate in the processes of
constructing knowledge and interpreting the world,
4 An important factor in the conventional conceptualization
of culture as delimited by clear difference is the coevolution
of the two concepts nation and culture. Where a nation is
a strictly territorially delimited political realm of power,
the culture which defines that entity (as in the notion of
national culture) is imagined in the same way. I would
rather suggest to imagine cultures oriented at the model
of prenational (and prenationalist) political entities, where
centers of power, frequently invested in the person of the
king, stood out. With growing distance from that center
its power became smaller and the influence of the power
of other centers increased, without a clear boundary in
between. Thus cultures can be imagined as overlapping
realms with central and peripheral regions.
and they too develop understandings and defini-
tions of concepts that are meant to be generally
valid and applicable. Finally, cultural/social scien-
tific discourse and “everyday” discourse are not
separate from one another in a waterproof way.
Terms enter scientific discourse from everyday
discourse and vice versa. Mana and taboo are
examples for the first kind of transgression of dis-
cursive boundaries, “ethnic identity” is an instance
of the second type. Such discursive transgressions
may occur several times consecutively. Each of
them most probably implicates semantic alter-
ations: perhaps a multiplication of employment of
a concept, a broadening of its meaning, or its in-
sertion into new political and social contexts. This
condition of concepts, called “dual hermeneutics”
by Anthony Giddens (1976), is even more signifi-
cant in social anthropology than in other social sci-
ences, because discursive transgressions that have
to be taken into account by social anthropology do
not only occur between different discourses within
a society (e.g., scientific discourse and everyday
discourse) but also between discourses in different
societies, related to diverse cultural circumstances.
I have collected so far a number of serious
challenges to the special, authoritative position of
social/cultural scientists and their concepts com-
pared with their “objects” of research, including
their concepts. These considerations I will take as
background to discuss the critique of the concept
of identity, voiced by Richard Handler and others,
which denies that identity is a useful cross-cultural
concept.
3 A Critique of Identity as Cross-Cultural
Concept
Handler (1994) addresses the problem of reifi-
cation. Social anthropological and generally aca-
demic discourse has increasingly become aware
that many of its concepts are employed in re-
ifying ways. Reflexive scientific discourse has
taken pains to expose such reifications like “cul-
tures,” “traditions,” etc. as social constructions
(e.g., Hobsbawm and Ranger 1993) and frequently
other concepts have been employed in order to
escape the danger of reification. Identity certain-
ly has become a favourite among such replac-
ing concepts. “Cultures,” writes Richard Handler
(1994:27), “get constructed, deconstructed, and
reconstructed as people pursue their identities,”
and he points to the obvious fact that identity
is by no means immune against the dangers of
reification. He, therefore, demands that the concept
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
531
of identity must not be taken for granted but
has to be explained in the same ways as those
other concepts which are today employed with
considerable reservation only. Identity, just like
culture or tradition, is not simply a fact but a
construct. Or, to put it in other words: Identity does
not explain anything; identity has to be explained.
Handler argues that, as a quite recent term of
Western intellectual discourse, identity should not
be applied unreflectedly to other cultures or times.
He criticizes that today social anthropologists find
“identity” in all cultures and times, thereby ac-
cording “identity” the status of a human cultur-
al universal. According to Handler, identity, a
concept developed within the Western intellectual
tradition, presupposes certain other ideas like that
of a bounded and constant individual, an idea
which psychological anthropology has shown not
to be a universal. Further, identity in the West is
usually referred to in the singular, i.e., a person
has only one identity. To talk about the “identity”
of humans of other cultures implicitly imposes,
according to Handler, such preconceptions of the
person onto them.5 If we subscribe, for instance,
to Marriott and Inden’s proposition that humans
in India are not “m-dividuals” but “dividuals” be-
cause the Indian cultural model of the human being
does not presuppose its boundedness, substantial
unity, and constancy (Marriott 1976; Marriott and
Inden 1977), we should not speak about the iden-
tity of such dividuals because that would be a
contradiction in terms. Handler demands a very
careful and restricted use of identity implying a
sort of semantic purity. That is, he takes an original
semantic structure of the concept and argues that it
should be applied only where this structure makes
sense.
Handler certainly raises important questions.
The ethnographic foundation of his argument,
however, seems quite hollow to me. It is based
°n an uncritical reading of ethnography, untainted
hy all questioning of ethnographic authority and
^presentation. He refers to Marriott or Geertz
without giving the slightest hint to the heated
debate about the concepts of the person which
these authors ascribe Hindus and Balinese respec-
hvely. That is, the ethnographic evidence on which
handler bases his argument has by no means
reRiained unchallenged. It is surprising that on one
side Handler argues against fictions of bounded
cultures, nations, and all kinds of collectivities,
but on the other he does not hesitate to refer to
Precisely such fictions (“the Ojibwa,” “Hindus,”
5 For a related critique see Rouse 1995.
“Balinese”) in order to anchor his reasoning. In my
view, such collective designations certainly imply
“notions of boundedness and homogeneity” (Han-
dler 1994: 30) which according to his argument
should be avoided.6 In spite of these argumentative
shortcomings the critique remains significant and
should be subjected to a more detailed enquiry.
4 Identity as a Globalized Concept: Academic
Discourse
Although Handler argues that identity is not a uni-
versal concept and should not be employed as such
in non-Western context, it has de facto doubtlessly
become a globalized concept, ubiquitous not only
in the different corners of the world but also in
diverse kinds of discourse. The first thing which
has to be explained about identity, I think, is this
quite sudden ubiquity. A few decades ago the
use of the concept was limited to the writings of
philosophers, psychologists, and a few sociologists
whereas since, beginning slowly in the 1950s and
almost exploding since the late 1970s, the concept
has pervaded all kinds of academic discourse.
Further, it has very successfully transgressed aca-
demic boundaries and is mushrooming today in all
levels of political and everyday discourse. Philip
Gleason (1983), pointing especially to the pioneer-
ing work of Erik H. Erikson, has lucidly explored
the rise of identity in American academic discourse
until the 1980s. Gleasons’s paper does not mention
its use in social and cultural anthropological dis-
course. Compared to social psychology, identity
in social anthropology is rather a latecomer. This
is surprising because works of anthropologists,
especially Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict, have
been a highly significant source of inspiration for
Erikson (Gleason 1983: 924 f.).
Because Erik H. Erikson’s work was a very
important source for the popularization of identity
in academic discourse I will take his understanding
as a point of departure. Erikson writes: “The term
‘identity’ expresses such a mutual relation in that it
connotes both a persistent sameness within oneself
(selfsameness) and a persistent sharing of some
kind of essential characteristics with others” (Erik-
son 1980: 109). Identity as sameness reflects the
6 Handler’s critique of collective designation refers especially
to all kinds of nationalist constructions (cf. Handler 1985).
But because he himself quite convincingly points to paral-
lels and similarities between anthropological and nationalist
constructions of bounded collectivities, we should be very
parsimonious with using such constructions in anthropolog-
ical writing.
532
Martin Sòkefeld
meaning of the Latin word idem (the same) from
which identity is etymologically derived. This
“original” meaning of identity is also derived from
the tradition of Western philosophy and logic (take
for instance the clause of identity as developed
from Aristotelian logic). The entrance of “identity”
into social science discourse is marked, among
other texts, by Erving Goffman’s “Stigma” (1963),
where “identity” replaced the term “self’ which
Goffman had used in his earlier writings. Goffman
does not explicitly define “identity” here but em-
ploys it in the sense of the collection of character-
istics we use (often implicitly and unconsciously)
to categorize persons (both others and ourselves).
Here too, identity expresses a relation of same-
ness, sameness with a collection of attributes. This
corresponds to what Handler takes as the central
significance of identity: “Most scholarly usage
of the term reflects our commonsense notion of
identity, which I would gloss, colloquially, in this
way: ‘the identity of a person or group is what
it really is, uniquely, in and of itself, in its inner
being and without reference to externals.’” After
quoting the entry under identity in the Oxford
English Dictionary which conveys the same mean-
ing, he continues: “Instances of ‘identity’ used in
approximately these senses recur routinely both in
social-scientific literature and in the discourse of
cultural politics” (Handler 1994: 28).
Within social anthropology identity appeared
first as “ethnic identity” or “ethnicity.” Here, iden-
tity was not regarded as a problematic element
of the concept; definitional endeavours rather fo-
cused on the meaning of “ethnic.” Already Fredrik
Barth’s seminal text about ethnic groups and their
boundaries (Barth 1969) employs the term “iden-
tity” without explicitly discussing its applicability
and significance. Handler’s critique therefore ap-
plies also to Barth who defines “ethnic ascription”
as an ascription which “classifies a person in terms
of his basic, most general identity, presumptively
determined by his origin and background” (Barth
1969: 13, italics added). “Identity” is here taken to
clarify what “ethnic” means, i.e., it is employed as
a term that explains and that does not have to be
explained. From this short quotation we can infer
something about Barth’s notion of “identity.” First,
if ethnic ascription is the “basic identity,” identity
is not conceptualized in the singular. There have
to be other identities in order that the classification
into more or less basic identities makes sense,
although we do not learn what other kinds of
identity there are. Second, it is apparently possible
to rank identities according to the degree of their
“basicness” or generality. There is certain a tension
in Barth’s implicit notion of identity, not denying
a plurality of identities but still affirming a basic
singularity of the concept because a particular
identity (here: ethnic identity) may be more basic
than others.
Seen in the context of the development of ideas
within social anthropology, we do great injustice
to anthropologists’ notion of identity if we simply
insinuate that Barth and others uncritically and
unreflectedly took to the term. We have to ask first
what the achievement of talking about ethnicity
and ethnic identity was, what other concepts were
replaced by these terms and what epistemological
shifts were implicated in this replacement.
The introduction of “ethnicity” into social
anthropological discourse was already the outcome
of a critique of reifying concepts. “Ethnic group”
as a concept replaced “tribe” and this replacement
of concepts signified a shift from an etic to an emic
perspective. “Tribes” were defined from outside,
by the anthropologist who took certain “objective”
characteristics like language, territory, social struc-
ture, ritual, or other cultural “traits” to distinguish
one tribe from another. It was clear what a tribe
was and, therefore, there was no necessity to talk
about identity.7 * In this context “identity” implicitly
always signifies a problem, a need that is problem-
atic because it may not be fulfilled once and for
all. Identity is something that one does not simply
have but that one has to achieve. Some social
anthropologists lost their belief in “tribes” because
they realized that it was indeed a problem to
define and delimit such groups (cf. Moerman 1965;
Leach 1954). Therefore, anthropologists started to
pay attention to the question how members of a
supposed tribe (or other kind of group) defined
themselves. To ask for identity is essentially to ask
how actors see themselves and others. It is not
to take social groupings for granted but to look
how they come into being, how they change, and
how they are maintained (this, precisely, was the
topic of Barth’s paper and edited volume). The
shift from the “objective” delimitation of groups
to their delimitation by asking for identities then
already implicates the recognition of the construc-
tive social creativity of human beings, some years
before social and cultural constructivism became
a major concern within anthropology.
The introduction of the term identity according-
ly transfers the power to define what people are to
these people, their contexts, and their respective
“others.” Identity is also a claim. Handler (1994)
7 For a last attempt to theorize such an objective delimitation
of cultural groups see Naroll 1964.
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
533
recognizes this but he says that the claim for
identity is a kind of false consciousness because
groups that claim an identity “are” not what they
claim to be (a kind of thing, a matter, something
fixed and bounded). They are always processes
which are never fixed (1994: 30). This is of course
true but the truth that identities - like groups - are
never finally fixed nor even always consensually
claimed does not simply belie claims for identity
so that we could dismiss them. Handler’s objection
reminds of the expectation - expressed especially
in the heyday of modernization theory - that the
advancement of rationalization will simply wipe
out all irrational “ethnic,” primordial sentiments
and attachments. History has proven this modernist
expectation wrong (Comaroff 1996), and rather
than to reassert that primordial, essentialist iden-
tities are mistaken we should try to understand why
identities are claimed in this manner.
5 Identity as a Globalized Concept: Political
Discourse
Identity has become globalized not only within
academic discourse. It is a ubiquitous concept
in many discourses and effectively escaped the
control of the academy. People everywhere claim
to “have” an identity. Among them are also people
like “dividuals” in India, that is, human beings
that according to Handler are not entitled to do
so. Identity is, however, not the first globalized
concept. We can learn something about identity
Lf we first turn to another extremely successfully
globalized concept of historically Western origin:
the nation. Probably there are very few people
today that would claim not to belong to a nation
and not to have a nationality. Of course, nation
and nationality remain poorly defined concepts,
tftany attempts for definition notwithstanding.8 I
do not want to repeat, compare, and analyse such
definitions but recall the point made earlier, that
science and the academy do not possess a mo-
nopoly of the power to define concepts and the
authority to control their use. People everywhere
ln the world may call political aggregates, even
Purely imagined ones, “nations” without caring
Whether they comply with academic definitional
requirements or not. Originating in revolutionary
and romanticist ideas of the late 18th and early
^ The most promising strategy to arrive at a reasonable and
useful definition of “nation” is probably again a prototypic
definition as exemplified by Calhoun (1997: 4f.).
Arahropos 96.2001
19th century, the discourse of the nation has grown
constantly and spread all over the globe, especially
since the middle of our century. Why did people
outside of Europe take to the concept of the nation?
Their motivation was of course not the theoretical-
ly correct classification of political entities but a
political purpose. Since its origin, the discourse of
the nation is intrinsically connected with issues of
power and rights (Calhoun 1997:69). The notion
of national self-determination, the idea that each
nation has the right to govern itself, is inseparable
from the idea of the nation.9 Politically involved
individuals, especially from new elites, and move-
ments took to the discourse of the nation in order
to demand rights and power. This applies both to
European nationalists in the 19th century and to
non-European anticolonial nationalists in the 20th
century. From a scientific vantage point we can
try to deny that anticolonial struggles in cases
like India were indeed “nationalist” movements if
we are of the opinion that they do not match a
European model of the nation.10 But that would
be a lost game because we cannot control the
employment of concepts and, as social scientists,
have to take their actual discursive use into ac-
count. That means, we have to acknowledge the
dual hermeneutics of the nation concept and accept
that anticolonial movements have extended the
meaning of the nation, including for instance also
multilingual nations like India. More significant
than conceptual purity and pollution is the fact that
the nation concept has been adopted by nationalist
movements from Western political discourse be-
cause it enabled to voice claims for independence
and self-government in terms the colonial powers
could not easily dismiss. The takeover of the
9 Referring to the perspective of early liberal nationalism,
Calhoun writes: “People should not be loyal to such leaders
[kings, emperors], but to their nations. It was as members
of such nations that they could achieve ‘self-determination,’
both in the sense of democratic self-rule (or at least repub-
lican constitution-making) and in the sense of autonomy
from the domination of other nations” (1997: 87).
10 Hobsbawm does so when he writes: “... apart from a few
relatively permanent political entities such as China, Korea,
Vietnam, and perhaps Iran and Egypt which, had they been
in Europe, would have been recognized as ‘historic nations,’
the territorial units for which so-called national movements
sought to win independence, were overwhelmingly the
actual creations of imperial conquest, often no older than
a few decades, or else they represented religio-cultural
zones rather than anything that might have been called
‘nations’ in Europe. Those who strove for liberation were
‘nationalists’ only because they adopted a Western ideology
excellently suited to the overthrow of foreign governments,
and even so, they usually consisted of an exiguous minority
of indigenous évolués“ (1995: 137).
534
Martin Sòkefeld
“modular” (Anderson 1983) nation concept was
an attempt - highly successful in the end - to beat
the colonial powers with their own weapons. The
nation concept is then not a descriptive category
but an idea that demands a certain highly desired
condition of rights and power - among others
national self-government.
Therefore, writes Partha Chatterjee, nationalism
“is inherently polemical, shot through with ten-
sion; its voice ... betrays the pressures of having
to state its case against formidable opposition. The
polemic is not a mere stylistic device which a dis-
passioned analyst can calmly separate out of a pure
doctrine. It is part of the ideological content of
nationalism which takes as its adversary a contrary
discourse - the discourse of colonialism. Pitting
itself against the reality of colonial rule - which
appears before it as an existent, almost palpable,
historical truth - nationalism seeks to assert the
feasibility of entirely new political possibilities”
(1998: 40). In a very different context, the intrinsic
connection between nation, nationality, power, and
rights is also painfully experienced by stateless
persons or by immigrants who, because they are
ascribed no or the wrong nationality, are denied
significant rights of participation in their country
of residence.
Much of this we can find again in the concept
and discourse of identity. If people insist on a
certain communal identity, they do so not because
they entertain certain psychological or sociological
categories but because issues of power and resis-
tance are today intrinsically connected with iden-
tity. Identities are frequently voiced in subnational
context where not full-fledged self-government is
at stake but still the protection or allocation of
more or less specific rights. To insist on an identity
is also to insist on certain rights and to be denied
an identity implicates a denial of rights. Thus,
immigrants demand the right to “protect” or “pre-
serve” their identity which may include demands
for school instruction in, among other things, their
mother tongue and religion. People may of course
also claim a separate national identity, implicating
the necessity of a more general autonomy or
even political independence. The recognition that
identity is a matter of claims, rights, and power has
resulted in the replacement of a simple concept of
identity in many cases by the notion of politics
of identity. To argue that the concept “identity”
may not be applied to others because they lack
certain definitional characteristics presupposed by
that application is to miss the political contents and
intention of the concept, its character as a project.
It resembles the assertion of colonialist discourse
that a colonized people is not a nation destined
for self-determination because it lacks definitional
requirements of a nation.
Although not necessarily apparent, Western
conceptions of identity and the individual are
indeed reflected in these politics of identity at a
deeper level. In the predominating Western con-
ception as referred to by Handler, the individual
is an agent because he or she is identical, that
is, consistent, bounded, and continuous. Rights in
the Western understanding can be assumed only
by such “identical” beings. Multiple personality
syndrome and schizophrenia cause great problems
for this conceptualization of rights because the
parallel existence of several personalities in the
same body raises questions of accountability. That
is, people have to comply with that conceptual-
ization of identity in order to be recognized as
political and juridical subjects. The same holds
true at the level of collectivities. An important
stream of Western historiography accorded agency
less to individuals than to collective subjects like
classes or nations. Also in contemporary politics,
both national and international, collectivities are
recognized and their demands for certain rights and
powers are accepted mostly if they are character-
ized by a certain degree of fixation, continuity,
and institutionalization. Collective political sub-
jects have to comply with important characteristics
of the individual identical subject (as laid down
in conventional Western conceptualizations of the
self) because this is a necessary presupposition for
their recognition within an (international) political
system dominated - in a quite literal sense - by
Western conceptions. For example, collectivities
that seek support of the so-called “international
community” in their struggle against oppressive
political structures of the state, by which they are
included, have to voice their demands in terms of
identity and nation or at least protonational identity
in order to make their claims recognizable. Fixed,
bounded nations or other identical communities
have to be constructed in order to articulate, and
put forward as legitimate, demands for “self-deter-
mination.”
It follows that the notion of identity in the sense
characterized by Richard Handler is not only im-
posed onto other people by social anthropologists
or other scientists, but that it is also assumed
by these people themselves under the powerful
conditions of global discourse and practice. What
are we to make out of this self-identification and
self-reification by turning to identity? Is it really
simply a takeover of a conventional “Western’
understanding? Before debating that question, I
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
535
will discuss an important shift in the academic
conceptualization of identity, a transformation of
the concept which is missed by Handler.
6 From Identity to Difference
The both popular and academic notion of identity
as sameness disregards an important shift in the
present conceptualization of the concept. In much
current discourse, identity is almost replaced by
difference. The shift from identity to difference
signifies that external references, which, according
to Handler are rather excluded from the “classi-
cal” understanding of identity, are not only taken
into account but occupy a central position in
the structure of the concept. In anthropological
conceptions of ethnic identity (cf. Barth 1969) this
shift to difference was already prefigured because
reference to others was included. Thus, the social
anthropological idea of identity never simply took
the “classical” notion of identity as self-identity for
granted. But anthropology cannot take the credits
for the present emphasis on difference instead of
identity. The most influential moment in the par-
adigmatic shift was a series of critiques emerging
from political and personal experiences of discrim-
ination (i.e., difference) that were levelled against
central, dominant theory from more “peripheral”
Perspectives. This questioning moment appeared
first in the field of academic feminism where
the existence of an identical category “women”
was unmasked as a Western white middle-class
construct. According to nonwhite critiques, the cat-
egory woman is far from identical - it is subject to
afi kinds of differences like class, “race,” and eth-
nicity (Barrett 1987: 30; Crosby 1992). There is no
shared identity as “woman” but only a multitude
°f subject-positions marked by many distinctions
(cf- Butler 1990): “The concept ‘Woman’ effaces
file difference between women in specific socio-
fiistorical contexts, between women defined pre-
cisely as historical subjects rather than a psychic
subject (or non-subject) ... For ... only as one
URagines ‘women’ in the abstract, when woman
becomes fiction or fantasy, can race not be seen as
significant” (hooks 1993: 124). The insistence on
difference challenges essentialized identities. This
fine of thought was extended from academic fem-
iiRsm to a general theoretization of “identities”:
Alterity is important ... because subjects and
file social, and thus both individual and collective
^entities, are seen not as essentially given, but as
constantly under construction and transformation,
a Process in which differentiation from Others is a
Anthropos 96.2001
powerful constitutive force” (Rattansi 1994: 29).
It is significant, I think, that this emphasis on
difference was voiced by theorists like Stuart Hall
(1991) or Avtar Brah (1996) who, especially in the
consequence of migration, have themselves expe-
rienced the effects of difference. They take pains
to avoid the pitfalls of taking the insistence on dif-
ference simply as a point of departure to construct
other, simply more “differentiated,” essentialized
identities. Instead they emphasise that identities
are always “crossed-through” and intersected by
differences. There are no pure identities. What
was taken as constant, consistent, and singular
identities before emerges now as temporary subject
positions made of three conditions: difference,
plurality, and intersectionality. This conceptualiza-
tion puts Adorno’s dictum into theoretical practice
that “the smallest rest of nonidentity sufficed that
identity - a totalizing concept - is denied” (Adorno
1982:33, my translation). It is very important
that difference is supplemented by plurality and
intersectionality because both conditions prevent
a renewed essentialization. Plurality means that
differences never exist in the singular. Everybody
has to position her- or himself (or is positioned)
with regard to a multiplicity of differences, and
these differences do not simply run parallel and
congruent but intersect each other. That is, this
plurality may have a number of different effects:
differences may (partially) erase each other but
they may also reinforce one another - and they
may do so only for a certain time and context.
This is how I understand Martijn van Beek’s idea
of “dissimulation”: Differences may be postponed
and dissimulated in a certain context or for a par-
ticular purpose, resulting in a specific self-essen-
tialization, but they are effective nonetheless and
will impress their marks on the scene in certain
other moments (van Beek 2000).
7 Politics of Difference and the Dual
Hermeneutics of Identity
I have proposed that people struggling for power
and the recognition of rights assume the discourse
of identity (or the nation) in order to make their
demands audible in a political system dominated
by (already recognized) nations. This “strategic es-
sentialism” (Spivak 1988) is not simply an unalter-
ing acceptance of Western, dominant premises and
“modular forms” (Anderson 1983), as Chatterjee
has argued in the case of the nation concept (Chat-
terjee 1998). The nation was not simply imagined
in a “Western” style by anticolonial movements
536
Martin Sokefeld
but it was reimagined.11 In my view, the emphasis
on difference instead of identity is also - at least
partly - the result of such a reimagination.
We have already seen that the critique of
the identical category “women” in feminism was
voiced from more “marginal” positions. In a short
digression I want to present another example of
the discourse of difference. It is taken from a
nationalist discourse in the Northern Areas of
Pakistan. A brief outline of the historical and
political context of the Northern Areas is neces-
sary to understand the point. The Northern Areas
(NAs) are the high mountain area of the Western
Himalaya, administered and controlled since the
end of 1947 by Pakistan. Before, the area was
under the influence of the British, with a small
portion of directly administered territory and the
greater part of indirectly ruled princely territories.
The precise political circumstances during colonial
rule were quite complex, but here it suffices to
know that the whole territory was given under
the administration of the Maharaja of Kashmir
when the British left the region in July 31st, 1947.
Political leaders in Gilgit, the central place of
the NAs, were not happy with this new situation,
and shortly after the Maharaja of Kashmir had
declared accession to India a revolt was staged
in Gilgit. The area was “liberated” and the local
provisional government invited the government of
Pakistan to take over the administration. The main
motivation for this move was that the political
leaders in Gilgit preferred the merger with the
newly founded Muslim state of Pakistan. India,
in contrast, was perceived as a Hindu state. After
two weeks of indecision the Pakistani government
sent a representative to Gilgit who took office in
Gilgit (Sokefeld 1997b). In practice, however, the
NAs continued to be administered like a colonial
territory. The NAs were never recognized as part
of the territory of Pakistan. They are still regarded
a disputed territory only administered by Pakistan,
pending the final solution of the Kashmir dispute.
A great part of the local population is not
content with this state of affairs because it entails
a number of juridical and political disabilities.
For example, until today the people of the NAs
have no right to cast their vote in the elections
of the National Assembly of Pakistan nor do
they have a kind of local legislative assembly.
11 We also have to be careful not to essentialize a “Western”
notion of the nation, as there are important differences in
“Western” conceptualizations laid down, for instance, in
the German “cultural nation” and the French “republican
nation” (Koselleck 1992).
Periodically, protest and resistance against these
conditions erupts in the NAs, especially in Gilgit.
Since the end of the 1980s, local political parties
have started to voice a local nationalist discourse
of the NAs, claiming that the region constitutes a
nation, different and to be distinguished both from
Pakistan and Kashmir. From this claim, the need of
(national) self-determination and self-government
is derived (see Sokefeld 1997a). What is of interest
here is the question how “national identity” is
conceptualized in this discourse. Any conceptual-
ization of identity has to deal with the condition
that the area is characterized by a very high degree
of internal differentiation in historical-political and
linguistic respect, as in the following quotation
from a nationalist pamphlet: “Although, due to
their particular geographical conditions, several
parts of Gilgit Baltistan [a previous name for the
NAs] have been divided into small independent
states, and although the local rulers have often
quarrelled among themselves, when during dif-
ferent historical periods Moghul, Kashmiri, Dogra
armies and the British tried to conquer this region,
the local rulers put aside their quarrels and fought
against the foreign enemies and sometimes forced
them to retreat. In this manner, the local rulers with
their nationalist zeal have preserved the historical,
geographical, political, and cultural identity of the
country” (.Anonymous 1996: 3 f.).
The Urdu word which I translated here as
“identity” is tashakhus. Tashakhus is derived from
the Arabic root shakhsa, to rise, to appear. The
meaning of tashakhus is not identity in the sense of
selfsameness but rather “difference.” It is related to
tashkhis, distinguishing, ascertaining. Tashakhus is
what stands out, relative to others, what is distin-
guishable. This may be an etymological accident
but “identity” is indeed conceived here in terms
of “difference from others” with whom those who
are characterized by this tashakhus are indeed not
identical. Identity is not selfsameness but sameness
in terms of a shared difference from others. Once
I discussed the issue of the nation of NAs with
one of the leaders of the nationalist movement,
Nawaz Khan Naji. He told me that this nation
was indeed fundamentally different in its history,
language, and culture from the nations of Kashmir
and Pakistan. He even said: “We [the members of
the nation] all speak one language.” I was quite
irritated, knowing that in Gilgit many different
mother tongues are spoken. But he explained: “Of
course, we speak many languages, but they are all
the same because they are fundamentally different
from the languages spoken by the surrounding
nations” (i.e., Kashmir and Pakistan). The lan-
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
537
guages are the same - or identical - because
they are characterized by a common difference
distinguishing them from others that do not belong
to this nation.
The whole idea of a nation of the NAs rose
in the context of experienced political differences,
i.e., political discrimination by the government of
Pakistan. Whereas the freedom struggle in 1947
aimed at a merger with the Pakistani state - iden-
tity with the Pakistani nation was already presup-
posed by virtues of being Muslims - the political
struggle of the 1990s introduced the concept of
a separate nation in order to voice the demand
for self-determination because political partici-
pation apparently could not be achieved within
the political system of Pakistan. An experience
of difference was turned into the postulation of
identity - a different identity of course. However,
this difference is not unproblematical because the
category and identity it engenders - the nation of
the NAs - is affected and, in fact, divided by
other differences, like descent, local origin and,
most important and effective in terms of violent
conflicts, sectarian affiliation. Just as the identity
“woman” is not unproblematical in the perspective
of those women whose identity is also marked
by “racial” difference, the identity of the nation
of the NAs is not perceived as unproblematical.
There is not only a struggle between people of the
NAs and the government of Pakistan, framed in
nationalist terms, but there is also a perceived com-
petition between different kinds of difference. For
instance, the idea of a nation has to be established
against the powerful dividing forces of religious
difference. Although the difference of nation is not
able to erase the difference of religion, it at least
has to defer, to postpone, or to “dissimulate” it.
A national identity is therefore not at all taken
for granted, it is a project which, although its
historical potentiality is perceived as given, has
to be achieved against rivaling differences.
For my work in Gilgit, this local conceptual-
ization required a reconceptualization of identity
in terms of difference (Sôkefeld 1997a, 1998). I
distinguished different “dimensions of difference”
mtersecting one another and producing a field of
forces in which individuals constantly have to
Position - and to reposition - themselves. I have
to admit here that a local concept of identity -
hke tashakhus - was explicitly employed in Gilgit
°nly in the case of the nationalist discourse. In
ah other cases, writing about religious or local
•dentity, I am, according to Handler’s critique,
aPparently guilty of imposing that term on the
l°cal people. The particular concept of identity I
^nthropos 96.2001
imposed on them is, however, far away from what
Handler gives as “the” Western notion of iden-
tity. Rather than presupposing selfsameness and
a singular fixed essence, my concept of identity,
developed in the empirical context of Gilgit, is
characterized by the emphasis on difference, in-
tersectionality, and plurality. Rather than imposing
a fixed, Western idea of identity on non-Western
people, I took their implicit conceptualization to
reformulate what identity could mean. This, then,
like the feminist reconceptualization, is a case of
the recognition of dual hermeneutics of a social
scientific concept. Far from being colonized by
a supposedly universal idea, a local discourse is
taken as point of departure to question that idea.
Therefore, I would plea not guilty in the sense of
Handler’s critique.
In an earlier paper Handler has raised another
important issue and warned social anthropologists
not to become complices of nationalists or other
fabricators of “identities” by taking their construc-
tions and politics of identity for granted and sub-
scribing to similar conceptions of identity (Handler
1985). Of course, my analysis of the nationalist
discourse has to be cautious not simply to affirm
the nationalist account. Although we as social
anthropologists are inextricably part of the game
if we research on identities we should not simply
succumb to somebody’s discourse. The danger
to do so is not negligible because, as Handler
has pointed out, social anthropological concepts
like older, more essentializing notions of “ethnic
groups,” and nationalist constructions of nations
are founded upon quite similar presuppositions.
However, if, contrary to what Handler represents
as the classical Western notion of identity, we
take as an axiom of analysis that identities are
constructed not upon selfsameness but upon dif-
ference, that identity does not exist in the singular
but only in plurality, and that different identities
intersect one another, we have already entered
into a process of immunization against simply
taking over particular constructions of particular
identities.
8 Is Identity a Useful Analytical Category?
More fundamental than Handler’s is the critique
of identity raised recently by Brubaker and Cooper
(2000). They not only question the cross-cultural
applicability of the notion but its general useful-
ness as an analytical category. Their demand to
drop identity as a concept of analysis rests on
the diagnosis that in consequence of inflationary
538
Martin Sòkefeld
use both in academic discourse and in “real life”
the concept has lost specific contours. Identity
is “too ambiguous, too torn between ‘hard’ and
‘soft’ meanings, essentialist connotations and con-
structivist qualifiers, to serve well the demands of
social analysis” (Brubaker and Looper 2000: 2).
This dualism of “hard’Vessentialist and “soft’Vcon-
structivist understandings of identity is at the
core of their argument. Initially, they equate the
hard understanding with identity as a category
of practice and the soft one with identity as a
category of analysis. They demand not to blur the
boundary between both kinds of categories and
not to take over essentialist identity into analytical
discourse simply because essentialist, reified read-
ings of identity are employed in the politics of the
people we study. Their conclusion that “analysts
of this kind of politics should seek to account for
this process of reification” and that “we should
avoid unintentionally reproducing or reinforcing
such reification by uncritically adopting categories
of practice as categories of analysis” (Brubaker
and Looper 2000: 5, original italics) is valid if
somewhat close to kick at an open door because
today few ethnographers of identity simply take
over their subject’s conceptualization. Brubaker
and Cooper continue by distinguishing a number
of different uses of identity as analytical category.
They come to the conclusion that these diverse
understandings “point in sharply differing direc-
tions;” that identity “... bears a multivalent, even
contradictory theoretical burden” (2000: 8). Such a
diversity of readings of a concept based on diverse
and even contradictory theoretical approaches is in
my understanding a quite normal state of affairs in
the social and cultural sciences and not a reason to
abandon such concepts. Returning to the distinc-
tion of hard and soft understandings of identity,
their argument takes a surprising turn. Taking the
hard understanding as the “real” meaning of the
term because it is derived from everyday usage,
they reject the soft understanding of identity be-
cause “... it is not clear why weak conceptions of
‘identity’ are conceptions of identity. The every-
day sense of ‘identity’ strongly suggests at least
some self-samenqss over time, some persistence,
something that remains identical, the same, while
other things are changing. What is the point in
using the term ‘identity’ if this core meaning is
expressly repudiated?” (2000: 11, original italics).
Here, identity as an analytical concept is rejected
on the grounds that its soft reading is sharply
distinguished from its understanding as a practical
category. That is, the authors’ earlier demand
not to conflate practical and analytical concepts
is turned into its opposite. This turn is driven
to extremes in the author’s subsequent assertion
that also soft understandings of identity betray a
hard core: “Even in its constructivist guise, the
language of ‘identity’ disposes us to think in terms
of bounded groupness. It does so because even
constructivist thinking on identity takes the exis-
tence of identity as axiomatic. Identity is always
already ‘there,’ as something that individuals and
groups ‘have,’ even if the content of particular
identities, and the boundaries that mark groups off
from one another, are conceptualized as always in
flux” (2000: 27 f.).
However, for most contemporary theory identi-
ty is certainly never already there. In my example
of the construction of a national identity of the
Northern Areas of Pakistan it is possible to tell the
precise story of its coming into being. It is even
possible to give the time when certain designations
for this imagined nation were invented, in spite of
the fact that this nation was from its very beginning
imagined as having (almost) “always already been
there” (Sokefeld 1997a). This may not be the
case in all or even most instances of identity -
not because specific identities are axiomatically
presupposed but only because too much history
has passed and covered the precise origin of this
identity.
What for Brubaker and Cooper is the reason
to reject identity is for me an essential element
of its usefulness as an analytical category: the
duality of essentialist and constructivist readings,
of identity as a category of practice and a category
of analysis. The concept identity enables us to
point to certain constructions in social reality while
simultaneously conveying the essentialist implica-
tions of actors and the (de-)constructivist stance of
social scientists. This Janus-faced semantic struc-
ture of identity - if fully realized - is an insurance
against the conflation of categories of practice and
of analysis. It reminds us strongly that identities,
although posed by actors as singular, continuous,
and bounded can be shown to be subject to the
condition of plurality, intersectionality, and differ-
ence.
9 The Self
This reading of identity, however, leaves us with
another difficulty. If identity - as analytical cate-
gory - does not refer to an essential selfsameness
but to a multiple social web of intersecting strands
of difference, what about the individual then? Are
individuals only ever changing, ever newly tied
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
539
knots in this web? This image does not simply
accord the individual human being a passive role
in that web only, it outright dissolves the idea of
the individual. This conceptualization very much
fits with sociocentric conceptions of the individual
prevalent in much social anthropological analyses
of others, i.e., non-Western human beings (Soke-
feld 1999a). Handler refers to such supposedly
other cultural concepts of self in order to support
the argument that “identity” in the sense of a
fixed, bounded, and homogeneous entity is not
cross-culturally applicable (1994: 30-34). I am not
convinced by his argument because he considers
only one type of imposition of “Western” concepts
on others: being critical of mistaken conceptual
assimilation, he warns us not to impose “our own”
concepts of self and identity on others. He is,
however, not critical of othering, i.e., the impo-
sition of a conceptual a priori difference on these
others. But the critical and reflexive debate of the
1980s has shown that the difference of others,
that is, non-Westerners, is often an artefact of our
premises and approaches (Fabian 1983). As a fa-
mous example of “other” concepts of self Handler
refers to Geertz’s writings about the person in
Bali (Handler 1994: 32 f.; Geertz 1973). Fredrik
Barth has argued since that Geertz’s construal of
the person in Bali is more a result of a selective
evaluation of cultural material than of an ethnog-
raphy of actual persons on the island: “Ideally
the performance part of the person, conforming to
conventional roles, could indeed - using Geertz’s
expression - be called ‘depersonalized;’ but that
is neither in the Balinese view a complete model
of the person, since it lacks impulse and emotion,
nor is it capable of accounting for the behaviors
that emerge among Balinese. The North Balinese
understand a great number of events and social
facts to be the product of the hidden, individual
features of people’s hearts and the imperfections
of their moral discipline. What is more, knowing
that an imperfectly bridled heart, turbulent with
desires, emotions, and evil, hides in every fellow
human being, the Balinese orient themselves ac-
cordingly. Contrary to Geertz’s understanding and
description, they are exceptionally, though usually
quite discreetly, alert to every slightest clue to each
other’s individuality. This makes good sense: only
hy observing closely can one hope to read the true
1]riport of acts and reactions, with the avoidance of
°tfense and fear of sorcery reprisals as critical con-
cerns that permeate nearly all social intercourse”
(Barth 1993: 169). Not only the Balinese case
uurtures doubts about the validity of the difference
between Western and non-Western selves that in
many accounts appears as a dichotomy a priori
and that not only overgeneralizes and overhomoge-
nizes non-Western selves as sociocentric but, also,
Western selves as egocentric (Spiro 1993).
According to Barth, there are even in Bali
individuals with individual concerns. That is, the
reading of identity as deconstructed by difference
has to stop short of completely erasing the indi-
vidual agent. After all, the supposedly Western
conception of a fixed, essential identity had to
be abandoned because we recognized that iden-
tities are constructed. Identities are constructed
not by impersonal historical or social forces but,
of course, by human individuals within particular
social and historical conditions and constellations.
These individuals also have to deal with the plu-
rality of differences in which they are suspended
or, in other words, with the plurality of identities
they assume or are ascribed in particular moments.
Therefore, I regard indispensable a concept of self
endowed with agency and reflexivity as pertaining
to every human being. At first sight it may seem
that with the idea of such a self I am reintroducing
through the backdoor the kind of Western identity
which just before I have dismissed. But this is
not the case. This concept of self does not pre-
suppose a certain cultural conception. It does not
presuppose ideas like individual autonomy, clear
boundedness or individualism. It just assumes that
every human being is able to act. This ability of
agency does not mean anything more than that
every human being is able to take initiative (Arendt
1958), that is, to make beginnings with its deeds
and communications. Agency of course takes place
within a field of social, cultural, historical, and
economic forces, but agency is underdetermined
by these forces. Agency also includes reflexivity,
that is, the ability to reflect consciously about
the field in which action takes place, to evaluate
outcomes of action and to attempt to prefigure
the outcome of further action - all this, however,
does not implicate that action actually achieves
the previewed outcomes. There may of course be
particular cultural conceptions of the self but I
regard agency and reflexivity as human universals,
to employ this rather discredited term. According-
ly, even in cultural environments which promote
strictly sociocentric, anti-individualistic concep-
tions of the self, actual selves are not deprived
of agency and reflexivity.
One may think that if reflexive agency is re-
garded as a human universal, social and cultural
anthropology has nothing to do with it because
we are interested in human beings as cultural
beings. But our ideas about human selves are
Anthropos 96.2001
540
Martin Sòkefeld
very important premises for our understanding of
humans as cultural beings, for our understanding
of culture indeed. The idea of reflexively acting
selves is a powerful check against deterministic
pretensions of culture. It forces us to reflect in-
tensely about how relationships between culture
and selves are to be conceived, how selves acquire,
enact, create, and transform culture. This requires
us to pay strict attention to selves in our ethno-
graphic work and, further, to represent selves as
selves in our ethnographies.
10 The Politics of Concepts of Self
In my view, there are also very important political
reasons to insist on such a conception of reflexive-
ly acting selves in social anthropology. During the
greater part of its historical development, the disci-
pline of social anthropology has neglected selves
in favour of collectivities like groups, societies,
or cultures. Besides, psychological anthropology
has quite successfully taken pains to point out
that cultural conceptions of the self may be very
different from what is supposed to be the Western
conception of self and individual. A dichotomy of
Western selves as egocentric, individualistic and
non-Western selves as sociocentric has emerged
and sociocentrism almost became a premise for
anthropological conceptions of others’ selves. This
argument of fundamentally different selves was
the base of Handler’s rejection of the applicability
of the concept of identity at non-Western people.
But this dichotomy is politically not innocent.
Concepts of selves are also far-reaching if most-
ly not explicit premises of political conceptions
and rights, and the non-Western sociocentric self
can be appropriated for the purpose of repressive
political aims and practices. In what follows I
tentatively want to explore the relation between
conceptions of selves and politics by discussing
the issue of universal human rights.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
of 1948 conceives of individual subjects as the
subjects of human rights; subjects which are sup-
posed to be “equal” and endowed with agency,
freedom and individual dignity.12 The purpose of
the Declaration of Human Rights is precisely to
protect these individual endowments. Obviously,
12 See for instance Article 1 of the Universal Declaration of
Human Rights: “All human beings are born free and equal
in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and
conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit
of brotherhood.”
the kind of individual or self that is presupposed
as the subject of human rights is more akin to
the projected egocentric Western self than to a
sociocentric non-Western self. Therefore, social
anthropologists sometimes take the idea of non-
Western sociocentric selves as point of departure to
challenge the universality of human rights (Wilson
1997:6). Unfortunately, such an argument is not
restricted to theory and academic debate. The
authorities of countries like China, for example,
often point to the assumed sociocentricity of their
subjects’ selves and conclude that a declaration
of human rights should not emphasize individual
rights but the obligations of the individual toward
his or her community. Here, anthropological con-
ceptions of the self can easily be misused as legit-
imation of repressive political action. In a similar
vein, Western cultural relativists’ challenges of the
universality of human rights implicate the same
kind of non-Western selves - selves subordinate to
cultures that differ from Western culture especially
in not buttressing individuality.13 They allege that
human rights conceived of as universal are ethno-
(Euro-) centric or culture imperialist and endanger
the viability of other cultures. Rhoda Howard quite
polemically writes: “Denial of the individuality of
members of these [non-Western] societies merges
them into an amorphous whole, in which cultures
are at risk of being destroyed (for example by
introducing new norms of human rights) but actual
people are not. When the people who comprise
these romanticized cultures are considered not
real individuals with their own needs, wants, and
desires but rather living anthropological exhibits,
then their human rights can go unheeded. The
primitive by definition is natural and cannot have
socially constructed desires for human rights that
Westerners have as refined, alienated social beings.
The primitive is not capable of abstract thought,
of stepping out of her environs to consider the
nature of social life or the ethics of her group.
Thus to introduce the ideal of human rights even
into verbal discourse with a primitive is to be an
13 For such a position see Pollis and Schwab (1979: 8 ff.)-
Wilson criticizes this relativism: “Yet the most serious
contingent ‘reality’ is that relativism itself is an integral part
of the meta-narrative of those governments who actively
oppose the applications of international human rights to
their polities. The tolerance of relativism here has a directly
conservative political implication - the maintenance of
highly inegalitarian and repressive political systems. An
undeniable truth is that many governments around the
world continue to carry out abominable acts against ‘their’
populations, and relativism is the most useful available
ideology which facilitates international acquiescence in
state repression” (1997: 8f.).
Anthropos 96.2001
Reconsidering Identity
541
imperialist, to set off a process of social change
that may well wreck the indigenous social order”
(1993: 328). The reverse side of cultural relativism
is an ideology of authenticity that conjures up
cultural purism as highest value - regardless of
the fact that culture never is (and was) pure but
“tainted” by hybridity.
The argument criticised by Howard points to
a reified understanding of culture quite similar to
traditional anthropological notions that conceive
of culture as bounded and shared, which oppose
culture and self and which finally relegate the self
to a position of lesser importance because it is only
a product of culture. In the famous declaration on
Human Rights of the American Anthropological
Association, drafted by Melville Herskovits, this
position is clearly expressed: “If we begin, as
we must, with the individual, we find that from
the moment of his birth not only his behavior
but his very thought, his hopes, aspirations, the
moral values which direct his action and justify
and give meaning to his life in his own eyes
and those of his fellows, are shaped by the body
of custom of the group of which he becomes a
member” (American Anthropological Association
1947: 539 f.). Consequently, the rights of a culture
almost replace individual rights: “The individual
realizes his personality through his culture, hence
respect for individual differences entails a respect
of cultural differences” (1947:541). The major
shortcoming of cultural relativist arguments in
relation with the issue of human rights is that
they are unable to specify who is capable of
determining what the particular culture of a given
individual or group is. Consider Indian culture and
society. According to Dumont (1980) and Marriott
(1976), there are no valued individuals from the
perspective of Indian culture either because the
(“empirical”) individuals are always understood as
parts of a group, or because they are no real units
of society but they themselves (as “dividuals”) are
subdivided into coded substances. From the Indian
cultural perspective it is then perfectly possible
to justify certain “cultural” ways of interaction
which implicate practices of gross inequality and
that are repressive for specific kinds of individuals
from the universalist point of view, especially
for so-called Untouchables. But who is in the
Position to decide what is “Indian” and what is not,
which ways of action are allowed because of their
Endianness” and which are not? Is the competence
for this decision vested in certain cultural experts
(Efrahmans? anthropologists?) or in sources like
texts? Is it a matter of statistics, i. e., of the
n°rmativity of facts? Or is every empirical Indian
individual entitled to decide that question for him-
or herself? The last possibility is in fact impossible
because what is at stake are conceptions of rela-
tionships between human beings, and this is not an
individual issue. However, there are conceptions of
culture and individuality in India held by Indian
empirical individuals which are quite at odds with
for instance Dumont’s understanding of “Indian.”
I am of course alluding here to positions expressed
by the underprivileged of Indian society that hold
their own concepts of the person (Vincentnathan
1993) and of values (Mencher 1974) and that
denounce what is considered as generally “Indian”
by Dumont as a position held by certain, dominant
sections of Indian society. In their view it is
just the “brahmanical view of caste” (Berreman
1979). This inner-Indian dispute mapped onto an
anthropological debate points to the fact that un-
derstandings represented as “cultural” are subject
to power relations and intense social struggle.14 If
we understand culture as process and struggle and
selves as reflexively acting beings involved in this
struggle, the argument of cultural relativism (or
“cultural absolutism,” as Howard calls it) against
universal human rights dissolves. No culture can
then be turned as an absolute value against the
struggling individual.15 Again, we consequentially
have to accept that individuals/selves are indeed
reflexively acting (struggling, making decisions,
dissenting, putting themselves in opposition to
groups or dominant views, constructing and de-
constructing identities, etc.) and accordingly we
have to give importance and attention to these
acting selves and to affirm their rights.
II Conclusion
In this paper I have gone a long way from the dif-
ficulties of anthropological concepts to the idea of
14 This difficulty becomes especially obvious if applied to
gender affairs. Mostly, “cultural” rules curtailing the op-
portunities of women are made by men. Men are no doubt
frequently in a position to decide what is the “culture of
women.” But their position is of course a result of power
relations and not of “cultural expertise.”
15 Such a position also lifts the suspicion of cultural impe-
rialism from the idea of universal human rights. Human
rights that are already a product of cultural struggle in
the West then appear as an instrument in the struggle, for
example of Dalits in India, for the improvement of their
social conditions. It is anyway worthwhile to reflect upon
the fact that human rights are accused to be imperialist
mostly by those dominant in non-Western societies, not
by those who labour to improve their conditions of living
against such domination.
Anthropos 96.2001
542
Martin Sòkefeld
universal human rights. Taking Handler’s critique
of the reifying imposition of a Western concept
of identity on others as a point of departure, I
have briefly discussed the globalization of identity
discourse in both the academy and the political
realm and pointed to a new conceptualization of
identity as difference - a conceptualization quite at
a distance of what Handler gives as “the” Western
notion of identity. This conceptual change is part
of the dual hermeneutics of identity: It is not
simply a result of academic debates but of intersec-
tions of political and academic discourses. Identity
as difference indeed questions the core character-
istics of Handler’s conventional meaning of the
concept. Identity is not identical anymore. Rather
than to liberate anthropology’s “others” from the
reifying imposition of the concept of identity, we
should free that concept from the encumbrance of
certain reifying presuppositions. Further, I have
argued that, contrary to the critique voiced by
Brubaker and Cooper, the value of identity as an
analytical category is its ability to accommodate
the duality of essentialist and constructivist read-
ings. The acknowledgement of human’s ability
to construct and deconstruct identities requires
us to conceive of human individuals as reflex-
ively acting selves - a notion that contradicts a
great deal of anthropologists’ construals of others,
i.e., non-Western, selves. With the debate about
the cultural relativity or universality of human
rights I have finally entered politics a second
time.
The concept of identity is a striking example
that shows how central concepts of social anthro-
pology are embedded in political ramifications.
In my opinion, the analytical usefulness of our
concepts cannot be ensured by trying to maintain
a conceptual purity that struggles to keep them
out of compromising political contexts. To enable
and maintain the analytical value of our concep-
tual instruments, we have to reflect upon their
condition of being appropriated into non-disciplin-
ary discourses and the ensuing transformations of
meaning. We cannot escape the dual hermeneutics
that is a basic condition of our science.
An earlier version of this paper was presented as a
guest lecture at the Institute of Ethnography and Social
Anthropology, University of Aarhus, Nov. 16, 1999.
I thank Martijn van Beek for the invitation to deliver
this lecture. Subsequently the paper has profited much
from the very lively debates in my seminary on the
concept “identity” at the Institute of Social and Cultural
Anthropology in Hamburg, summer 2000.
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Anthropos 96.2001
Anthropos
96.2001: 545-555
Beads and Pendants of the Pleistocene
Robert G. Bednarik
Abstract. - One of the most useful forms of evidence in
considering the cognitive evolution of hominids are the beads
we have managed to recover from Pleistocene sediments, and
yet they are among the most neglected kind of material relevant
in this quest. In the context of the origins of symbolism
beads offer two outstanding characteristics: in contrast to other
classes of evidence proffered, their status as nonutilitarian
anthropogenic products is rarely challenged; and their sym-
bolic significance appears generically self-evident. This paper
surveys the distribution of Pleistocene beads and pendants in
time and space, their forms of occurrence, and the implications
of these empirical observations for hominid ethology. It is
concluded that such symbolic artefacts were in use since the
Lower Palaeolithic, i.e., for at least two or three hundred
millennia, and that complex communication and social systems
must be attributed to the societies concerned. [Pleistocene,
artefacts, hominid cognition]
Robert G. Bednarik, Chairperson of the International Feder-
ation of Rock Art Organizations (IFRAO), Chairperson of the
AURA Congress, and Secretary of the Australian Rock Art Re-
search Association (AURA). Editor of four scientific journals
and two series of monographs. The author has produced about
1000 publications, over 400 of which have appeared in refereed
scientific journals.
Introduction
The connection between the cognitive evolution
°f humans and the topic of the production and
use of beads and pendants during the Pleisto-
Cene may not have been afforded much attention,
but such portable palaeoart objects can be much
u^ore illuminating in this respect than most other
Ufchaeological finds. Let us consider the current
consensus model of cognitive evolution as held by
Mainstream archaeology, particularly of the An-
£lo-American persuasion. It perceives a massive,
explosion-like development with the advent of the
Upper Palaeolithic in southwestern Europe, and
this is almost universally attributed to the sudden
appearance of anatomically modern humans in the
region (e.g., Gamble 1994; Mithen 1998). Prior to
this cataclysmic change, the model predicts, the
world was populated largely by primitive humans
who probably lacked language, complex social
structures, and culture, who created no form of
“art,” hunted inefficiently if at all, and may have
even been carrion eaters who lacked the use of
fire. They may have had no habitation structures
and wandered over the landscape rather aimlessly,
eking out a most precarious existence.
These claims relating to the late appearance
of symbolism, art, and language, which have be-
come so established recently that they completely
dominate mainstream world archaeology, are at-
tributable to an inadequate knowledge of scholars
advocating these models. Ocean navigation and the
ability to colonize new lands by sea arguably pos-
tulate the use of complex communication systems,
as some of the advocates of this school readily
admit (e.g., Noble and Davidson 1996), and while
this does not necessarily indicate uttered language,
that would seem to be the most likely explanation.
The knowledge that ocean crossings by coloniz-
ing parties were successful more than 700,000 or
800,000 years ago has been available for several
decades now,1 which implies that these journeys
were by Homo erectus. In compiling a list of finds
1 Bednarik 1997a; Bednarik and Kuckenburg 1999; Maringer
und Verhoeven 1970; Morwood et al. 1999; Sondaar et al.
1994.
546
Robert G. Bednarik
that may indicate the use of palaeoart or complex
technology, I listed literally hundreds some years
ago (e.g., Bednarik 1992, 1994a). Hominids of
the Lower Palaeolithic not only created markings
on portable objects of various types, they also
produced the oldest petroglyphs we have found
so far (Bednarik 1993a, 2001) and made extensive
use of ochre or haematite.2 Lower Palaeolithic hu-
mans created well-designed and well-made wood-
en artefacts3 and they apparently produced com-
posite weapons (fastening stone to wood) (Thieme
1995). Since there are several cases of stone walls
by them that have been interpreted as parts of
dwelling structures (Bednarik 1993b) it may be
a little hasty to assume that they lacked habitation
shelters. They certainly produced artefacts from
such materials as bone and ivory, they were ca-
pable of drilling or boring (Keeley 1977), and we
assume that we have evidence of their appreciation
of exotic finds, such as crystals and fossil casts,
which we know they collected on occasion.4 It is
also wrong to say that their lithic industries were
unchanging: prismatic blades, borers, and burins
occur in Acheulian deposits, and in the Amudian
of North Africa and the Levant, which developed
from the region’s Acheulian, blade tools become a
major component of the industry (McBurney 1967;
Rust 1950).
Beads and pendants tell us a great deal about
both the technology and the culture of their makers
and users. Technologically they illustrate not only
the ability to drill through brittle or very hard
materials, but also they imply the use of cordage.
The very essence of a bead or pendant is to be
threaded onto a string, it would simply be pointless
to perforate a small object for another purpose but
to pass a string though it. However, the use of
cordage also suggests the use of knots, because
a string needs to be closed to form a loop to
be effective. Although the ends of a string may
be joined by means other than a knot, e.g., by
the use of adhesive or by plaiting, these alterna-
tive means are either impracticable or they are
technologically even more complex than the use
of knotting (Warner and Bednarik 1996). It is
relevant to note that seafaring, too, is practically
impossible without the use of ropes and knotting.
2 Bednarik 1990; Howell 1966: 129; Leakey 1958; Lumley
1966; Marshack 1981.
3 Belitzky et al. 1991; Biberson 1964; Bosinski 1992: 34;
Howell 1966; Jacob-Friesen 1956; Mania und Mania 1998;
Thieme 1996a, 1996b, 1997, 1998; Wagner 1990.
4 Bednarik 1994a, 1998, 1999; d’Errico et al. 1989; d’Errico
and Nowell 2000; Goren-Inbar 1986; Goren-Inbar et al.
1991; Oakley 1973, 1981; Pei 1931: 120.
The diachronic availability of Pleistocene remains
of cordage5 is of no relevance to the question,
because that class of material evidence obviously
possesses an exceptionally high taphonomic lag
time (Bednarik 1994b). In short, what beads tell
us about the technology of the people who used
them is well in excess of deductions concerning
their manufacture.
Without doubt the technological deductions
beads permit us are of great interest, but of perhaps
more importance are the cultural and cognitive
deductions they make possible. Beads can be used
in a number of ways or for several purposes:
they may be emblemic, for instance, and provide
various forms of information about the wearer
and his or her status in society. Availability for
marriage, political status, state of mourning might
be such possible symbolic meanings. At one level
one might believe that beads indicate simply body
adornment, but this is almost certainly an over-
simplification. Even if vanity were the motivation
for wearing such items, stating this explains not
why such items are perceived as “decorative.” The
concept itself is anthropocentric, we do not assume
that other animals perceive the information impart-
ed by the beads as meaningful. In human culture,
however, various forms or levels of meaning may
be encoded in such objects, as well as in other
kinds of body adornment (tattoos, body painting,
cicatrices, infibulation, anklets, armbands, etc.). In
ethnography, beads sewn onto apparel or worn
on necklaces may signify complex social, eco-
nomic, ethnic, ideological, religious, or emblemic
meanings, all of which are only accessible to a
participant of the culture in question. To name just
one example: beads or pendants may function as
charms, they may be a means of protection against
evil spells or spirits.
Beads and Language
While none of this information is archaeologi-
cally recoverable, all of it refers to a level of
cultural sophistication most archaeologists would
not currently be prepared to concede to humans
prior to about 30,000 years ago. Indeed, many
would not even consider such possibilities. Bear-
ing in mind the minuscule amount of testable,
falsifiable information archaeology has so far pro-
vided concerning pre-Upper Palaeolithic human
cognition, social systems, or even technology, such
a preemptory disposition is clearly unscientific.
5 Leroi-Gourhan 1982; Nadel et al. 1994; Pringle 1997.
Anthropos 96.2001
Beads and Pendants of the Pleistocene
547
No credible evidence has so far been presented
by orthodox archaeology that would indicate, for
instance, that Homo erectus had no language. On
the other hand, ample evidence is available that he
quite probably did. The premature announcements
and hypotheses of the “short-range” (or Big Bang)
model of hominid evolution need to be tested, and
one way to do this is by examining the origins of
beads and pendants.
Irrespective of their cultural purpose, beads
convey complex information about the wearer
which it would be impossible to create a context
for without the use of a communication system
such as language. We have many other indicators
of possible language use during the Lower and
Middle Palaeolithic (e.g., other forms of symbol-
ism, or successful ocean navigation), and the very
early use of beads and pendants provides just one
of the various forms of crucial evidence.
Small perforated objects of the Pleistocene may
have been beads or pendants, or they could have
been quangings, pulling handles, or buckles as
reported ethnographically.6 However, most of the
utilitarian objects of this type are not only of a
quite typical shape or design, they exhibit spe-
cific wear traces and material properties. To be
more specific, small circular objects with central
perforation are considered to be beads, especially
where they occur repeatedly. Similarly, objects
such as animal teeth, perforated near one end (near
the root) are not thought to be pulling handles,
nor are objects that are too fragile to function as
such utilitarian equipment (e.g., ostrich eggshell
beads). Evidence that a bead was drilled with
a stone tool includes a distinctive biconical and
“machined” section and sometimes rotation striae.
The wear of pendants can often be observed on
archaeological specimens, including those made of
stone (Bednarik 1997c), and is also quite typical.
Hundreds of such objects are reported in the
literature, although there is often no reliable evi-
dence that the perforation is anthropogenic. Some
materials can be perforated by natural processes.
Tor instance, bones can be chewed through by
animal canines or partially digested by stomach
acids, while mollusc shells are commonly perfo-
rated by parasitic organisms. To acquire experience
m recognizing such natural perforations I have mi-
croscopically examined hundreds of specimens of
latter type. But before hastily omitting objects
with natural perforations from all consideration in
Ibis context we would do well to remember that
6 Boas 1888: Figs. 15, 17, 121d; Kroeber 1900: Fig. 8; Nelson
1899: PI. 17.
Anthropos 96.2001
the cultural status of such an object is not entirely
contingent on whether the hole in it was made by
human agency. While it is preferable to rely only
on specimens bearing clear evidence of human
work when dealing with a period from which bead
use has not as yet been conclusively demonstrated,
it is to be emphasized that the perforation of a
bead or pendant certainly does not need to be
man-made, as d’Errico and Villa (1997) errone-
ously assume. On the contrary, naturally perforated
objects are commonly used in ethnographic spec-
imens (as are perishable materials) and it seems
likely that such natural beads were also used in
the past. Indeed, the earliest beads ever used quite
possibly had natural perforations.
In considering the origins of communication
by language, several points arise immediately.
Language and speech are two different abilities,
and there is no doubt that communication can be
by many means other than speech. It is widespread
in the animal kingdom (Bednarik 1992: 31), even
plants are thought to communicate. As always
in anthropocentric and humanistic disciplines, the
definition of what indicates characteristics such
as culture or language are regularly revised in
response to the threat that such characteristics
might be attributed to nonhuman interloper spe-
cies. This is one of the classical symptoms of a
nonscientific pursuit, because in reality there can
be no doubt that humans do not possess one single
definable, measurable, or observable characteristic
that is not shared by another species. Modern
ethology demonstrates this amply. Thus the desire
to maintain a clear qualitative separation between
humans and nonhuman animals is attributable to
the religio-cultural reality scholars exist in, and
it is responsible for the extreme conservatism in
mainstream archaeology concerning the cognition
of hominids.
This is particularly obvious in the case of sym-
bolic communication by hominids, be it verbal or
in other forms. The presence of Broca’s and Wer-
nicke’s areas on cranial endocasts of Homo habilis
implies the very early availability of the neural
hardware for language, and the hyoid Neanderthal
bone from Kebara Cave indicates that the peo-
ple’s supralaryngeal architecture might have sup-
ported the generation of uttered language (Arens-
burg et al. 1989; Lieberman 1991). Nevertheless,
these forms of evidence are not adequate by
themselves, and ultimately language ability needs
to be ascertained through archaeologically dem-
onstrated behaviour patterns that demand the use
of consciously modulated communication of ade-
quate complexity to support such patterns. I have
548
Robert G. Bednarik
suggested that the most obvious candidates are sea-
faring and the use of beads (Bednarik 1997b, 1997c).
Beads have no possible utilitarian function that
is not attributable to purely symbolic purposes.
Whatever the reason for their use may be, it cannot
be deduced from any archaeological evidence. De-
scribing them as decorative, for instance, does not
amount to any clarification, because it does not tell
us why they are “decorative.” All communicative
functions of beads are culturally negotiated, the
abstract values they communicate to the initiated
beholder are crucial to their existence, yet for early
periods they are entirely inaccessible to the cultural
outsider, the researcher. The outstanding technical
perfection of some particularly early specimens
has prompted the proposition that these objects ex-
pressed concepts of perfection (Bednarik 1997b),
and I have demonstrated via replicative experi-
ments that such perfection was achieved through
a great investment of labour and carefully applied
skill: the final physical product was imbued, and
quite deliberately so, with several layers of abstract
values. The intentionality of perfection as well as
the various intended cultural meanings of such
objects would have been all impossible without the
use of a “reflective” communication system of a
complexity that does not seem achievable without
fully consciously modulated speech. Hence beads
and pendants constitute key evidence in the quest
to clarify the cognitive evolution of humans - not
just because they demonstrate the use of sym-
bolisms, but because they demand social, cultural,
and cognitive systems of an adequate sophisti-
cation to support such a complex aggregate of
mental abstractions without which such objects
simply cannot exist.
Beads of the Lower and Middle Palaeolithic
It is therefore relevant to examine the early oc-
currence of beads and pendants, and since the
taphonomic lag times of such materials as can be
assumed to have been used in their manufacture
are relatively long (Bednarik 1994b), near-com-
plete truncation of the surviving population must
be expected. In other words, the number of finds
beyond the taphonomic threshold of the phenom-
enon category must be expected to be minute.
Despite this severe theoretical limitation, the actual
quantity of relevant finds is rather impressive, even
when seen against the immense time scale they
relate to.
Middle and Lower Palaeolithic finds with both
artificial and natural perforations are quite com-
mon, and many hundreds have been found since
the middle of the 19th century. The earliest men-
tion of possible beads of the Lower Palaeolithic
relates to the first Palaeolithic tools ever reported,
from the very type site of the Acheulian. In the
famous paper by Prestwich (1859), in which he
recognized the authenticity of the St. Acheul stone
tools Jacques Boucher de Perthes had been col-
lecting for many years, the occurrence of possible
beads is clearly noted:
Dr. Rigollot also mentions the occurrence in the grav-
el of round pieces of hard chalk, pierced through
with a hole, which he considers were used as beads.
The author found several, and recognized in them a
small fossil sponge, the Coscinopora globularis, D’Orb.,
from the chalk, but does not feel quite satisfied about
their artificial dressing. Some specimens do certainly ap-
pear as though the hole had been enlarged and completed
(Prestwich 1859: 52).
Fig. 1: Wolf incisor, perforated
near its root, oldest known ob-
ject of its kind in the world, at
possibly 300,000 years. Repolust
Cave, Austria.
Anthropos 96.2001
Beads and Pendants of the Pleistocene
549
These centrally perforated objects were never
properly analyzed and despite prominent publica-
tion the finds were never again considered, so their
status remains unknown. Much the same applies
to the 200 Acheulian examples of Coscinopora
globularis discovered by W. G. Smith in 1894 at
Bedford, England, which showed an artificial en-
largement of the natural orifice. Smith’s opinion
that the fossils had been used as beads is confirmed
by the finding of Keeley who examined a number
of such specimens from Bedford that “there is
no doubt that some of these fossils show artifi-
cial enlargement of their natural orifices” (Keeley
1980: 164). Circular, disc-like fossil casts have
since been found at other Acheulian sites, such as
the crinoid columnar segments (Millericrinus sp.)
from Gesher Benot Ya’aqov, Israel (Goren-Inbar
et al. 1991), and a series of disc beads made
from ostrich eggshell from the Acheulian of Libya
(Bednarik 1997c).
The perhaps earliest objects with indisputably
human-made perforations we know of are the two
perforated pendants from the Repolust Cave in
Styria, Austria. One is a wolf incisor, very expertly
drilled near its root (Fig. 1), the second is a flaked
bone point, roughly triangular and perforated near
one corner (Fig. 2). Both objects were first pub-
lished in 1951 but have received little attention
since then (Mottl 1951). They were excavated with
a lithic industry variously described as Levalloisi-
an, Tayacian, and Clactonian, which is in fact an
undifferentiated Lower or Middle Palaeolithic as-
semblage, but clearly free of Mousterian elements.
The occupation deposit was found well below an
Aurignacian level, separated from it by substantial
clastic deposits of stadial periods. There is no
reliable dating evidence available, the currently
favoured age estimate of around 300,000 years is
based on the accompanying faunal remains, espe-
cially the phylogeny of the bear remains (Bednarik
1997c).
The ostrich eggshell disc beads from a ma-
jor Libyan occupation site are, however, safely
uttributable to the Acheulian (Fig. 3: d-f). They
come from the El Greifa site complex at Wadi
el Adjal, near Ubari. The site is located on what
was a peninsula of the huge Fezzan Lake of
Ihe Pleistocene, which then occupied a large part
°f southwestern Libya. El Greifa provides ample
evidence of Early, Middle, and Late Acheulian
occupations, followed by Aterian deposits. Dating
°f sediments from 320,000 years to the end of the
Pleistocene has been by uranium/thorium analysis.
The alkaline and calcareous sediments have
Provided favourable conditions that led to the
Anthropos 96.2001
Fig. 2 : Flaked bone point, perforated near one corner, exca-
vated with the incisor in Fig. 1. Repolust Cave, Austria.
preservation of ostrich eggshell beads from the
Late Acheulian of El Greifa site E. Dated by the
U/Th isotopes of the calcareous sediments they
are from, they are in the order of 200,000 years
old. The near-perfect rounded circumference and
perforation of these beads demonstrate that homi-
nids of the Acheulian possessed a well-developed
technology of working this fragile medium with
the greatest possible confidence and skill. These
perfectly made artefacts also imply the existence
of the social structures necessary to provide an
ideological context for the production and use of
complex body decoration.
The three beads initially found (Bednarik
1997c; more specimens have since been exca-
vated) are preserved as fragments only, but they
share a similar perforation diameter of about 1.7
mm, and even their external diameter is very con-
sistent (5.8-6.2 mm). This consistency in size and
the near-perfect rounding of all preserved edges,
550
Robert G. Bednarik
Fig. 3: Pleistocene beads drilled
and ground from ostrich eggshell:
a, b - Upper Palaeolithic, Bhim-
betka, India; c - Upper Palaeo-
lithic, Patne, India; d, e, f - Late
Acheulian, El Greifa site E, Lib-
ya.
Fig. 4: According to comprehen-
sive replication experiments with
South African ostrich eggshell,
it takes an experienced operator
about 25 minutes to make one of
the Acheulian beads from Libya,
using Acheulian stone tool repli-
cas.
Beads and Pendants of the Pleistocene
551
Fig. 7: Replicative ostrich eggshell beads of 6-7 mm diameter.
Fig. 6: Replicative ostrich eggshell bead blanks after trimming,
before grinding stage.
internal and external, suggests the use of a stan-
dardized manufacturing process, a characteristic
these beads seem to share with the much later
beads of the Upper Palaeolithic as well as those
of various cultural traditions of the Holocene. The
El Greifa beads were replicated with modern South
African ostrich eggshell (Fig. 4), using Lower Pa-
laeolithic stone tool replicas, in order to establish
the circumstances of their manufacture in terms of
illuminating the conceptual world of their makers
(Bednarik 1997c). The near-perfect roundness of
the Acheulian beads can be obtained only by
constant checking of the shape during the final
abrading process, using not just a developed sense
of symmetry, but possessing a clear concept of a
perfect geometric form. This roundness cannot be
the result of chance or some “instinct” driven by
a mere desire to reduce the size of the beads. It is
the outcome of a very clear abstract construct of
form - a concept-mediated, geometrically perfect
Product. Moreover, it is the result of a determined
effort to produce high-quality work. To extract
the full potential information offered by these
few beads, I find the following point particularly
’lluminating, and it also demonstrates vividly the
benefits of replication studies.
During my experiments I made over fifty os-
trich eggshell beads with stone implements (Fig.
'b 6, 7). I found that as the beads are ground to
Anthropos 96.2001
a diameter of 8 or 7 mm it becomes increasingly
difficult to hold them while grinding them, and
after a time it becomes a rather painful task.
The finger tips not only have to maintain a tight
grip, they are also subjected to abrasion from the
siliceous stone used. About 6 mm is the diameter
at which it becomes uneconomical to continue
reduction further, and this is precisely the size of
the Acheulian bead fragments. This is the result
of a deliberate decision to reduce the beads to
the smallest realistically possible size. It must be
considered also that at sizes of under 6 mm, the
beads become increasingly fragile: with a perfo-
ration of almost 2 mm, their rim width falls to
under 2 mm. Moreover, because of what remains
of the biconical perforation profile, the innermost
part of the rim is never of full eggshell thickness. I
found that if the beads are ground to a smaller size,
they become susceptible to fracture, either during
manufacture or during subsequent use.
So we have two limits on minimum size im-
posed by practical considerations, and we need
to ask: why did the makers of these beads push
their technology to its practical limits? After all,
a larger bead is much easier to see, yet a smaller
bead represents a significantly greater effort. This
observation coincides with the already mentioned
geometric perfection of the form, which is most
certainly deliberate. The most parsimonious ex-
552
Robert G. Bednarik
Fig. 8: Two ivory ring frag-
ments, two perforated animal
teeth, and a fossil shell cast with
an artificial groove for attach-
ment. These objects were made
by Neanderthals of the Chatel-
perronian, Grotte du Renne, Ar-
cy-sur-Cure, France.
planation for both the size and the form of these
objects is that these characteristics reflect a highly
developed abstract value system and a consider-
able social complexity in the society that made
and used these objects. Without a cultural impetus
placing value and meaning on such perfect forms,
and on an utmost standard of craftsmanship, it
seems simply impossible to account for the em-
pirical characteristics of the evidence.
In addition to the few Lower Palaeolithic beads
mentioned, there are numerous perforated objects
also from the Middle Palaeolithic, and many of
them may have served as beads or pendants. The
Micoquian has yielded an artificially perforated
wolf metapodium as well as a wolf vertebra
from the Bocksteinschmiede, Germany (Marshack
1991; Narr 1951), while the Micoquian of Prolom
2, Crimea, produced no less than 111 perforated
animal phalanges, besides four engraved palaeoart
objects (Stepanchuk 1993). The Mousterian of
France has yielded a partly-perforated fox canine
and a perforated reindeer phalange from La Quina
(Marshack 1991; Martin 1907), and another perfo-
rated bone fragment from Pech de l’Aze (Bordes
1969). The two perforated canines from Bacho
Kiro, Bulgaria, too, are of the Middle Palaeo-
lithic (Marshack 1991). As we approach the end
of this technological phase, beads and pendants
become increasingly common, and materials of
stone are now drilled, first appearing in Russia and
China. Thirteen such specimens from the lower
occupation layer of Kostenki 17, found below
a volcanic horizon thought to be about 38,000
years old, include not only polar fox canines and
gastropod shells with perforations, but also stone
and fossil cast objects (Bednarik 1995b). From
an intermediate Middle to Upper Palaeolithic site
in China, wenhua Shiyu, comes a broken stone
pendant (Bednarik and You 1991), while the oldest
beads found in Australia, from Mandu Mandu
Creek rockshelter, are about 32,000 years old
(Morse 1993).
More Recent Beads
With the advent of the Upper Palaeolithic in
Eurasia, beads become more numerous in various
regions. This includes specimens made by the
Neanderthals of the Chatelperronian of the French
Anthropos 96.2001
Beads and Pendants of the Pleistocene
553
Upper Palaeolithic (Leroi-Gourhan 1965) (Fig. 8).
Just three graves at the Russian site Sungir’ - with
a stone tool technology that is transitional between
Middle and Upper Palaeolithic implement types,
the Streletsian - contained more beads than have
been found in the entire Pleistocene sites of the
rest of the world (Bednarik 1995a). They yielded
13,113 small ivory beads and over 250 perforated
canine teeth of the polar fox. By this time, perhaps
28,000 years ago, the art of bead making had
reached an extraordinary level, in which the results
of thousands of hours of labour were lavished on
just three burials. In India we have only a few
specimens from the entire Palaeolithic: two from
Bhimbetka, south of Bhopal, and three from Patne,
(Maharashtra) (Fig. 3: a-c). Two of the latter are
not perforated, although one is centrally scored.
Other Asian regions producing ostrich eggshell
beads include Siberia (Krasnyi Yar, Trans-Baykal),
Inner Mongolia (Hutouliang), and the Gobi desert
in northern China and Mongolia. The ostrich,
now extinct in Asia, seems to have been widely
distributed to the end of the Pleistocene and even
into the Holocene.
Both southern and northern Africa have pro-
duced countless finds of worked ostrich eggshell.7
In the far north of Africa, the Capsian, dating from
the first half of the Holocene, yielded not only
numerous figurative and nonfigurative engravings
on ostrich eggshell fragments, but also beads of
snail shells, teeth, and small stones, besides ostrich
eggshell. The southern African sites yielding such
finds date from the Middle Stone Age right up
to the proto-Historic period. Decorated specimens
from the Howieson’s Poort phase in Apollo 11
Cave, Namibia, may well be in the order of 70,000-
80,000 years old. Diepkloof Cave in the south-
western Cape, South Africa, has yielded several
supposedly decorated ostrich eggshell fragments
of the Middle Stone Age. Ostrich eggshell beads
from Bushman Shelter near Ohrigstad, Transvaal,
have been suggested to date from somewhere be-
tween 12,000 and 47,000 years ago. Beads of this
Material span a vast age spectrum, still occurring
,n much more recent periods in southern Africa,
for instance they are found in the Smithfield B, a
tool complex of the subcontinent’s interior regions
°f the 14th to 17th centuries.
The use of ostrich eggshell for a variety of
Purposes, including the production of disc beads
and as water vessels, continued to be practised
7 Baur-Roger 1987, 1988; Camps-Fabrer 1962, 1966, 1975;
Cziesla 1986; Goodwin 1929; Marmier et Trecolle 1979;
Marshall 1976; Sandelowsky 1971; Woodhouse 1997.
'Mthropos 96.2001
by the Bushmen of southern Africa until recent
times, and has been described ethnographically
in numerous cases. Thus ostrich eggshell beads
are among the most enduring artefacts in human
history. Much the same can be said about other
forms of disc beads. For instance, a publication
about Palestinian jewellery of the most recent
ethnographic past features a photograph of a bead
described as a “fossilized sea urchin” (Helmecke
1990: PI. 13 f), depicting in fact a crinoid fossil
cast that closely resembles the crinoids recovered
from the Acheulian site Gesher Benot Ya’aqov in
the same region, on the River Jordan (Goren-Inbar
et al. 1991). Although separated by hundreds of
millennia in time, the same materials were used
for the same class of symbolic artefacts in both
cases: a poignant reminder that in terms of their
humanness, our distant ancestors were a great deal
closer to us than most archaeologists are willing
to concede.
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Berichte und Kommentare
Symbolic Inversions
An Interpretation of Contrary Behavior
in Ritual
J. Pandian
Introduction
Anthropologists have recorded several examples
of contrary or nonnormative behaviors in the rit-
ual context that occur around the world. Such
behaviors include scatological activities and lewd
conduct as well as gender and status reversals,
and numerous other forms of contrariness. It is
possible to identify these contrary, nonnorma-
tive behaviors collectively as symbolic inversion,
contrasting them with the normative cognitive or
social structure of society, and ask the question,
“Why does a society approve of and foster in the
ritual context symbolic inversions that challenge,
ridicule, and debase the conventions of the soci-
ety?” The answer proposed in this paper is that
symbolic inversions acquire significance as sacred
or elaborating symbols (Geertz 1973; Ortner 1973)
and that an analysis of these symbols will shed
much light on the cosmological and social orga-
nizations of the particular cultural traditions. In
this paper I examine Peter Rigby’s essay “Some
Gogo Rituals of ‘Purification’” (1968) and McKim
Marriott’s description of “The Feast of Love”
(1966), and I interpret the symbolic inversions of
these rituals, one from eastern Africa and the other
from northern India, as important discourses on
cosmological and social organizations. In both of
these rituals, women temporarily acquire signifi-
cance as embodiments of purity and power and
become sacred, elaborating symbols serving as
vehicles for synthesizing worldview and ethos and
for ordering or sorting out the cultural experiences
0r orientations.
Sherry Ortner (1973) identifies certain sym-
bols as “elaborating symbols” in terms of their
function of “ordering or sorting out of conceptual
experience” and for “providing cultural strategies.”
Symbolic inversions in the ritual context represent
certain individuals as having certain properties
or qualities that are not normally, i.e., socially
associated with them: Those who lack power
and purity in the social context are represented
as embodiments of power and purity. As Victor
Turner (1978: 287) notes, “One aspect of symbolic
inversion may be to break people out of their
culturally defined, even biologically ascribed roles,
by making them play precisely the opposite roles.
Psychologists who employ the sociodrama method
as a therapeutic technique claim that by assigning
to patients the roles of those with whom they are
in conflict, a whole conflict-ridden group can reach
a deep level of mutual understanding.”
In both the rituals (referred to as “Gogo Rituals
of Purification” and “The Feasts of Love”) women
temporarily acquire significance as “sacred sym-
bols.”
The function of sacred symbols, according to
Clifford Geertz (1973), is to synthesize ethos (the
moral and evaluative elements of a culture) and
worldview (the cognitive orientations about the
order of self, society, and the world). Every so-
ciety has important sacred symbols that embody
meanings of why there is ultimate order in human
existence even when we cannot experience it, and
these symbols serve as vehicles to conceptualize
the meaning of one’s own existence, combining
the experiences of diverse domains. Symbolic in-
versions endow women with the moral, evaluative
elements of a culture, and render them as sacred
symbols of power and purity in order to deal
with the cognitive orientations about the order of
self, society, and the world. In his essay “Ethos,
World View, and the Analysis of Sacred Symbols,”
Geertz (1973: 127) notes: “... religious symbols,
dramatized in rituals or related in myths, are felt
somehow to sum up, for those for whom they are
'Mthropos 96.2001
558
Berichte und Kommentare
resonant, what is known about the way the world
is, the quality of the emotional life it supports,
and the way one ought to behave while in it.
Sacred symbols thus relate an ontology and a
cosmology to an aesthetics and a morality: their
peculiar power comes from their presumed ability
to identify fact with value at the most fundamental
level, to give to what is otherwise merely actual,
a comprehensive normative import.”
The Universality of Symbolic Inversions in the
Ritual Context
Reversal of biological and social roles, and rever-
sal of what is considered to be ordinary biological
or social states of existence and behavior, occur
universally in the ritual context. Ethnographies are
full of data on inversions such as nudity, imper-
sonation, sexual license, inverted speech, inverted
walking, regurgitation, devouring filth, fire-walk-
ing, mortification of the flesh, and scatological acts
that occur during religious and nonreligious rituals.
A perusal of recent ethnographies indicates that
inversions occur in all societies in one form or an-
other as part of most rituals. It is reasonable to con-
clude that symbolic inversions are universal in the
ritual context, or that they are not confined to any
one region or type of society. For example, among
the Magars of Nepal, scatological acts occur in the
context of naming and funeral rituals (Hitchcock
1966:59, 54); Diamond (1969: 48 f., 91) reports
on the occurrence of various forms of reversals
during funeral and cyclical rituals; nudity is part
of funeral rituals among the Konyak Nagas of
South Asia (Flirer-Haimendorf 1969: 12); reversal
of sexual roles occurs in peasant villages of Ireland
(Messenger 1969:99); impersonation is reported
among the peasants of Central Asia (Dunn and
Dunn 1967:29); impersonation and clowning oc-
cur among the peasants of modern Greece (Friedl
1962: 100); reversal of sexual roles is noted in the
Lugbara society (Middleton 1965: 70); among the
Gururumba of New Guinea, practices such as the
devouring of filth, impersonation, and regurgita-
tion occur during crisis and cyclical rituals (New-
man 1965:69-80); acts such as inverted walking
and inverted dancing occur among the Kapauku
Papuans of West New Guinea in the context of
crisis and cyclical rituals (Pospisil 1964: 68-81).
See also Dirks (1988), Drucker-Brown (1999),
Gilmore (1995), and Kuper (1986).
There is abundant information on symbolic
inversions in the ritual context among the North
American Indians. Nudity is a common form of
inversion: in some instances males and females
strip naked in order to ridicule the dead of different
clans; sometimes women strip naked and engage in
sexual license in order to increase crop production.
Inverted speech and inverted walking as well as
self-torture are common forms of inversion that
occur in association with war rituals. In the context
of healing rituals, medicine men handle fire and
boiling liquid. Devouring of filth and urine as
well as other scatological acts have been observed
among North American Indians (Pandian 1970).
To these examples may be added acts such as
circumcision, subincision, and clitoridectomy as
well as the widespread acts of self-mortification,
the sexual excesses associated with various cultist
ceremonies, the Black Mass, and the Mardi Gras.
The foregoing statements are not meant to be an
exhaustive summary of the acts of inversion, but
are meant to show that inversions are universal
and that acts of inversion constitute an important
aspect of almost all rituals. Many scholars have
identified this kind of behavior and have asked
numerous questions. Why is inversion employed
universally in ritual contexts? Do common mo-
tivational factors underlie these inversions? Does
the structure of the mind impose an opposition
between ordinary and nonordinary forms of social
interaction, thus necessitating the performance of
inversion in nonordinary forms of interaction? Do
inversions in ritual communicate messages that
oppose the biological and/or the social order? Do
these inversions occur more or less often in certain
types of societies? If so, is the occurrence of inver-
sions in ritual associated with certain types of social/
political structure and religious beliefs? Are acts of
inversion a product of “magical thinking” to gain con-
trol and power? Or are these acts symbolic forms that
convey specific meanings and messages to bring
about personal and group harmony or equilibrium?
Theoretical Considerations
Durkheim (1915) noted that such actions were
magical or antisocial. In his book “Religion in
Primitive Society,” Norbeck (1961:55, 74, 151,
204-212) uses the term “ritual reversal” to catego-
rize behaviors such as role inversion, burlesquing,
clowning, inverted speech, scatology, and sexual
license that occur in various ritual contexts. He
suggests that it is legitimate to view some of these
acts as expressions of magical thinking, and notes
that some reversals serve as a source of individual
or social catharsis and entertainment. Norbeck
(1974: 35-39; 50-54) notes that a functional con-
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
559
gruence or relationship may exist between certain
forms of ritual reversals and human play. He sug-
gests that activities of this kind have the common
attribute of transcendence: certain forms of ritual
reversal can be categorized as forms of play; and
it is also legitimate to explore the adaptive signif-
icance of reversals and play in the maintenance
of the social order and in their contribution to
the psychological well-being. However, he holds
that “ritual reversals of behavior cover a much
broader range than play as a substitution for work”
(1974: 50), and observes that “the prevalence of
ritualized acts that reverse the ordinary is puzzling.
Perhaps they represent a universal and innate way
of thinking of the human species, a ‘principle’ or
‘structure’ of human thought” (1974: 54).
The phenomenon of symbolic inversion is not
confined to nonurban (technologically primitive)
societies. In traditional-urban societies, as in India
(Marriott 1966), symbolic inversions constitute an
important aspect of almost all religious ceremo-
nies. Symbolic inversion is also an important as-
pect of cultist religious movements which oppose
the existing standards of a society. Many religious
traditions tolerate or incorporate symbolic inver-
sions; examples of this can be found in medi-
eval Europe, China, India, and Tibet. As Barbara
Tuchman (1979: 32 f.) has pointed out, symbolic
inversion was a common phenomenon in medieval
Europe: “As an integral part of life, religion was
both subjected to burlesque and unharmed by it. In
that annual Feast of Fools at Christmas time, every
rite and article of the church no matter how sacred
was celebrated in mockery. A dominus festi, or
lord of the revels, was elected from the inferior
clergy - the cures, subdeacons, vicars, and choir
clerks, mostly ill-educated, ill-paid, and ill-dis-
ciplined - whose day it was to turn everything
topsy-turvy.”
Gluckman (1954) identifies a particular type
of ritual performance in southern African cultures
as “rituals of rebellion.” Such rituals, according
to him, help to resolve conflict and antagonism
between men who hold political authority and
those who have no political power. He theorizes
that ritual enactments that include verbal assaults
and ridicule occur in stable societies with clearly
defined social roles of political dominance and
subordination. Marriott’s (1966) description of the
Holi Festival in India, in which the low-ranking
castes “reverse” their roles vis-a-vis the high-rank-
ing castes and ridicule their political/economic
superiors, lends support to Gluckman’s theory,
but as Norbeck (1961, 1974) points out, reversals
°ccur in many different kinds of rituals. Reversal
of sex roles and scatological acts may occur in all
types of rituals.
It is perhaps misleading to identify any ritu-
al as “ritual of reversal” or “ritual of conflict,”
or “ritual of rebellion.” Acts of inversion occur
in many kinds of ritual ranging from initiation
rituals, healing rituals, mortuary rituals, season-
al rituals, and marriage rituals. In a paper enti-
tled “Annual Rituals of Conflict,” Robert Dirks
(1988: 856) argues that “annual rituals of conflict
occur disproportionately among societies situated
in environments prone to seasonal hunger and
possessing political systems strongly inclined to
favor communal over individual decision making.”
According to Dirks, “such rites originate in a
spontaneous reaction to sudden, drastic uptakes of
energy.” The eco-systemic framework is not the
most appropriate one for understanding symbolic
inversions in the ritual context. As Dirks himself
suggests, we must undertake in-depth historical
and cultural-contextual studies of specific rituals
to analyze their origins and functions. And, as
Kuper (1986) points out, the annual ritual of
kingship among the Swazi of southern Africa can
be interpreted as a “ritual of rebellion,” but that it
is more accurate to interpret it as a “ritual of social
renewal” because it functions to reaffirm the Swazi
political and cultural orientations.
Susan Drucker-Brown’s (1999) essay on a west
African funeral ritual is subtitled “Ritual Rebellion
Revisited in Northern Ghana” to note the fact
that this ritual “can be seen as empowering those
who are systematically excluded from office, enabl-
ing them to criticize office-holders and publicize
their claims to benefit from the political order”
(1999: 181). In his analysis of an annual ritual
in central India (in which the king is subjected
to mock abduction and humiliation), Alfred Gell
(1997) notes that this ritual can be interpreted as a
“ritual of rebellion” but that it exalts and divinizes
the king.
David Gilmore (1995:561) offers an in-depth
analysis of the Andalusian carnival in Spain where
“comic inversions, political protest and raucous
satire” are common. He points out that the “cel-
ebration throughout Latin Europe often includes
masquerading, transvestism, contentious skits and
mock trials, status reversals, anticlerical satires,
musical entertainment and so on” (1995:563). In
the Andalusian carnival, there is “a liminal period
of ritual reversal among the lower classes,” and
there are “the anomalous idealization of wom-
anhood, sentiments of universal brotherhood and
contextualization of Christian virtues with Spain’s
Great Tradition” (1995: 561).
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I offer below interpretations of two rituals in
which symbolic inversions are emphasized with
reference to the reversal of gender and status roles
of women. In the healing ritual among the Gogo of
eastern Africa, women become representations of
sacred power; likewise, in the social renewal ritual
of northern India (called “the festival of love”),
women acquire significance as symbols of sacred
power.
The Gogo Ritual of Inversion in Eastern Africa
In an illuminating interpretation of a healing ritual,
Rigby (1968) describes the social roles of males
and females in the Gogo society (in eastern Africa)
where the tending of cattle is a male occupation but
the curing of cattle through social/ritual reversal
of sex roles is a female occupation. This healing
ritual is identified by Rigby as “Some Gogo Rituals
of ‘Purification.’ An Essay on Social and Moral
Categories” to show that the healing of the cattle
is symbolically achieved through the purification
of the ritual state of the society.
The Gogo are divided into several patrilineal
clans which are neither corporate nor exogamous.
The residential unit is the homestead, comprised of
the agnatic head of the family and members of the
extended family, and other dependents. The ritual
leader (head of the homestead) is entrusted with
the responsibility of keeping the region occupied
by the group in a state of ritual purity, which as-
sures prosperity. Rituals of purification take place
independent of the ritual leader’s involvement. The
women, mainly married women, imitate the behav-
ior of men on occasions of childbirth and sickness
of cattle. On these occasions, the reversal of roles
and the rituals that follow are supposed to “dance
away” or “throw away” the ritual contamination
and restore the region to a state of ritual purity.
Usually it is the responsibility of men to ensure
success in childbirth, child development, and cat-
tle-herding. Unusual occurrences, such as the birth
of twins, breech delivery, or cattle sickness, make
the women “active agents.” Men assume a passive
role on these occasions. Participating women do
not cohabit with their husbands; they function as
men, doing the jobs of men. Their social position
changes; ritually they are males and are sacred.
They alone have the power to remove the contam-
ination or evil responsible for the changes that
necessitated the performance of the ritual in the
first place. The burlesque performance ends with
the removal of contamination.
Rigby focuses upon symbol and meaning, in
contrast to Gluckman’s theory which focuses upon
authority (structural) relationships that are reversed
as a mark of protest. In other words, Rigby’s analy-
sis is an interpretation of operational (pragmatics),
positional (syntactics), and exegetical (semantic)
meanings of the “dual symbolic classifications
obtaining in Gogo social and value categories.”
Because of dualistic notions of cognitive catego-
ries, people assume that through the reversal of
oppositional social categories they could manipu-
late the natural categories. Unusual happenings are
natural disasters (i.e., reversed from what ought to
be), but these natural disasters can be set right,
the people believe, by a temporary reversal of the
oppositional social categories, and thereby what is
reversed already is re-reversed, and thus brought
back to its original state.
Rigby states (1968: 170): “In fact, it is not nec-
essary to postulate equilibrium and social cohesion
as the functional roots of social structures when
attempting to find structural explanation for role
reversal rituals. Instead, we must attempt to estab-
lish a relationship between categories of meaning
on all levels, exegetical, operational, and position-
al, expressed in ritual, and the structural categories
(the categories of persons and their interrelation-
ships) relevant to the rituals. In order to do this,
the structural principles underlying the symbolic
and social orders must be isolated. Their structural
interrelationship may then be established.”
The Holi Ritual of Inversion in Northern India
To the participants, the Holi ritual is the “festival
of love” that dramatizes one aspect of the life of
Krishna, an incarnation of the god Vishnu. Partici-
pants believe that it was Krishna who initiated the
ritual when the status and gender roles are reversed
with the abandonment of the rules of pollution,
including the performance of scatological activi-
ties. The ritual celebrates the victory of goodness
(gods) over evil (demons) with reference to the
demoness Holika, but the ritual enactments include
the chanting of the slogan “Victory to Mother
Holika.”
McKim Marriott (1966) (who participated in
the Holi annual ritual of inversion during his study
of a village in northern India) has given us a
detailed description of this ritual in his essay “The
Feast of Love.” Some of the notable features of
this feast of love are as follows: The pollution bar-
riers that separate the caste groups are suspended;
women become aggressors and seek to beat and
humiliate men; “pure” and “impure” castes col-
Anthropos 96.2001
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561
labórate in the performance of various activities
associated with the ritual; the hallucinogenic drug
marijuana is mixed with milk and consumed; and
animal excrement and polluting objects such as old
shoes are used to attack and ridicule men of high
status.
Marriott notes that the attackers and victims
are supposed to view the ritual as the ultimate
enactment or expression of love and that men and
higher castes do not retaliate against their being
made into objects of helplessness, contempt, and
derision. In fact, men are supposed to enjoy and
be happy as the participants. To quote Marriott
(1966: 210 f.)
Who were those smiling men whose shins were being
most mercilessly beaten by the women? They were the
wealthier Brahman and Jat farmers of the village, and
the beaters were those ardent local Radhas, the “wives
of the village,” figuring by both the real and the fictional
intercaste system of kinship. The wife of an “elder
brother” was properly a man’s joking mate, while the
wife of a “younger brother” was properly removed from
him by rules of extreme respect, but both were merged
here with a man’s mother-surrogates, the wives of his
“father’s younger brothers,” in one revolutionary cabal
of “wives” that cut across all lesser lines and links. The
boldest beaters in this veiled battalion were often in
fact the wives of the farmers’ low-caste field laborers,
artisans, or menials - the concubines and kitchen help
of the victims. “Go and bake bread!” teased one farmer,
egging his assailant on. “Do you want some seed from
me?” shouted another flattered victim, smarting under
the blows, but standing his ground. Six Brahman men
in their fifties, pillars of village society, limped past in
panting flight from the quarterstaff wielded by a massive
young Bharigin, sweeper of their latrines. From this car-
nage suffered by their village brothers, all daughters of
the village stood apart, yet held themselves in readiness
to attack any potential husband who might wander in
from another, marriageable village to pay a holiday call.
Holi ritual combines several themes of Hin-
duism and the village social structure. The ritual
begins ostensibly with the reenactment and drama-
tization of the cremation of Holika, the demoness
who tried and failed to kill her brother, a devotee
°f Rama, an incarnation of the god Vishnu. But the
ritual proceeds with the commemoration of the life
and activities of Krishna, another incarnation of
the god Vishnu, and the ritual activities acquire
sacred significance as divine play, or “sport of
Lord Krishna” and, in this play, ritual inversions
become the most important components. Mar-
riott (1966: 212) observes: “Under the tutelage of
Krishna, each person plays and for the moment
tttay experience the role of his opposite: the servile
wife acts as the domineering husband, and vice
versa; the ravisher acts the ravished; the menial
acts the master; the enemy acts the friend; the
strictured youths act as the rulers of the repub-
lic.” Women become representations of power
and purity, and enforce the operation of symbolic
inversions in every domain associated with Holi
ritual.
Conclusion
Explanations that focus on symbolic inversions as
providing an opportunity for the oppressed to vent
their hostilities, thereby serving as safety valves, or
as serving to resolve the structural contradictions
of a society, are not adequate to account for the
very wide range of symbolic inversions that occur
in the ritual context.
There appears to exist universally a mystical
power of symbolic inversion in the ritual context,
and it produces or generates certain models of
understanding; these participants acquire signifi-
cance as elaborating or sacred symbols. In other
words, symbolic inversions enable the participants
to contemplate their diverse experiences in relation
to the existence of order, and comprehend the
cognitive orientations about self, society, and the
world, as well as the experiential and evaluative
aspects of a society.
Every participant of symbolic inversion (in the
ritual context) acquires significance as a sacred
or elaborating symbol, i.e., as a vehicle to “sort
out” various aspects of power, order, and purity,
but the reversal of the role of women is in many
respects the key to understand the meaning of
symbolic inversion in the ritual context. Contrary
behaviors such as impersonation, scatology, and
nudity occur in many rituals where the rules of
hierarchy as well as the conventions of propriety
are frequently suspended for everyone who par-
ticipates in these rituals. However, the temporary
elevation of women to the symbolic structures
associated with power and purity, in opposition to
their permanent social positions of powerlessness
and impurity, make women into preeminent sacred
or elaborating symbols of the rituals.
Women as sacred or elaborating symbols (of
rituals) serve as vehicles to conceptualize and
comprehend the cosmological and social organi-
zations in which the role of women is minimized.
What is maximized at the symbolic level through
inversion in the ritual context is minimized at the
social level where order and purity are affirmed
through the reference to male gender. This type
of opposition and disjunction between the ritual
Anthropos 96.2001
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and social domains makes it possible to understand
how and why authority structures are validated
through the enactment of symbolic inversions in
the rituals.
In the Gogo ritual of purification, women be-
come sacred, and their symbolic role as purifiers
and healers challenges and at the same time affirms
the authority of the males. In the Holi ritual,
women subordinate the male symbols of author-
ity structure temporarily in order to enhance the
normal state of male dominance. Through these
symbolic inversions, women achieve the neces-
sary results dictated by the authority systems, and
as representations of temporary authority wom-
en perform their tasks as sacred or elaborating
symbols for the participants to conceptualize and
comprehend the various evaluative elements of
their cultures and help the participants deal with
their cognitive orientations and social hierarchies
as sacred creations.
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Anthropos 96.2001
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563
Chasseurs aux mains nues et efficience
des pouvoirs infrasensibles dans l’art
cynégétique
L’exemple d’une confrérie de chasse
du kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala
(Burkina Faso)
Pierre Bamony
Dans cette enquête qui s’inscrit dans le cadre
général de nos recherches sur les Lyéla du Burki-
na Faso, nous nous proposons de faire connaître
une petite partie des pratiques spécifiques à une
confrérie de chasseurs à Koukoulkouala (Région
de Réo). Afin de mieux montrer la singularité de
ces chasseurs aux mains nues dont les méthodes et
les stratégies de chasse se fondent sur l’efficience
des forces obscures de notre monde - forces ou
puissances infrasensibles que les peuples africains,
dans leur généralité, cultivent, peaufinent depuis
des siècles -, nous procéderons de la manière
suivante.
Nous montrerons que la chasse est une donnée
humaine originaire. Nous verrons, à travers l’a-
nalyse des diverses formes et moyens de chasse
en Afrique subsaharienne, qu’il y a permanence
de certains phénomènes liés à l’art cynégétique,
malgré le changement des moyens (armes) utilisés
dans cet art. L’examen de celui-ci nous permettra
de voir que les Lyéla, comme les autres peuples
subsahariens, ont quasiment les mêmes instru-
ments et les mêmes pratiques de chasse. Toute-
fois, chez les Lyéla, l’existence des confréries de
chasse fonctionnant différemment de tout le reste,
confirme la réalité de l’ambivalence des pouvoirs
de ceux-ci. La confrérie des chasseurs aux mains
nues a une existence connue de tous sur le plan de
la structure visible. Cependant, son pouvoir réel
s’enracine ou se fonde dans et sur l’univers des
forces de l’univers invisible, comme notre dernière
enquête (été 2000) sur le terrain le prouvera à
travers cette analyse.
1 La chasse, une autre dimension de l’histoire
humaine originaire
La chasse apparaît comme une réalité humaine
°riginaire et fondamentale. La paléontologie, la
Préhistoire, la science biologique elle-même s’ac-
cordent à reconnaître que la vie de l’homme a
très tôt été marquée par l’activité de la chasse.
Car aussi loin qu’il est possible de remonter dans
son passé, on s’aperçoit que ce dernier a toujours
et partout laissé des traces de la cynégétique.1
Non seulement les premiers hommes s’attaquaient
au petit gibier, mais même, comme le montre
Michel Mourre, ils osaient affronter les proies
qui dépassaient infiniment leurs moyens de chasse
et leur force. Cependant, cette dernière audace
à la chasse semble plus tardive; du moins, telle
est l’analyse de Michel Mourre: “Le passage à
la chasse active du gros gibier est Relativement
récente: il se situe au moustérien, entre -100.000
et -50.000. Les animaux chassés alors en Europe
étaient l’éléphant antique, le rhinocéros, l’ours, le
bison. A la station moustérienne de Taubach, près
de Weimar, on a retrouvé une grande quantité d’os-
sements et de dents appartenant à des représentants
pour la plupart jeunes de ces espèces ...” (1996:
1067).
En raison de la nécessité de se nourrir avec des
aliments carnés, d’une part, de la disproportion
de nature entre eux et certains de leurs gibiers,
d’autre part, les hommes ont dû, très tôt, inventer
des instruments susceptibles de faciliter leur art de
la chasse. Un spécialiste de la préhistoire comme
Michel Menleau en a recensé quelques-uns: har-
pons finement ciselés, armes de jet de flèches
destinées à la chasse au gros et au petit gibier,
sagaies de toutes les dimensions. Ces moyens
de chasse furent utilisés jusqu’à l’invention des
armes à feu. Cet auteur remarque, par ailleurs, que
l’humanité gagna en progrès et en efficacité dans la
cynégétique en mettant au point des outils extraits
de la pierre:
Pourvu de ciseau, l’artisan débitait le silex en lames de
plus en plus minces avec un rendement de 7 mères de
tranchant au kilo de silex débité. Cette lame de pierre
légère bouleversa les conditions de vie: le chasseur
paléolithique y gagna en mobilité. Il pouvait partir
pour de longues randonnées, s’éloigner des sources de
matières premières, emportant avec lui une masse de
silex qu’il débitait à mesure de ses besoins. Associant
ce silex finement débité à l’os qui devint le second
des matériaux, l’homme put alors fabriquer des armes
performantes, la sagaie, le harpon ... (1965: 20).
1 Michel Mourre a toutefois montré qu’avant de devenir
chasseurs, les premiers hommes s’adonnaient à la cueillette
de ce qui leur était plus accessible, en l’occurrence les
graines, les fruits. Quand ils se résolurent, par nécessité,
à chasser, la peur des bêtes fauves les contraignit à se
contenter de gibiers malades ou blessés par des congénères.
Les hommes en vinrent à chasser par obligation dès lors
qu’ils étaient eux-mêmes la proie des fauves (1996: 1067).
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Ainsi équipés d’armes de jet, de harpons et de
sagaies, de flèches, les hommes pouvaient s’atta-
quer aux gibiers gigantesques comme les mam-
mouths,2 autant qu’aux proies rapides et légères
comme les chamois, les bouquetins, les renards,
voire les oiseaux entre autres.
L’invention de ces moyens de chasse s’avéra
utile car ceux-ci permirent de pouvoir tuer le plus
de gibiers possibles pour nourrir une population
souvent exposée à une alimentation déficiente et
irrégulière. Faute de moyen de conservation, tout
ce qui était appréhendé donnait lieu à des oc-
casions de ripailles,3 * * * auxquelles succédaient des
moments de disette. En outre, l’augmentation de
la population des différents groupes obligeait, pour
satisfaire les besoins vitaux, d’être constamment à
la chasse de gibiers.
Cependant, tout le monde n’était pas disposé
à cette activité si risquée pour les vies indivi-
duelles. Plusieurs qualités étaient requises pour
s’adonner à cette principale activité vitale des
premiers hommes. D’abord, on choisissait les indi-
vidus doués d’une force physique remarquable. En
effet, cette vertu s’avérait nécessaire pour manier
les divers genres d’armes, par exemple, pour la
performance du jet de la sagaie ou du harpon. En
outre, lorsque la proie n’était que blessée, il fallait
l’achever en l’affrontant avec vigueur. Ensuite,
lorsque la nature avait dépourvu certains indivi-
dus de capacités physiques avérées, ils devaient
compenser ce manque par le développement d’une
habilité, comme l’agilité ou encore l’aisance à la
course, soit pour fuir les bêtes féroces, soit pour
encercler les proies ou la rabattre vers les chasseurs
les plus forts. Jean-Jacques Rousseau considérera
que ces qualités devaient, par la suite, disposer de
telles individualités à l’art militaire, en général, à
la guerre, en particulier. C’est en ce sens qu’il fait
la remarque suivante:
2 Selon Michel Menleau, on a trouvé à Predmost en Moravie
un énorme charnier dont divers ossements comme ceux de
mammouth; ce qui incline plusieurs historiens à penser que
le niveau d’efficacité à la chasse que les nouvelles armes
conférèrent aux hommes au Paléolithique supérieur était
remarquable.
3 Les études ethnologiques des populations non-européennes
ont révélé que beaucoup de groupes d’hommes ont encore
ce mode d’alimentation, faute de moyens de conservation
de la viande du gibier pendant une longue période. Ces
peuples des zones forestières d’Amérique du Sud, d’Afrique
ou de certaines régions d’Asie sont contraints de vivre de
la sorte; ce qui, entre autres, pose aujourd’hui le problème
de l’extermination de certaines espèces animales, d’une
part, et de l’autre, l’extension du modèle d’économie oc-
cidentale amenuise leurs territoires de chasse, les exposant
eux-mêmes au risque de disparition tôt ou tard.
Les plus actifs, les plus robustes, ceux qui allaient
toujours en avant ne pouvaient vivre que de fruits et
de chasse; ils devinrent donc chasseurs, violents, san-
guinaires, puis, avec le temps, guerriers,[4] 5 conséquents,
usurpateurs (1996; 35).
Ces individualités étaient donc nécessaires pour
la mise en forme de stratégies visant à tuer le
plus de gibiers possibles lors des parties de chasse.
Les historiens, Michel Menleau et Michel Mourre
ramènent ces stratégies de chasse à essentiellement
deux formes: d’abord, en raison de l’attroupe-
ment de certains animaux comme les rennes, les
élans, les bisons, les mammouths, les chevaux etc.,
les chasseurs s’organisaient en bandes utilisant la
technique de rabattage pour les contraindre à aller
dans la direction qu’ils désiraient. Ils parvenaient à
manœuvrer de la sorte des troupeaux entiers en les
orientant vers les filets et les trappes. Ensuite, la
deuxième forme, complémentaire de la première,
consistait en des pièges dont les dimensions va-
riaient en fonction de la taille du gibier.
Ces derniers, visibles, étaient accompagnés,
voire sous-tendus par d’autres qui étaient de na-
ture inapparente. Du moins, les différentes grottes
découvertes en France, notamment, mais aussi en
Afrique saharienne et du sud, dévoilent un singu-
lier génie de peintures rupestres. La majeure partie
d’entre elles représentent des animaux-gibiers ou
des hommes en activité de chasse. Toutes inclinent
les historiens à penser qu’il s’agit de représen-
tations symboliques à but sorcellaire. Dans sa
chronologie de la préhistoire, Michel Mourre situe
cette activité essentiellement dès le “magdalénien
inférieur” comme il l’écrit à juste titre:
Dans cette humanité magdalénienne tout entière ten-
due vers la chasse, c’est de la magie utilitaire servant
d’envoûtemenf51 sur les animaux considérés comme
gibier que va naître le grand art pariétal, animalier et
réaliste, des grottes de Lascaux, de Font-Guillaume, de
Rouffignac, de Vallon-Pont-d’Arc (1996: 1067).
Selon Michel Menleau, les techniques sorcel-
laires de cette époque avaient des finalités bien
précises: conjurer les dangers qui menaçaient de
disparition ces premiers hommes si exposés à la
mort brutale par la fragilité, la précarité de leur vie;
4 Telle est également la thèse de Michel Mourre. Dans une
analyse de la chasse dans l’Antiquité, il affirme que “Les
Grecs, et surtout les Spartiates, voyaient dans la chasse un
exercice de préparation militaire .. ” (1996: 1068)
5 Nous verrons un peu plus loin que la confrérie de chasse du
kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala utilise encore ce genre de
procédé relatif à une théurgie pour appréhender les animaux
sans armes. Toute prise n’est égorgée qu’une fois ramenée
hors des grottes, lieux de prédilection de chasse de cette
confrérie.
Anthropos 96.2001
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565
assurer la survie des chasseurs dans leur quête de
gibier et l’affrontement de celui-ci; chercher, par
les auxiliaires de pratiques magiques, à disposer de
la maîtrise des forces naturelles et des puissances
surnaturelles dans l’intérêt de la collectivité. En ce
sens, les grottes autant que les cavernes semblaient
avoir été “utilisées par les collectivités pour leurs
cérémonies d’initiation et pour le déroulement des
rites qui assuraient la survie du groupe, car ils
maintenaient la fécondité des bêtes sauvages et
l’adresse surnaturelle des chasseurs” (1965: 23).
2 Diverses formes de la chasse en Afrique
subsaharienne
Même si, depuis la préhistoire, les hommes ont
transformé leurs outils de chasse, on doit avouer
fondamentalement qu’hier n’est pas très éloigné
d’aujourd’hui. Cet état de chose s’explique par
les deux raisons suivantes: d’abord, ni l’esprit
humain, ni la nature n’ont changé en profondeur.
Les mutations sont d’ordre superficiel, apparent,
voire formel. L’invention des armes à feu n’a
guère modifié l’art de la cynégétique. Ensuite,
cet art impose des stratégies pour tuer le gibier,
pour déjouer sa ruse de fuite, et même pour éviter
l’attaque des fauves auxquels on expose sa vie
pendant l’activité de la chasse.
C’est ce caractère invariant de l’art cynégétique
que nous allons analyser à travers quelques zones
de l’Afrique subsaharienne avant d’aborder la
question de la chasse chez les Lyéla et sa pratique
singulière chez la confrérie du kwala Bationo de
Koukoulkouala.
Si la pêche, l’élevage, la vannerie etc. sont
Pratiqués indistinctement par les hommes autant
que par les femmes, voire les jeunes personnes, il
n’en est pas ainsi de la chasse qui est l’apanage
des hommes.6 La chasse nécessite le maniement
des armes et, comme nous le verrons par après,
pratique de puissances occultes susceptibles de
Protéger les individus des risques qu’ils encou-
rent à affronter certains gibiers particulièrement
6 Cette restriction de la chasse aux seuls hommes n’est pas
propre aux Lyéla seulement. En Afrique subsaharienne, en
général, et dans les pays sahéliens, en particulier, il s’agit
d’un fait universel. Entre autres, Gérard Beaudoin a montré
qu’il en est ainsi chez les Dogons du Mali. Selon lui, “tout
homme peut chasser s’il a une arme. En pays Dogon, la
plupart des fusils ont été fabriqués localement et sont donc
très peu sûrs. Dans les faits, ce sont surtout les vieux qui
chassent” (1984: 208). Ce n’est pas parce que les fusils sont
dangereux que les femmes ne peuvent chasser; mais parce
qu'il s’agit d’une activité dangereuse pour les individus.
Anthropos 96.2001
dangereux. En raison de ces dangers potentiels,
il n’est pas étonnant que la chasse en groupe
figure parmi les formes les plus répandues de l’art
cynégétique dans cette zone du continent africain.
Noël Ballif a montré que chez les Pygmées de
la grande forêt, l’organisation sociale dans les
diverses communautés incline à un esprit de com-
pétition tant interne qu’entre différents groupes.
Visiblement, le Pygmée désire être le meilleur en
se mesurant aux autres non seulement dans l’art
de la danse, du chant, mais surtout dans celui
de la chasse. Certes, au niveau de celle-ci moins
qu’ailleurs, chez d’autres peuples, les chasseurs se
veulent individuellement plus doués, plus habiles
que d’autres, et aptes à triompher des bêtes, même
les plus impressionnantes par leur taille ou leur
force. Telle est l’histoire qu’il rapporte de deux
chasseurs pygmées. Leur prouesse individuelle de-
vient une geste qu’on met publiquement en scène,
qu’on mime pour célébrer leur bravoure:
Soudain, Dangawé surgit d’un taillis. A demi courbé,
les bras serrés l’un contre l’autre devant lui, il s’arrête,
tourne la tête de droite à gauche, la lève comme pour
humer l’air avant de poursuivre sa marche ... Dangawé
est l’Eléphant qui passe dans la forêt. Ndoumba et
Mounika, les chasseurs qui se sont camouflés avec des
bouquets de feuillage, entrent en scène. Ils traquent
l’animal, l’air farouche, puis, brusquement l’attaquent.
L’Eléphant est blessé, il se traîne ... Frappé de plus
belle, il se traîne sur quelques mètres. Agressé une
dernière fois, il s’écroule (1992: 78-79).
Cette chasse en groupe peut s’élargir en prenant
des proportions qui mobilisent une importante lo-
gistique tant en hommes qu’en moyens. Il s’agit de
chasse à la battue ou d’une véritable expédition de
chasse. C’est ce que Georges Balandier a montré
dans l’analyse d’une chasse de ce genre dans
une zone de l’Afrique tropicale.7 Les chasseurs
sont diversement armés: longs fusils à pierre,
couteaux gainés de cuir, fixés au cou, arcs et
flèches, massue à tête renflée, coupe-coupe etc.
Au cours d’une telle expédition de chasse, les
hommes sont accompagnés de chiens, d’enfants
chargés de nourriture pour ces derniers. Chacune
des armes a une destination bien précise: les fusils
pour tuer les gazelles et les buffles, le bâton pour
abattre les petits animaux comme le rat de savane,
l’arc pour atteindre les “biches” à l’aide de flèches
empoisonnées.
Selon Balandier (1957: 96 s.), la chasse en elle-
même se passe de la manière suivante:
7 L’action se déroule plus précisément dans une communauté
de l’actuelle Guinée.
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Quelques guetteurs se situent aux abords de la route,
cependant que leur réseau se resserre le long de la
forêt, vers les points de fuite présumés. Les hommes
se dissimulent avec un art du camouflage ...
La brousse est sèche, toute bruissante sous le soleil
... Le chef de chasse donne le signal de l’incendie.f81 On
allume les foyers le long de la route ... Puis l’incendie,
d’un coup, prend une extraordinaire ampleur.
Des coups de fusils partent. Quelques chiens enga-
gent une poursuite ... frôlent les flammes, disparais-
sent. Hommes et enfants s’agitent, tirent, fouillent les
moindres recoins où les petits animaux gisent comme
des épaves; ils surveillent les pièges - de hautes claies
faites de branches qui dissimulent les collets derrière
leurs ouvertures ... Il n’y a pas d’issue pour le gi-
bier effrayé. Le ratissage se poursuit, d’une minutie
sans oubli, n’abandonnant rien de ce qui peut être
consommé.
Dès l’extinction du feu, on s’empresse de ras-
sembler les prises à la lisière de la forêt. Celles
qui ont été atteintes par des flèches empoisonnées
sont vite évidées. Un gros gibier est choisi pour
être cuit sur place et partagé en vertu de règles
strictes. Quant au reste des proies, il est étripé,
dépecé pour être emporté au village.
Ainsi que nous le montrerons chez les Lyéla,
notamment la confrérie des chasseurs aux mains
nues du kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala, la
chasse, comme partout ailleurs en Afrique sub-
saharienne, en raison de ses risques inhérents,
a toujours été entourée de précautions spéci-
fiques. Les traits les plus caractéristiques de celle-
ci - que Nigel Barley a analysés de son côté
en pays dowayo (Afrique Equatoriale) - sont les
suivants.
D’abord, suivant les peuples, quelques jours
avant la période de chasse ou à la veille, on impose
à tous les chasseurs, jeunes et vieux, de s’abstenir
de relations sexuelles. Il s’agit d’éviter que ces der-
nières qui sont considérées comme une souillure
absolue, ne nuisent à l’efficience des pouvoirs in-
frasensibles. Il est partout reconnu que les djinnas
qui constituent l’efficience des théurgies de chasse,
8 A.M. Vergiat affirme que les Manjas de l’Afrique Centrale
pratiquent, de façon collective également, la chasse grâce
au feu. Mais, chez eux, elle ne se fait qu’en saison sèche
après des cérémonies célébrant la nouvelle année selon leur
calendrier. Chaque chasse par le feu collective est toujours
précédée de danses et d’une grande fête de bière. Il existe
une autre différence de taille: cette communauté compte un
propriétaire du feu chargé de préparer le jour même le mé-
dicament qui rendra la chasse fructueuse. “Il écrase”, écrit
l’auteur, “dans une petite calebasse”, les plantes magiques
propices à son champ et enterre le récipient au bord de la
brousse à brûler” (1981: 118). Pour cet office, les chasseurs
lui offrent un quartier des animaux tués, en général, une
cuisse de chaque gibier.
en les animant de l’intérieur, sont allergiques aux
sécrétions vaginales de la femme. Dès lors, chez
les Dowayo, il est strictement interdit d’avoir des
relations intimes avec une femme pendant les trois
jours précédant la chasse. Il est même conseillé
de ne pas laisser les armes (arcs, flèches, fusils
etc.) à portée de la femme. Car si l’arc, par
exemple, du chasseur est doté d’une efficience
infrasensible très puissante, celle-ci est susceptible
de provoquer des fausses couches, en raison de son
effet nocif et dangereux. A l’inverse, si elle est peu
ou moyennement puissante, les menstrues de la
femme peuvent annihiler cette efficience du fait de
l’incompatibilité de l’essence de certains djinnas
avec de telles sécrétions. On comprend que les
chasseurs s’empressent de retirer leurs armes des
cases pour aller les cacher en brousse afin de les
préserver ainsi de toutes souillures dans le champ
de l’univers infrasensible.
Ensuite, les conséquences qui résultent d’une
infraction des précautions antérieures à la chasse
ou de cette règle de l’abstinence totale, sont de plu-
sieurs ordres. Nigel Barley (1994: 156) les analyse
de la manière suivante:
Un chasseur contaminé par sa femme devient totalement
incapable de tirer à l’arc: ses mains tremblent, sa vue
s’obscurcit, sa flèche ne peut frapper au but. Pis encore,
tous les fauves de la brousse se dirigeront droit sur lui.[9]
Panthères et scorpions le suivront à la trace; il risque une
mort affreuse. Ils repéreront son odeur à des kilomètres
à la ronde. Cet homme représentera donc une menace
pour tout le groupe.
Les Lobi, peuple culturellement assez voisin
des Lyéla, en raison des risques pour la vie des
9 L’irrespect des règles de précaution propédeutique à la
chasse et l’imprudence qui lui est inhérente génèrent par-
fois des conséquences dramatiques. Ils conduisent à des
accidents. C’est ce que Yann Arthus-Bertrand et Jacqueline
Roumeguère-Eberhardt ont montré chez les Masaï. On sait
que l’un des motifs d’orgueil de ce peuple nomade de
l’Afrique de l’Est consiste à tuer un lion soit seul, soit
à quelques-uns. La mise à mort d’un tel animal est un acte
d’initiation nécessaire à la vie d’adulte. Comme cette chasse
singulière obéit à une technique parfaitement codifiée, il
importe de se soumettre aux règles préparatoires.
Cependant, il arrive que des individus commettent des
imprudences aux issues tragiques comme ils l’expliquent
eux-mêmes: “Les jeunes guerriers sont initiés progressive-
ment à cette chasse par les murran déjà mûrs qui seuls ont le
droit de participer à cette activité redoutable. En 1979, un
groupe de jeunes guerriers avaient décidé d’entreprendre
une telle chasse, à l’insu des aînés; elle se termina par
la mort de l’un d’eux, déchiqueté par un lion. Tout le
monde dit que ces jeunes guerriers ne connaissaient pas
la technique par laquelle on isole le fauve de sa horde
(1984: 22). Les blessés sont soignés et guéris parfaitement
par un vieil homme versé dans la connaissance du pouvoir
des plantes.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
567
chasseurs liés à cette activité dangereuse, ne pren-
nent pas à la légère les précautions indispensables
à l’exercice de l’art cynégétique. Ce souci résulte
de leur conception de la nature qui se fonde sur
une dichotomie fondamentale, en l’occurrence, la
béance et/ou la borne qui sépare le monde des
choses ordinaires structuré et appréhendé par les
sens et le monde du surnaturel ou univers des
forces infrasensibles. Néanmoins, il n’y a pas une
totale opacité entre ces univers de réalité dans
la mesure où, malgré les niveaux spécifiques de
situation, les interférences sont possibles. Celles-
ci permettent ainsi des rapports, voire des liens
continus entre l’espace des vivants et l’univers
des puissances surnaturelles qui l’environnent et
parfois le compénètrent, comme Daniéla Bognolo
(1998) l’a montré dans “L’enjeu subtil: le statut de
chasseur et de guerrier chez les Lobi.”
Parmi toutes les forces invisibles dont les Lo-
bi parviennent à se concilier, par des pratiques
spécifiques, l’efficience et qui fondent leur pensée
religieuse, figurent des théurgies (ou fétiches, selon
le terme consacré des anthropologues) relatives,
entre autres, à la chasse. Comme la chasse aux gros
gibiers, tel que l’éléphant, se pratique de façon
individuelle, les théurgies de chasse sont diverses
et multiples bien plus par leurs formes que par
leur essence. Celle-ci est unique et elle exige,
pour être confectionnée de façon efficace, une
très grande pureté de vie quasi permanente. D’une
part, l’initiation à l’art de confectionner de telles
théurgies que les Lobi appellent bâbatir, nécessite
le passage de plusieurs épreuves s’échelonnant sur
Un temps assez long, l’observation de règles très
strictes. Cet ensemble de processus propédeutiques
s’achève par l’acquisition d’une formule secrète
que l’initié doit réciter fidèlement pendant la con-
ception du remède qui confère de l’efficience à
la théurgie. La boucle se clôt par la mise à mort
du premier éléphant qui autorise la fabrication, en
fin de compte, du bâbatir. L’aide d’un sculpteur
est sollicitée pour fabriquer un pendentif en ivoire
qui représente symboliquement la théurgie de
chasse; et qui confère à son détenteur une cer-
taine invincibilité à la chasse face à toutes sortes
d’animaux.
Ce recours aux puissances surnaturelles chez les
fi°bi, notamment chez les chasseurs, résultent de
1 expérience des faits. C’est du moins ce qu’écrit
Daniéla Bognolo (1998: 175):
fies Lobi ont toujours chassé toutes sortes d’animaux
Pour les manger. Puis ils se sont aperçus qu’il y en
avaient qui rendaient malades celui qui les tuait. C’est
Pourquoi ils ont cherché à se protéger. Au début, quel
Anthropos 96.2001
que soit le type de chasse, il n’y avait que hülen-thil
(la puissance du cri); au fil du temps, les chasseurs ont
appris à distinguer que tel animal pouvait donner telle
maladie, et tel autre une maladie différente. Quelques-
uns sont alors rentrés dans le Lôpho (“puissance de
l’arc”) pour pouvoir chasser le gros gibier sans danger.
Puissance de Bâbâ s’est révélée, et ses initiés ont pu
maîtriser des animaux à khélé.
Selon cet auteur, cette mise en sécurité de sa
personne et de sa vie permet au chasseur d’éviter
l’écueil du mauvais sort lié à la mise à mort de
certains animaux.
En effet, tout animal est doué d’une puissance
vitale, le khélé qui, libéré de son enveloppe cor-
porelle, est susceptible à son tour de tuer celle du
chasseur. Son acte le condamne à ce sort fatal dont
il ne peut se défaire seul. En outre, ce maléfice est
non seulement dangereux pour sa propre vie mais
même pour celle des membres de sa famille. Aussi,
pour l’en délivrer, un homme d’âge mûr, initié aux
sciences surnaturelles relatives à l’art cynégétique,
doit le soumettre à des rites précis de désen-
voûtement. C’est pourquoi, les Lobi disent: “Nul
homme ne doit sous-estimer ce que l’existence des
animaux compte ... Il faut être cocol (un chasseur
attitré) pour connaître le secret qui permet de se
métamorphoser” (Bognolo 1998: 175) en cas de
menace de la part d’animaux dangereux, comme
les fauves ou de gros gibiers comme l’éléphant,
l’hippopotame, le boa etc. Chez les Lobi, ce qui
fait la force des chasseurs et justifie leur place
particulière dans la société, c’est leur capacité
à garder le silence sur leurs pratiques occultes,
comme le remarque Daniéla Bognolo: “En tout
cas, aucun chasseur ne doit dévoiler les secrets
liés à la chasse” (175).
3 La pratique de la chasse chez les Lyéla et chez
les chasseurs aux mains nues de la confrérie du
kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala
On retrouve les traits dominants de l’art cynégé-
tique, tel qu’il est pratiqué par les Lobi, également
chez les Lyéla. En effet, à l’inverse de la pêche
qui est libre et ouverte à tous, la chasse est une
activité plus masculine. Elle exige à la fois de la
bravoure, du courage, de l’audace et de l’abnéga-
tion. Ces qualités, même parmi les hommes, ne
sont pas également partagées par tout le monde.
En fait, selon Joseph Bado de Sienkou, un de nos
instructeurs, personne ne se livre à la légère à la
chasse au même titre qu’une quelconque activité,
par exemple agricole. La chasse comporte beau-
coup de risques: morsures de serpents, attaque de
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Berichte und Kommentare
bêtes, risque de mort par accident, voire rencontre
avec de mauvais génies de brousse (des méchants
djinnas) capables de causer au chasseur un mal
incurable. Les moyens de chasse sont les suivants:
arcs, gourdins, lances, fusils traditionnels fonction-
nant selon le même système que les mousquets,
fusils de fabrication moderne. Le gibier chassé
se compose des animaux suivants: le lièvre, la
gazelle, le cobe de Buffon, la biche, le chacal,
les pintades sauvages etc. La période de la chasse
s’étend de mars à fin avril. Mais cette période peut
varier selon les régions du Lyolo.10 11
En réalité, les Lyéla pratiquent trois genres
de chasse: la chasse par battue ou zoro, qui est
collective; la chasse individuelle et la chasse dans
les grottes. D’abord, le zoro se pratique au niveau
d’un ensemble de villages. Les hommes mûrs au-
tant que les adolescents y participent. On procède
de deux manières: soit on allume des feux de
façon circulaire et les chasseurs, en suivant le
mouvement du feu, se regroupent progressivement
au centre: les animaux voulant fuir le feu ont peu
de chance de leur échapper; soit on s’organise
selon un ordre circulaire et la battue, appuyée par
la vigilance des chiens, s’effectue vers un point
central. Même sans le feu, une telle modalité de
chasse est très efficace et fructueuse.
Autrefois, c’est-à-dire au cours de la période
précédant l’indépendance du Burkina Faso, avant
tout rendez-vous de chasse par battue,11 tout chef
de famille réunit ses fils qui y participent. Au nom
d’eux tous, il fait le sacrifice d’un poulet au dieu
de la chasse; il sollicite ainsi la garantie de leur vie
de manière à les préserve de tout accident. Pour
se protéger d’éventuelles mésaventures de chasse,
il n’est pas rare que des personnes étrangères à
la famille ou au clan, détenteur d’une potence
théurgique, y adhèrent pour leur propre sécurité.
Ces théurgies de chasse sont toujours accrochées à
la fourche d’un tronc d’arbre sec que l’on implante
soit non loin de l’entrée de la cour, soit au milieu
de celle-ci. Comme pour la pêche, le fruit de
la chasse est partagé selon les mêmes modalités.
Quand il s’agit d’un gros gibier, on donne un gigot
au chef de l’autel de terre, une épaule aux chefs
des kwala qui se la partagent entre eux. Mais, le
chef de l’autel de terre, outre sa propre famille,
fait bénéficier à ces derniers une partie de sa part.
On donne également une épaule à celui qui fait
office de chef de la chasse. Les autres parties de
10 Cette zone du Burkina Faso correspond aujourd’hui à la
division administrative de la Province de Réo.
11 Ceci se pratique encore dans les villages éloignés des zones
fortement christianisées.
l’animal sont partagées entre les chasseurs selon la
participation de chacun dans l’abattage de l’animal
ou des autres gibiers. Chaque chasseur rapporte sa
part au chef de la cour qui la partage entre les
différents hommes mariés, lesquels, à leur tour,
doivent s’arranger pour que chaque membre du
couple ait quelque portion à manger. De façon
absolue, personne ne doit en être privé. Cependant,
si la part de la chasse est minime, on la laisse
au chef de la cour qui la consomme avec les
tout petits enfants. Car un vrai chef de famille
ou de cour ne peut consommer seul ce qu’on lui
offre de peur d’être considéré comme égoïste et
inéquitable. Agissant ainsi, il prend des risques
pour sa propre vie.
Quant aux chasseurs individuels, ils possèdent
toujours une théurgie de chasse. Joseph Bado de
Sienkou explique l’origine et le culte d’une telle
théurgie de la manière suivante: le secret du tululi
ou puissance de la chasse est simple. En effet, il y
avait un chasseur si adroit et si habile qu’aucune de
ses flèches ne ratait sa cible. Un jour, un étranger
ayant entendu parler de lui, vint s’enquérir de
la manière dont il avait pu tuer tant d’animaux
sauvages; il voulut savoir le secret de son habileté.
Le chasseur adroit, s’abstenant de lui répondre
sur le champ, l’invita à retourner chez lui et à
revenir le voir au bout de trois jours. L’étranger
fit comme on le lui avait recommandé. Alors le
chasseur prit la corne d’une biche et des déchets
du karité; puis, à l’aide d’une queue de cet animal,
il confectionna un objet12 qu’il donna à son hôte
en lui recommandant de le porter toujours autour
de la ceinture en allant à la chasse. Ainsi, il ne
12 Chez les Lobi, la fabrication d’une théurgie de chasse
relève d’une véritable science de l’efficience des plantes,
des minéraux, des parties du corps de certains animaux
etc. C’est la composition adéquate de cet ensemble d’objets
hétérogènes qui va générer de la vie et la puissance dans
la représentation symbolique d’une théurgie. C’est ce que
montre Daniéla Bognolo dans son analyse sur cet aspect de
leur savoir infrasensible: “Le seul remède approprié est le
bâbatir, est sa fabrication, est le privilège des bâbadara. On
tire les ingrédients nécessaires à la préparation de ce remède
d’un morceau de chair séchée d’éléphant, des cendres
d’une partie de ses entrailles calcinées et des fragments
de certaines racines recueillies là où on a tué la bête;
puis on sacrifie dessus un poussin noir, ou bien ce qui
convient le mieux à la puissance que l’on sert, et l’on
réduit le tout en poudre. Cette poudre est conservée dans
une corne de jiwala, et surtout employée pour engourdir
les animaux ...” (1998:168s.). C’est nous qui mettons
cette phrase en italique pour indiquer que la confrérie des
chasseurs du kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala utilise un
procédé infrasensible semblable pendant la chasse. Par ce
moyen, les chasseurs peuvent appréhender le gibier dans
les grottes sans autre outil que leurs mains pour l’égorger
au-dehors.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
569
manquerait plus ses cibles. En outre, il n’aurait
plus peur et il ferait fuir les mauvais génies de
la brousse. Cependant, chaque fois qu’il tuerait un
animal, il ne devrait pas oublier d’enduire cet objet
du sang de l’animal fraîchement abattu. Ayant
acquis une totale confiance en soi et s’étant rendu
à la chasse, l’étranger banda son arc et tua un
premier animal. Par la suite, il réussit chaque fois
qu’il alla à la chasse.
Dès lors, le secret du tululi n’est rien d’autre
que le fait d’avoir vaincu la peur, laquelle est cause
des maladresses en tous genres. C’est pourquoi, les
chasseurs individuels possèdent tous une ou deux
théurgies ou potences de chasse qui les préservent
tant des animaux carnivores comme le lion ou la
panthère, que des mauvais génies de la brousse.
De façon générale, chez les Lyéla, on s’accorde à
dire que, grâce à l’efficience de leurs potences de
chasse, ils sont capables, en cas de danger grave
(attaque d’un fauve), soit de se transformer en
un objet quelconque, soit de se rendre invisible
à l’animal.
Les Lyéla pensent que, au même titre que tout
être vivant, les animaux ont un double qui peut
nuire à la vie du chasseur si ce dernier s’avise de
les tuer n’importe comment. Il en est de même
de leur viande qui doit être consommée avec
précaution. Car toutes les viandes animales ne
sont pas comestibles comme le reconnaissent les
anciens de Goundi:
Il y a de bonnes et de mauvaises viandes animales.
Autrefois, on ne tuait un animal (sauvage) que pour
réparer une faute commise sur un être humain. En
revanche, de nos jours, les choses ont changé. On tue les
animaux, quels qu’ils soient, pour vendre leur viande au
marché. Ce n’est pas parce qu’il y a une famine ; c’est
uniquement par goût de lucre, pour les uns (chasseurs
et bouchers), par gourmandise, envie de saveur de la
viande, pour les autres (les consommateurs).
La troisième catégorie de chasseurs, chez les
Lyéla, est singulière et rare. On les appelle les
chasseurs des grottes ou cavernes, m’éla (m’élé).
Ils sont différents des premiers dans la mesure
°ù ils forment une société secrète particulière et
hansclanique. Car avant toute partie de chasse,
tls sont soumis à une vie d’ascèse, de continence
sexuelle, de pureté ou de droiture morales. C’est
Une exigence qui leur est imposée par l’esprit
htême de leur théurgie ou potence de chasse pour
garantir leur vie et assurer leur sécurité contre tout
accident. En général, ils vont à la chasse la nuit.
Ls peuvent en revenir durant le jour. Ils chassent
a mains nues. C’est aussi un fait ou une exigence
de leur pouvoir de chasse.
Anthropos 96.2001
Il s’agit de chasseurs endurcis aux dangers
graves, voire mortels. Au cours de leur partie de
chasse à laquelle ils se rendent à plusieurs, ils
procèdent de la manière suivante: chacun rentre
à tour de rôle dans une grotte ou dans une ca-
verne, refuge d’un ou de plusieurs animaux, pour
les attaquer. Cette mesure évite qu’un chasseur
souillé (souillure avec une femme à la veille d’une
partie de chasse) n’entraîne les autres dans son
péril. Pendant la chasse, ils ne se parlent pas.
Comme certaines confréries d’entre ces chasseurs
aux mains nues ne doivent pas avoir d’éclairage,
des moyens infrasensibles, fruits de l’efficience de
leur théurgie, leur tiennent lieu de lumière pour
pénétrer dans les grottes. Quel que soit l’animal
que le chasseur y trouve, il doit le ramener dehors
vivant avant de l’égorger. Dès que chacun d’eux a
subi l’épreuve individuelle pour s’assurer qu’il est
bien sain, ils se mettent à plusieurs pour ramener
dehors le gros gibier avant de le tuer. Aucune
arme n’entre dans la grotte ou dans la caverne. Ils
n’ont pour tout vêtement qu’un cache sexe. C’est
pourquoi, on reconnaît que ces chasseurs font le
contraire de tous les autres.
Les interdits qui concernent ces chasseurs à
mains nues sont les suivants:
1) Défense de coucher avec la femme d’un mem-
bre du groupe, ou même de la toucher, de la
désirer;13
2) Défense de mettre la main dans la poche de l’ha-
bit d’un autre membre du groupe pour y prendre
quelque chose, par exemple, de l’argent.
Tout chasseur qui ne respecte pas ces interdits
ne revient pas, dans certains cas, de la chasse. Il
perd la vie dans la mesure où il n’est plus protégé
par le pouvoir occulte de la théurgie de chasse
du groupe. Lorsque l’un d’eux commet une faute
ou lorsqu’il enfreint l’une de ces règles énoncées
ci-dessus, il doit le confesser à haute voix au
moment des rites marquant le départ à la chasse.
S’il s’abstient de le faire, il meurt dans la grotte.
En raison de ces contraintes, cette sorte de chasse
se pratique de façon épisodique et occasionnelle.
C’est dans cette catégorie de chasseurs que
figure la confrérie des chasseurs aux mains nues
13 Les précautions de chasse analysées par Nigel Barley chez
les Dowayos admettent quelques restrictions sur ce point.
L’abstinence sexuelle n’est pas absolue, s’il s’agit d’une
relation avec une femme légitime du chasseur. Cependant,
en raison de la légèreté des mœurs sexuelles chez ce peuple,
le rapport conjugal n’est pas sans risque: “Les relations
sexuelles intraconjugales n’avaient rien de néfastes, sauf si
la femme avait commis l’adultère” (1994: 156). Dès lors, il
est préférable de s’abstenir de tout rapport sexuel à la veille
de la chasse.
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Berichte und Kommentare
du kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala. Ce type de
chasseurs constitue une confrérie visible fondée
sur les pouvoirs de l’invisible. Et la théurgie de
laquelle ils tiennent leur pouvoir, est ce que les
Lyéla appellent tululi. Mais, contrairement aux
informations recueillies sur place dans les années
1980,14 il existe chez les Lyéla plusieurs sortes
de tululi: il y a, d’abord, le tululi agricole qui
favorise la fécondité du sol ou des champs où on
l’enterre sous forme de pot en terre expressément
confectionné à cet effet. Son but est de faciliter la
rentabilité des champs cultivés; on trouve, ensuite,
le tululi vivo. L’efficience, voire l’efficacité de
celui-ci consiste à attirer les éléments de la nature
qui favorisent la productivité. Par exemple, un
apiculteur peut en faire usage pour attirer et piéger
des essaims d’abeilles susceptibles d’augmenter la
quantité de miel par ruche. Enfin, il existe le tululi
de chasse dont les chasseurs aux mains nues ont
réussi à perfectionner une efficience spécifique et
appropriée à la chasse dans les grottes (miéla),
dans les cavernes ou encore dans la zone de la
sylve.
La confrérie de chasseurs aux mains nues cons-
titue une véritable école de discipline et de vertu
éthique. Ses membres sont issus de quelques fa-
milles parmi certains clans dans un village-terroir
donné, comme le kwala Bationo de Koukoul-
kouala. Tous les garçons, dès l’âge de dix ans,
peuvent participer à cette sorte de chasse, en l’oc-
currence, celle qui se pratique essentiellement dans
les grottes et cavernes (miéla); et ceci de façon
continue jusqu’à l’âge adulte.15 En effet, une partie
de chasse peut s’étendre sur plusieurs jours (trois à
cinq), voire sur quelques semaines; naturellement
sans un retour possible dans leur village tant que
l’objectif que le groupe s’est fixé n’est pas atteint.
Pendant tout ce temps, les chasseurs ne doivent
pas se laver. Seul un caleçon leur tient lieu de
vêtement. Lorsqu’on les croise dans la sylve, leur
apparence donne l’impression de déments errants.
Cet étrange aspect résulte de la raison suivante: à
force de pénétrer dans les grottes, d’être obligés
d’y séjourner à la recherche de gibier, ils finissent
14 Notre principal instructeur, à cette époque, a été Joseph
Bado de Sienkou, un très grand connaisseur des traditions
de sa communauté. Les dernières informations recueillies
en juillet 2000 ne contredisent pas les siennes; elles sont
seulement plus élargies.
15 Les adultes mariés ou non peuvent continuer à s’adonner
à cette chasse s’ils disposent de personnes (enfants, frères
etc.) susceptibles d’assumer les tâches nécessaires, comme
les travaux des champs, du gwara, du jardinage etc., et
leurs diverses responsabilités domestiques; et s’ils peuvent
s’astreindre à l’abstinence sexuelle pendant toute la période
de chasse.
par être couverts de boue ou de terre collante des
parois des cavernes où ils se meuvent en per-
manence.
Selon Lazare Bationo, l’un des membres de
cette confrérie de chasseurs qui nous a instruit au
cours de l’été 2000, les chasseurs survivent de la
manière suivante: le chef de la dernière cour, à la
lisière d’un village que les chasseurs côtoient avant
de s’enfoncer dans la sylve où ils passent leurs
nuits, leur fait emmener de la nourriture selon ses
moyens et ses possibilités économiques. En retour,
il reçoit une certaine partie du butin de la chasse.
Cependant, s’ils sont contraints d’aller plus loin
pour chasser, ils se nourrissent autrement: comme
le domaine sylvestre semble leur appartenir, ils
peuvent satisfaire leurs besoins alimentaires avec
du miel des ruches, même s’ils ignorent qui en sont
les propriétaires. Ils peuvent se servir également de
tout pot en terre trouvé dans un champ pour cuir
des aliments ou du gibier. Cette nécessité d’aller
chasser toujours plus loin aujourd’hui résulte de
l’extension continue de l’habitat humain et, inver-
sement, de la rareté du gibier. Les chasseurs aux
mains nues entreprennent systématiquement une
partie de chasse à la veille des fêtes de fin d’année
ou de toute autre fête traditionnelle de quelque
importance.16 *
La zone sylvestre exige vertu, honnêteté, inté-
grité morale, transparence même pour être violée,
violentée de cette façon, c’est-à-dire par la mé-
diation d’une chasse aux caractères si mystérieux
et occultes. C’est à cette seule condition qu’aucun
chasseur aux mains nues ne peut être blessé par
un fauve, un serpent, ni être avalé par un boa dans
une caverne ou une grotte. Lazare Bationo, notre
instructeur, rapporte, à ce sujet, le fait suivant:
dans les années 1990, avant une sortie de chasse,
l’un d’entre eux avait eu une querelle avec l’une
de ses épouses qu’il croyait mineure. En ce sens,
il n’a pas jugé nécessaire de la confesser à ses
partenaires ou, plutôt à ses confrères. Au cours de
cette chasse, un porc-épic le blessa sérieusement
16 Les chasseurs soulignent eux-mêmes que la viande du gibier
n’est pas, en fait, une nécessité dans cette zone du Lyolo des
lors que l’importance de l’élevage domestique satisfait aux
besoins en protéine des gens. Il s’agit plutôt d’un agrément
qui permet de sortir de l’ordinaire alimentaire, d’introduire
une fantaisie élevée dans les habitudes alimentaires. Mais»
quelle que soit la quantité de la prise, le gibier ne suffit pas
à satisfaire le désir de chacun. Certains individus prennent
part à ce genre de festin de façon symbolique: ils ne
reçoivent en partage qu’une infime partie de la viande du
gibier. Toutefois, aujourd’hui, la poursuite de cette sorte de
chasse résulte surtout des besoins, voire des nécessités de
leur théurgie qui, par eux et par leur succès à la chasse,
continue de maintenir sa vie et manifester son efficacité.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
571
au bras et un chacal lui mordit gravement les
mains. De retour de la chasse, on dut procéder
à des sacrifices propitiatoires pour lever l’obstacle
infrasensible causé par la querelle et lui appliquer
des soins appropriés pour guérir ses blessures.
La chasse aux mains nues exige une méthode,
voire une organisation singulière. En effet, les
chasseurs sont divisés en plusieurs groupes. Cha-
cun d’entre eux a un chef ou un conducteur.
C’est lui qui organise la stratégie de la chasse et
l’initiation des jeunes chasseurs. Car lorsque les
jeunes se rendent pour la première fois à cette sorte
de chasse à laquelle les destine leur appartenance
au kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala, ils reçoivent
obligatoirement une initiation. Celle-ci consiste
dans l’art d’entrer dans toutes sortes de grottes
(étroites, moyennes, larges), de pister les animaux
à l’intérieur des souterrains et cavernes, de les
piéger, de les saisir, voire de savoir les prendre
pour les ramener au-dehors sans autre moyen que
l’efficience du tululi qui a le pouvoir d’engourdir la
force vitale des animaux, quelque dangereux qu’ils
soient, et donc, d’anesthésier leur corps.17
L’aîné initié leur enseigne, sur le plan de la
structure visible, la réalité humaine apparente, la
vertu du courage devant certains gros gibiers. Il
arrive même qu’on force certains couards à rentrer
dans les grottes. Ainsi, devant une grotte étroite,
on se couche pour tenter d’y pénétrer. Si un jeune
chasseur hésite devant la difficulté alors que tout
son torse est dans la grotte, l’aîné initié lui brûle
la plante des pieds avec une torche en paille. Car
toute la confrérie le sait: chacun des chasseurs est
sous la protection, dans le champ de la structure in-
visible ou réalité surnaturelle, d’une entité occulte
qui veille sur sa vie et préserve l’intégrité de son
corps contre les éventuelles attaques des fauves.
Toutefois, le jeune chasseur (entre dix et seize ans)
est autorisé à abdiquer devant l’impossibilité de
faire sortir vivant un gibier qui dépasse infiniment
ses forces physiques par sa taille, son poids etc.
Néanmoins, en sortant de la grotte, il ne doit pas
prononcer le nom de l’animal en question. Dans ce
cas, on le contraindra d’aller le faire sortir coûte
17 La science occidentale utilise de façon visible, concrète,
un procédé semblable d’anesthésie pour capturer les fauves
dans les réserves et parcs naturels ou dans les zoos. La seule
différence entre ces deux méthodes de capture réside en
ceci: l’une se voit par la médiation des sens ordinaires et uti-
lisable par tout le monde; l’autre (méthode traditionnelle de
chasse aux mains nues chez les Bationo de Koukoulkouala)
est spécifique à une confrérie. Et, comme elle fait appel à
des procédés de forces à la fois psychiques et infrasensibles,
elle échappe au pouvoir d’intelligibilité de la raison et elle
est invisible aux sens ordinaires.
que coûte. Il s’agit d’une règle de silence liée à leur
tululi qui suppose qu’un membre de la confrérie
ne doit reculer devant aucun danger; ni renoncer à
rien par incapacité physique.
Autrefois, les chasseurs aux mains nues s’o-
rientaient dans la pénombre des grottes (miéla)
soit à l’aide d’une souche de bois en feu, soit à
l’aide d’une torche en paille qu’ils tenaient allumée
pendant toute la durée de la chasse. En fonction
de la nature des grottes (amplitude, profondeur,
étroitesse, largeur, dédale etc.), notamment de la
diversité des conduits, la stratégie de chasse était
(et est toujours) différente. Aujourd’hui, l’usage
des torches électriques est autorisé pour s’orienter
dans les dédales.
Comme les chasseurs aux mains nues sont
généralement assez nombreux, ils se divisent en
deux groupes: une partie est constituée de pis-
teurs qui parcourent toutes les cavités - ce qui
présuppose une parfaite connaissance des lieux -
à la recherche du gibier; l’autre est composée de
chasseurs aux aguets se tenant en des endroits où
les animaux sont susceptibles de passer. Il est pos-
sible que des chasseurs s’aident pour neutraliser un
carnivore, comme la hyène, les félins, le lion etc.;
ou pour faire sortir un gibier de la taille du boa des
cavernes, voire un terrier comme l’oryctérope.18.
A Koukoulkouala, la singularité du statut de la
confrérie des chasseurs aux mains nues est telle
qu’elle est épargnée par les serments relatifs à
l’autel de terre. Ce statut particulier dans n’importe
quel village-terroir fait que quiconque s’avise de
lancer un pari ou un serment de cette nature à un
membre de la confrérie, non seulement lui-même
doit s’acquitter de l’amende, mais, pire, il trépasse
au bout de trois années après le début d’une telle
affaire. Les membres de cette confrérie sont donc
les seuls à jouir du privilège de ne pouvoir être
convoqués par le chef de l’autel de terre, lequel
représente la plus haute autorité morale, religieuse,
voire politique dans l’organisation des villages du
Lyolo.
Les membres de la confrérie des chasseurs aux
mains nues font une démonstration de puissances
infrasensibles lors des funérailles d’un de leurs
18 Orycteropus afer. Dans son “Glossaire L’Elé-Français”, le
Père François-Joseph Nicolas l’appelle “m’élgwara” ou
“fouisseur de caverne”. “... son nom indigène lui vient
de ce qu’il creuse avec une incroyable vélocité d’énormes
terriers qu’il abandonne peu de temps après” (Bon et
Nicolas 1953: 329). Les chasseurs aux mains nues recon-
naissent eux-mêmes le redouter: ils doivent le chasser coûte
que coûte une fois décelée sa présence dans une grotte.
Cependant, ils craignent d’être étouffés par la quantité de
terre qu’il est capable de creuser dans sa fuite.
Anthropos 96.2001
572
Berichte und Kommentare
confrères âgés (de soixante-dix à plus de cent ans).
Ainsi, lorsque le grand-père de notre instructeur,
Lazare Bationo, est mort dans les années 1990,
- lequel était lui-même un très grand et habile
chasseur aux mains nues - il y eut une partie de
chasse qui dura trois jours. Pendant ce temps, son
corps était exposé au public afin que sa famille
restreinte et élargie lui rende un dernier hommage.
Au terme des trois jours, les chasseurs aux mains
nues ramenèrent un chacal vivant pour être sacrifié
sur le tululi de chasse comme l’exige les règles de
fonctionnement de cette théurgie: ce n’est qu’à la
suite de cet ultime sacrifice obligatoire qu’on put
procéder à l’enterrement du cadavre.
4 Conclusion
Finalement, cette étude montre au moins un fait
indéniable: la science ni la raison ne savent tout
de la complexité de la structure de notre monde.
Pourtant, l’orgueil de la raison philosophique a
toujours prétendu nous révéler la nature de l’être
par ses méthodes d’investigation, d’interrogation
du réel, ses règles, somme toute finies, d’intelli-
gibilité du monde. Certes, de nos jours, avec le
développement de la physique quantique qui ôte
un coin du voile sur la structure de la matière
dont nous ne saisissons, ne comprenons réellement
qu’une infime partie, rabaisse notre orgueilleuse
raison à un peu d’humilité.
Notre souci, dans l’ensemble de nos enquêtes
sur les univers surnaturels, l’extraordinaire densité
des forces en puissance, est de permettre à notre
science, en l’occurrence, l’anthropologie, d’élargir
les horizons de ses recherches. Elle se définit
elle-même comme la science générale de l’homme.
Dès lors, rien de ce qui est profondément humain
ne doit lui demeurer indifférent, ni résister à sa
volonté de savoir. Car l’irrationnel n’est pas dans
la nature des phénomènes humains visibles ou
invisibles, mais du côté de notre propre raison,
de notre refus à tout comprendre, de notre négli-
gence des pans de la réalité humaine absolument
irréductible aux bornes du monde structuré par nos
débiles sens.
Références citées
Arthus-Bertrand, Yann, et Jacqueline Roumeguère-Eber-
hardt
1984 Les Masaï, guerriers de la savane. Paris: Berger-Le-
vrault.
Balandier, Georges
1957 Afrique ambiguë. Paris: Librairie Plon.
Ballif, Noël
1992 Les Pygmées de la grande forêt. Paris: Editions L’Har-
mattan.
Barley, Nigel
1994 Le retour de l’anthropologue. Paris: Editions Payot.
Beaudoin, Gérard
1984 Les Dogons du Mali. Paris: Armand Colin.
Bognolo, Daniéla
1998 L’enjeu subtil. Le statut de chasseur et de guerrier chez
les Lobi. In: Christiane Falgayrettes-Levau et al., Chas-
seurs et guerriers; pp. 161-186. Paris: Musée Dapper.
Bon, Gilbert, et François-Joseph Nicolas
1953 Grammaire l’Elé (par G. Bon, 7-122). Glossaire l’Elé-
Français (par F.-J. Nicolas, 123-455). Dakar: IFAN.
(Mémoires de l’Institut Français d’Afrique Noire, 24)
Menleau, Michel
1965 Le monde antique I - De la Préhistoire des peuples
de l’Orient classique: les Grecs et l’expansion de leur
civilisation. Paris: Bordas-Laffont.
Mourre, Michel
1996 Dictionnaire encyclopédique d’histoire. Paris: Bordas.
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
1996 Essai sur l’origine des langues. Paris: Editions Hatier.
(Collection “Profil”, 709)
Vergiat, A. M.
1981 Moeurs et coutumes des Manjas. Paris: Editions L’Har-
mattan.
Franz Boas
Burschenschafter und Schwiegersohn
eines österreichischen Revolutionärs
von 1848
Roland Girtler
Als Kulturanthropologe und Kultursoziologe, der
ich ein Anhänger der “teilnehmenden Beobach-
tung” bin, hege ich größte Sympathien für Franz
Boas. Ich verdanke diesem Mann einige Einsich-
ten, die ich in meinem Buch über die “Methoden
der qualitativen Sozialforschung” (1984) verarbei-
tet habe. Auch Boas war der direkte Kontakt zu
den Menschen, deren Leben er erforschen wollte,
wichtig. Ich meine, daß diese Art der Feldfor-
schung nicht nur bei den Eskimos, sondern auch in
der eigenen Kultur mit ihren vielen Randgruppen
und sozialen Nischen Sinn hat.
Franz Boas, dieser große amerikanische Kultur-
anthropologe, war ein Mann von einem weiten
Geist, der herrliche Studien über Indianerstäm-
me Nordamerikas verfaßt hat. Er war also kein
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
573
Schreibtischgelehrter, und er dürfte der einzige
Kulturanthropologe sein, der auf dem Titelbild
von Time, und zwar auf dem vom 11. Mai 1936,
aufscheint.
Mich als Sympathisanten von Franz Boas in-
teressiert seit einiger Zeit die Frage, vor welchem
kulturellen Hintergrund Franz Boas als Kulturwis-
senschaftler zu verstehen ist. Ich beschäftigte mich
daher mit dessen Lebensgeschichte. Und die ist
spannend, sie ist eng mit der deutschen Revolution
von 1848 und mit einem Wiener Revolutionär
verknüpft. Darüber will ich nun berichten.
Herkunft und Wissenschaft
Geboren wurde Franz Boas am 9. Juli 1858 in
Minden, Westfalen. Seine jüdischen Eltern waren
liberale, weltoffene Leute, die sich den Ideen des
Revolutionsjahres 1848 verbunden fühlten. Seine
Mutter unterstützte seine Freude am Pflanzensam-
meln und Klavierspielen, worin er es zu einer be-
trächtlichen Leistung gebracht haben soll. Angetan
hatte es ihm auch sein Onkel Abraham Jakobi, der
ein bekannter 1848er Demokrat und Kinderarzt
war. Er wanderte wie andere Revolutionäre in
die USA aus und gelangte dort zu hohen Ehren.
Vielleicht verdankt Boas diesem Onkel seine Liebe
zu Amerika.
Boas besuchte das Gymnasium in Minden. Zu
seinen Lieblingsfächern gehörten Mathematik und
Geographie, aber auch Latein und Griechisch. Sein
Lieblingsdichter war Homer. Sein Interesse an
fremden Kulturen zeigt sich bereits, als er dreizehn
Jahre alt war. Er schreibt damals seiner Schwester:
“Neue Völker und deren Sitten und Gewohnheiten
möchte ich kennenlernen, auch die schon bekann-
ten Galla-, Kaffern-, Hottentotten-Völker”(zit. in
Weiler 1997: 16).
Nach seinem Abitur in Minden studierte Bo-
as an den Universitäten Heidelberg, Bonn und
Kiel Mathematik, Physik und Geographie. Seine
Doktorarbeit, die er mit 23 Jahren 1881 in Kiel
vorlegte, trug den Titel “Beiträge zur Erkenntnis
der Farbe des Wasser”.
1883 und 1884 nahm Boas schließlich an ei-
ner geographischen Expedition nach Baffinland in
Nordkanada teil. Dort lebt er ein Jahr mit Eski-
mos. Während dieser Forschung entflammt seine
Leidenschaft für die Völkerkunde. Danach kehrt er
wieder nach Deutschland zurück. Er wird Assistent
in der ethnographischen Abteilung der Berliner
Museen. Gefördert wird er von Rudolf Virchow
nnd Adolf Bastian, so daß er sich im Sommer 1885
an der Berliner Universität im Fach Geographie
habilitieren kann. 1887 verläßt Boas Berlin “für
immer”. Er fährt nach Kanada, zu den Indianern
der Nordwestküste. Nun bleibt Boas endgültig
in Amerika. Er bekommt Kontakte zu bekannten
Professoren. 1889 wird er schließlich Professor an
der Columbia Universität in New York. Boas war
ungemein fleißig, bis ins hohe Alter schreibt er
Bücher und Artikel. Er kam insgesamt auf über
6000 Veröffentlichungen.
Seine Forschungen brachten Boas hohes wis-
senschaftliches Ansehen ein, das schließlich dazu
führte, daß ein Berg bzw. ein Gletscher auf Baf-
finland und ein Fluß auf Southhampton-Island im
Norden der Hudsonbay nach ihm benannt wurden.
Die Burschenschaft Alemannia zu Bonn
In einem Aufsatz über Boas überraschte mich die
Feststellung, er hätte Narben im Gesicht gehabt.
Den Studenten, die ihn darauf ansprachen, soll er
scherzhaft erwidert haben, diese Narben hätte er
durch “Prankenhiebe der Bären erhalten, denen
er auf Baffinland begegnet” sei. “Tatsächlich”,
so heißt es in dem Artikel, “hatte er sie [die
Narben] bei Duellen erhalten, die er auf Grund
der Feindschaft zwischen den Korporationen an
der Universität führte ... [Er] war nicht gewillt,
die oftmals antisemitischen Beschimpfungen der
Korpsstudenten hinzunehmen” (Kardiner und Pre-
ble 1974: 138).
Boas gehörte demnach einer Burschenschaft
an, einer der alten, auf die Freiheitskriege ge-
gen Napoleon zurückgehenden Studentenverbin-
dungen, die schließlich 1848 auch zu den Trägern
der deutschen Revolution gehörten, die für Frei-
heitsrechte und gegen die Allmacht der Fürsten
kämpften. Die meisten von ihnen waren Republi-
kaner und bekämpften die Monarchie. Sie waren
deutschnational im Sinne einer deutschen Republik
- und nicht im Sinne eines deutschen Imperia-
lismus - ausgerichtet. Allerdings kam es später
in nicht wenigen Burschenschaften leider auch zu
antisemitischen Strömungen und Sympathien für
den Nationalsozialismus.
Da mich die oben zitierte Feststellung erstaunte,
ging ich daran, die Beziehung von Boas zu seiner
Burschenschaft näher zu durchleuchten. Dabei sah
ich, daß diese eine sehr intensive gewesen sein
muß. Es war sein Vetter Willi Meyer, der ebenfalls
aus Minden stammte, der Boas, als er Student
in Bonn wurde, zur Burschenschaft Alemannia
brachte. Es ist bemerkenswert, daß Willi Meyer,
nachdem er Medizin studiert hatte, als Arzt in
die USA aus wanderte, wo er es zum Professor
Anthropos 96.2001
574
Berichte und Kommentare
der Chirurgie brachte. Von 1887 bis 1923 war er
leitender Chirurg am Deutschen Hospital in New
York. An diesem Hospital war übrigens auch Dr.
Krackowizer, der Schwiegervater von Franz Boas,
tätig. Meyer starb 1930. Franz Boas schrieb ihm
einen Nachruf in der Zeitung der Burschenschaft
(Bonner Alemannen-Zeitung 13: 32 f.).
Jedenfalls muß das Leben von Boas als Bur-
schenschafter ein heiteres gewesen sein. Darauf
verweist ein Bild, das Boas mit Mütze und Band,
den Symbolen der Studentenverbindung, inmitten
seiner Kommilitonen auf einem Faß sitzend zeigt.
Auf dem Faß ist der berühmte “§ 11” festgehal-
ten, der nach altem Bierkomment der Studenten
bedeutet: “Es wird fortgesoffen”. Boas blieb bis
zum Herbst 1879, also vier Semester, in Bonn.
In dieser Zeit hat er mehrmals gefochten. Ein
“Zieher”, wie man eine lange Narbe quer über
die Wange zu nennen pflegte, und andere Narben
an seiner linken Wange künden davon. Für sein
munteres Studentenleben zeugt, daß Boas nicht
nur Schriftwart der Burschenschaft, sondern sogar
ihr Kneipwart war, ein Amt, dem es oblag, sich
um den rituellen Ablauf der Kneipen, wie man
die gemeinsamen Zechgelage der Bundesbrüder
nannte, zu kümmern.
Es ist wohl hier noch zu erwähnen, daß Boas
nach seiner Promotion in Kiel im Jahre 1881 ein
Jahr freiwillig beim Militär war. Danach bereitete
er sich auf seine erste, oben bereits erwähnte
Expedition vor (Kroeber 1959).
Maria Krackowizer und ihr revolutionärer Vater
Unmittelbar nach seiner Promotion im Jahre 1881
reiste Boas auf Einladung seines Onkels Jacobi
durch den Harz. Dabei lernte er auch seine spätere
Frau Maria Krackowizer, die Tochter des nach
den USA geflohenen österreichischen Revolutio-
närs Ernst Krackowizer, der damals schon tot
war, kennen und lieben. Er verlobte sich mit ihr
etwas später “heimlich”. 1887 heiratete er Maria
in New York. Die Ehe, die Boas mit Maria führte,
muß eine glückliche gewesen sein. Das Familien-
leben war am Deutschtum ausgerichtet, ebenso wie
die privaten Kontakte von Boas in New York.
Zu Hause wurde deutsch gesprochen. Ihm war
es wichtig, daß seine Familie, zu der fünf Enkel
gehörten, dem Deutschtum gegenüber offen war.
Boas war in den USA nicht nur ein großen Wis-
senschaftler, sondern auch ein großer deutscher
Patriot, ganz im Stile der alten Burschenschaften.
Für ihn war, wie er schreibt, “ein deutsches Haus
prägend, in dem die Ideale der Revolution von
1848 lebendig waren”. Daher entsprach Maria den
Vorstellungen von Boas, da sie aus einer deutsch
eingestellten Familie kam. Und außerdem hatte ihr
Vater Dr. Ernst Krackowizer an der Revolution
von 1848 in Wien als Hauptmann der Akademi-
schen Legion teilgenommen. Krackowizer war ein
interessanter Mann. Boas hat ihn leider persönlich
nie kennengelernt, er hatte jedoch höchste Achtung
vor ihm. Geboren wurde Krackowizer 1821 in
dem oberösterreichischen Dorf Spital am Pyhrn als
Sohn des kaiserlichen Pflegers. (Dies ist gerade für
mich, den Autor dieses Artikels, interessant, da ich
als Sohn von Landärzten ebenso in diesem Dorf
aufgewachsen bin.) Er besuchte das Stiftsgymna-
sium zu Kremsmünster und studierte in Wien und
Pavia Medizin.
Krackowizer mußte nach der Niederschlagung
der Revolution in die USA fliehen. Als großer
Kritiker des habsburgischen Regimes wurde er
steckbrieflich gesucht. In einem im Auftrag des
Innenministeriums von der oberösterreichischen
Statthalterei angelegten “Verzeichnis derjenigen
Personen, welche wegen ihrer politischen Bedenk-
lichkeit die Aufmerksamkeit der Aufsichtsbehören
in Oberösterreich seit den letzten Jahren beson-
ders auf sich gezogen haben, welche sich aber
gegenwärtig nicht mehr in Oberösterreich befin-
den” vom 11. März 1852 wird Krackowizer unter
der Nummer 14 so aufgeführt: “Krackowizer Dor.
Med. derzeit ausübender Arzt zu Wilhelmsburg
bei New York in Nordamerika. Derselbe ist von
Vöcklabruck in Oberösterreich und seine Mutter
wohnt gegenwärtig in Steyr. Er wurde im Jahr
1848 als Assistent im allgemeinen Krankenhaus
in Wien Commandant einer mobilen Compagnie
und hat sich bei der Belagerung von Wien schwer
kompromittiert, weshalb er mit Steckbriefen ver-
folgt wurde und sich nach Amerika flüchtete. Sehr
gefährlich “ (zit. nach Haider 2000: 94). In Ame-
rika sah er die “Hauptgrundsätze des Sozialismus”
in einer Weise verwirklicht, “wie man in Europa
gar nicht ahne”. Krackowizer war angetan von der
Demokratie in Amerika, allerdings begegnete er
der Sklaverei mit Abscheu, er betrachtete sie als
eine “Institution, die von gewissenlosen Schurken
ins Leben gerufen” wurde (Haider 2000: 99).
Krackowizer hinterließ bemerkenswerte Briefe,
die er während der Revolution von 1848 und nach
dieser auf seiner Flucht nach den USA geschrieben
hat. Veröffentlicht wurden diese Briefe von seinem
Enkel, dem Sohn von Franz Boas, Ernst P. Boas,
im Journal ofthe History ofMedicine und in einem
Buch von S. Haider mit dem Titel “Berichte aus
der Neuen Welt” (Linz 2000).
Seine Braut, Emilie Förster, eine Oberösterrei-
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
575
cherin aus Steyr, folgte ihm 1851 nach. In New
York wurde Krackowizer Mitglied der “Patholog-
ical Society” und gründete dort mit Kollegen
das Deutsche Hospital. Während des amerikani-
schen Bürgerkrieges diente Krackowizer als Ge-
neralinspektor der Militärspitäler auf der Seite der
Nordstaaten, und bei mindestens zwei Schlach-
ten betätigte er sich als Feldchirurg. Er soll den
Kehlkopfspiegel in den USA bekannt gemacht
haben. Krackowizer war ein glühender Republi-
kaner, Gegner der Sklaverei und großer Verehrer
Abraham Lincolns. Gestorben ist Krackowizer, der
künftige Schwiegervater von Franz Boas, 1875 in
New York, nur 54 Jahre alt.
Die Treue zu Deutschland und zur Burschenschaft
Das Geschick Deutschlands lag Boas nach dem
1. Weltkrieg sehr am Herzen. Von Amerika aus
versuchte er sein Bestes für Deutschland. Seine
Treue zu Deutschland zeigt sich bei Boas darin,
daß er nach dem 1. Weltkrieg, als Deutschland
am Boden lag, in den USA die Sache Deutsch-
lands vertrat. Er versicherte, daß er “ebenso wie
jeder Deutsche das tiefste Unrecht empfindet,
das Deutschland angetan worden ist” und “ein
Deutschland frei von äußerer und innerer Knecht-
schaft ersehnt”.
Wegen der seiner Meinung ungerechten Be-
handlung Deutschlands nach dem 1. Weltkrieg
wandte sich Boas in Leserbriefen an die Öffent-
lichkeit. Er war entrüstet über die Bedingungen des
Versailler Vertrages und gab in weiser Voraussicht
zu bedenken, daß “die Friedensbedingungen nicht
den Keim zukünftiger Kriege beinhalten dürften”
(Kasten 1992: 29).
Davon kündet auch ein Brief, den Boas 1921
in der Juni-Nummer der Zeitung seiner Bur-
schenschaft, der Alemannen-Zeitung, veröffent-
lichte. Zur damaligen Zeit hatte viele junge Akade-
miker die Lust ergriffen, dem im Elend liegenden
Deutschland den Rücken zuzukehren und nach den
USA auszuwandern. Einem solchen jungen Kol-
legen, einem gewissen Dr. G. Wolf in Chemnitz,
versucht er die Problematik der Auswanderung,
die zum Nachteil Deutschlands ist, klar zu machen:
Lieber Herr Doktor!
Ich kann Ihren Wunsch verstehen, Ihr Heil in der Fremde
zu suchen. Scheint doch die heutige wirtschaftliche Lage
Deutschlands es fast unmöglich zu machen, Ihr Können
zum Besten der Wissenschaft mit Erfolg zu verwenden.
Obwohl ich ganz mit Ihnen darin übereinstimme, daß die
Wissenschaft keine nationale Grenzen kennt und nur
im Dienste der Erforschung der Wahrheit stehen soll,
kann ich doch Ihren Wunsch nicht billigen. Es fragt
sich für Sie, wo Sie durch Ihr Wissen und Können am
Fruchtbarsten wirken können; und da scheint mir die
unzweifelhafte Antwort zu sein: In der Heimat, die der
Hilfe aller derer bedarf, die über Vorzüge des Geistes
und des Charakters verfügen. Das geistige Leben der
Menschheit verlangt von Ihnen, daß Sie Deutschland
nicht geistig verarmen lassen, und das Aufgeben des
Vaterlandes in jetziger Zeit, von jedem, der etwas zu lei-
sten imstande ist, bedeutet nicht nur einen unersetzlichen
Verlust für Deutschland, sondern auch einen Verlust
für die Menschheit ... Welche hohen Aufgaben stehen
Ihnen zu Hause bevor! Wenn Sie auch mit geringen
Hilfsmitteln arbeiten, dürfen Sie doch erwarten, daß Ihre
Bereitschaft, der Wissenschaft unter schwierigen ökono-
mischen Verhältnissen zu dienen, reiche Früchte tragen
wird ...
Die wahre Größe zeigt sich in der Überwindung
äußerer Widerstände ... Wenn dem Staate wegen der
Bürden, die ihm auferlegt sind und die er nicht ab-
schütteln kann, die Mittel versagt sind, die Erziehung
genügend zu pflegen ..., dann ist es Ihre Aufgabe, diese
Hemmnisse zu überwinden und zwar dadurch, daß Sie
die Erziehung und Forschung, die der Staat nicht aus-
reichend pflegen kann, selbständig machen. Der Drang
nach Wissen ist so heiß wie je, und der junge Mann
ist stets zu Opfern bereit, um sich zu vervollkommnen
und zum Kampfe fürs Leben auszurüsten. Verlangen
Sie von jedem, daß er als Ersatz für das Recht auf
eine Erziehung, die seinen Anlagen entspricht, einen
entsprechenden Teil seiner produktiven Kraft widmet,
und Sie werden sich zum großen Teile von dem Zwange
der Verhältnisse befreien.
Mein Zweck ist, Ihnen zu zeigen, daß Ihnen, dem
jungen Gelehrten, der Sie Jahre ihres Lebens dem
Kampf für das Vaterland gewidmet haben, wichtige
Aufgaben zufallen, die lösbar sind und die Sie berufen
sind zu lösen und denen Sie sich nicht entziehen dürfen.
Haben Sie Mut! Dann wird sich auch der Weg finden,
der aus dem Elend der Gegenwart zu einer glücklichen
Zukunft führt
Ihr aufrichtig ergebener Franz Boas.
Seine Treue zur Burschenschaft wird in zwei
Aufsätzen der Alemannen-Zeitung deutlich. So er-
scheint in der Nummer 4 vom Juli/August 1924
der Bericht eines gewissen L. Aschoff, der im Juni
1924 als wissenschaftlicher Vortragender einige
Universitätsstädte der USA aufsuchte. Von New
York meint er, daß dort seine zwei treuen (!)
Bundesbrüder Franz Boas und Willy Meyer sich
“rührend” um ihn gesorgt hätten.
Und in der Alemannen-Zeitung vom Okto-
ber 1998 schreibt Franz Kerkhof: “Vom Septem-
ber 1932 bis August 1934 studierte ich in den
USA am Amherst-College in Amherst, Massachu-
setts, als Stipendiat des Deutschen Akademi-
schen Austauschdienstes (DAAD). Amherst liegt
etwa 200 km nördlich von New York City. Nach
Vnthropos 96.2001
576
Berichte und Kommentare
meinen Notizen aus der damaligen Zeit fuhr ich
am 17. Dezember 1932 zur Weihnachtskneipe der
Vereinigung Alter Burschenschafter und Lands-
mannschafter in New York City. Es gab viel Bier
(z.Z. der Prohibition) und Altes Haus Boas be-
zahlte alles, wenn er auch des schlechten Wetters
wegen selbst nicht teilnahm ... Es wurden deut-
sche Lieder gesungen, Reden gehalten und neue
deutsche Witze erzählt ... Am Sonntag darauf
habe ich Boas in seinem Haus besucht und war
tief beeindruckt, wie er - der schon vor vielen
Jahren nach den USA immigriert war - in seinem
Hause das Deutschtum bewahrte. Er reiste etwa
jährlich nach Deutschland per Schiff... Er brachte
seinen Enkeln regelmäßig deutsche Kinderbücher
und deutsche Grammophonplatten mit und sang
mit ihnen deutsche Lieder. Boas war in erster Linie
ein Deutscher ...” . Mit resignierenden Worten
endet Kerkhof seinen Bericht: “Seine Bücher wur-
den später von nationalsozialistischen Studenten
verbrannt”.
Boas als Gegner des Nationalsozialismus
Boas, ein Gegner jedes Rassismus und jeder Er-
niedrigung anderer Kulturen, verurteilte den Weg
des Nationalsozialismus. Seine Empörung stieg,
als er mehr und mehr von den Aktivitäten der
NSDAP hörte, besonders von denen an den Uni-
versitäten. Und es traf ihn, daß in Deutschland
Deutsche wie er aufgrund ihrer jüdischen Abstam-
mung nicht mehr als Deutsche gesehen und degra-
diert wurden. Er meinte daher: “Ich bin deutscher
als viele Deutsche deutscher Abstammung. Die
Herren können sagen, was sie wollen, ich bin ein
Deutscher, auch wenn meine Großeltern gläubige
Juden waren”.
Als Deutscher schrieb Boas 1933 einen “of-
fenen” Brief an den deutschen Reichspräsidenten
Hindenburg, den ich hier auszugsweise wiederge-
ben will:
... Während des Weltkrieges verlangten die perfiden
Verleumdungen Deutschlands ein Heraustreten aus der
Stille des Gelehrtenlebens, und ich darf mich rühmen,
daß zu einer Zeit, als die meisten Deutsch-Amerikaner
sich ängstlich verkrochen und nicht einmal deutsch
zu sprechen wagten, ich einer der wenigen war, die
mit Wort und Schrift dem Lügengewebe entgegentraten
und die ihren deutschen Ursprung nicht zu leugnen
suchten ... Und wo liegt der Unterschied zwischen
dem extremen Links und dem extremen Rechts? Es
gibt wohl kaum jemand in Deutschland, der nicht auf
das Tiefste das Unrecht empfindet, das Deutschland
geschehen ist ... Wo liegt der Weg zur Rettung? Die
einen verlangen eine Entwicklung des Nationalgefühls
... Bei der herrschenden Partei (NSDAP) ist dieser
Gedanke ja grundlegend, aber warum macht der vor
den Deutschen Tirols halt, die am schwersten zu lei-
den haben ... Ich bin jüdischer Abstammung, aber im
Fühlen und Denken bin ich Deutscher. Was verdanke
ich meinem Elternhause? Pflichtgefühl, Treue und den
Drang, die Wahrheit ehrlich zu suchen. Wenn dies eines
Deutschen unwürdig ist, wenn Unfläterei, Gemeinheit,
Unduldsamkeit, Ungerechtigkeit, Lüge heutzutage als
deutsch angesehen werden, wer mag dann noch ein
Deutscher sein. Ich habe mich immer mit Stolz einen
Deutschen genannt, heute ist es fast so gekommen,
daß ich sagen muß, ich schäme mich, ein Deutscher
zu sein. Glauben Sie, daß ich eine Flagge achten kann,
deren Symbol für mich eine persönliche Beleidigung
ist, die mich und meine Eltern zu beschmutzen sucht?
Und trotz alledem kann ich die Hoffnung nicht aufge-
ben, daß die Zeiterscheinungen Fiebersymptome eines
kranken Volkskörpers sind, der, obwohl auf das Tiefste
verwundet, genesen wird, daß eine Zeit kommen wird, in
der das Deutschland, das ich liebe (!), wieder entstehen
wird. Möge der Tag der Genesung kommen!
Ihr aufrichtig ergebener Franz Boas.
Columbia University, New York City, den 27. März
1933.
Der Brief der Burschenschaft für Boas
Boas war also durch den Nationalsozialismus tief
getroffen und beleidigt. Aus den Vereinen wurden
Juden entfernt, auch die Burschenschaften standen
unter dem Druck, ihre jüdischen Mitglieder hin-
auswerfen zu müssen. Dabei ergaben sich große
Probleme, denn oft bestanden zwischen den Bun-
desbrüdern sehr enge Beziehungen. Daher wollte
man auch in der Bonner Burschenschaft Aleman-
nia den Bundesbruder Franz Boas nicht verlieren.
Davon kündet ein Brief, den der Bundesleiter
der Burschenschaft Alemannia, Rechtsanwalt Dr.
Bonhage, am 21. Mai 1935 an den “Sprecher der
Alten Burschenschaft” Dr. K. Hoppmann schrieb.
Offensichtlich hatte dieser Herr mit der Frage des
Hinauswurfs von jüdischen Burschenschaftern aus
ihren Bünden zu tun. In diesem Brief heißt es:
Sehr geehrter Herr Hoppmann!
Als Bundesleiter meiner Burschenschaft und unter Be-
zugnahme auf Ihr Schreiben vom 14. d.Mts., sowie den
Beschluß der Bundesleitertagung der Alten Burschen-
schaft in Frankfurt a.M. vom 12. Mai 1935 bitte ich hier-
mit, bei der für eine solche Entscheidung zuständigen
Instanz zu beantragen, daß meinem Bundesbruder Dr.
Franz Boas aus Grantwood, New Jersey, 230 Franklin
Av., USA, das Verbleiben in der Burschenschaft Ale-
mannia zu Bonn gestattet wird.
Zur Begründung tragen wir folgendes vor:
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
577
Herr Prof. Dr. Boas ist geboren am 8.7.58 in Minden
als Sohn eines dortigen Kaufmanns. Er ist Volljude. Seit
der Mitte der 80er Jahres des vergangenen Jahrhunderts
lebt er in Amerika. Er ist heute 77 Jahre alt.
Herr Professor Boas ist Professor für Anthropologie
an der Columbia Universität in New York und zur
Zeit einer der ersten und angesehensten Rasseforscher
Amerikas. Er war einer der wenigen, die noch während
des Krieges öffentlich für Deutschland zu reden wagten.
Er wurde bekannt durch sein Eintreten für den zu Zucht-
hausstrafe verurteilten deutschen Generalkonsul Bänz.
Nach dem Kriege gehörte er zu den Wiederbegründem
der Germanistic Society.
Er begründete persönlich eine Hilfsaktion für die
deutschen Bibliotheken und sammelte jahrelang in mü-
hevoller Kleinarbeit große Mittel zu diesem Zwecke und
zwar in kleinen und kleinsten Beträgen von wenigen
Dollars, da große Geldgeber für Deutschland noch nicht
vorhanden waren. Die von ihm gesammelten Gelder
verteilte er zuerst persönlich, später durch Vermittlung
der inzwischen begründeten Notgemeinschaft für die
Deutsche Wissenschaft. Wegen seiner Verdienste um
das Deutschtum wurde er von seiner früheren Uni-
versität Bonn zum Ehrenbürger ernannt. Während der
Deutschenhetze nach dem Kriege war er behilflich,
deutschfreundliche Artikel, insbesondere Artikel gegen
die Besatzungsgreuel in den Rheinlanden, in der Nation
zu veröffentlichen, einer in Amerika viel gelesenen und
bedeutenden Wochenschrift.
Mit altburschenschaftlichem Gruß und
Heil Hitler!
Dr. Bonhage
Bundesleiter
Obwohl seine Bundesbrüder sich für ihn einset-
zen, ist Franz Boas durch den sich in Deutsch-
land breitmachenden Antisemitismus zutiefst ge-
troffen. Wahrscheinlich um seiner Burschenschaft
keine Schwierigkeiten zu machen, tritt Boas 1935
aus dieser aus, obwohl sich seine Bundesbrü-
der ihm eng verbunden fühlten, wovon dieser
Brief zeugt. Jedenfalls fühlte sich Franz Boas von
dem Deutschland, das er geliebt hat, betrogen. Er
schreibt 1933 dazu: “Für jemand, der ein so starkes
Heimatgefühl hat wie ich, ist dies alles schwer
zu tragen”. Und um 1940 hält Boas fest: “Das
was ich tue, tue ich aus Liebe zu Deutschland
und in der Überzeugung, daß der Wahnsinn, der
sich des Volks bemächtigt hat, nicht dauern kann”.
Sein Deutschtum, das er mit in die USA nahm,
bedeutete ihm viel; mit diesem verband er die
Ideale von Freiheit und Demokratie, wie sie im
Jahre 1848 erkämpft wurden.
Enttäuscht von Deutschland, dem seine Liebe
gehörte, stirbt Boas am 21. Dezember 1942 bei
einem Festessen, so wie man es von ihm erwartet
hatte: in den Schuhen und nicht im Bett.
Mein Dank gilt Herren der Burschenschaft Alemannia
zu Bonn, die mir die zitierten Briefe und Aufsätze
zukommen ließen.
Zitierte Literatur
Cole, Douglas
1994 Franz Boas. Ein Wissenschaftler und Patriot zwischen
zwei Ländern. In: V. Rodekamp (Hrsg.), Franz Boas
1858-1942. Ein amerikanischer Anthropologe aus Min-
den; pp. 9-23. Bielefeld: Verlag für Regionalgeschichte.
(Texte und Materialien aus dem Mindener Museum, 11)
Girtler, Roland
1984 Methoden der qualitativen Sozialforschung. Anleitung
zur Feldarbeit. Wien: Hermann Böhlaus Nachf. Gesell-
schaft.
Haider, Siegfried
2000 Berichte aus der Neuen Welt. Linz: OÖLA. (Quellen
zur Geschichte Oberösterreichs, 5)
Kardiner, Abraham, und Edward Preble
1974 Wegbereiter der modernen Anthropologie. Frankfurt:
Suhrkamp. (Suhrkamp-Taschenbuch, 165)
Kasten, Erich
1992 Franz Boas: Ein engagierter Wissenschaftler in der
Auseinandersetzung mit seiner Zeit. In: M. Dürr, E. Ka-
sten und E. Renner (Hrsg.), Franz Boas. Ethnologe
- Anthropologe - Sprachwissenschaftler. Ein Wegbe-
reiter der modernen Wissenschaft vom Menschen. Aus-
stellung der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin - Preußischer
Kulturbesitz, 17. Dezember 1992 - 6. März 1993; pp. 7-
37. Wiesbaden: Reichert. (Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin -
Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Ausstellungskataloge, 4)
Kroeber, Alfred L.
1959 Franz Boas, the Man. American Anthropologist, New
Series Memoirs 61/5: 5-26.
Püschel, Erich
1983 Franz Boas (1958-1942), Amerikas großer Ethnologe,
als deutscher Student und Assistent. Zum 125. Geburts-
tag. Curare 6: 81-84.
Weiler, Bernd
1997 Die Kulturanthropologie von Franz Boas im ideenge-
schichtlichen und wissenssoziologischen Kontext. Graz.
[Unveröffentl. Diplomarbeit]
Franz Boas. The Early Years
A Review Article
Erich Kasten
It is not an easy matter to edit a posthumous manu-
script, a duty which fell to Douglas Cole’s former
collaborators Ira Chaikin and Alex Long, after his
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Berichte und Kommentare
death in 1997.1 And it is an even more delicate
task for the reviewer to comment and to do justice
to certain points in this book which the author
might have revised or might have put differently
in its final draft. Unfortunately, the comprehensive
picture, that Cole wanted to draw of Franz Boas’
life and work must remain fragmentary, as this
book is only the first of an originally planned
two-volume biography. In this first volume, Cole
profiles “the character of Boas, exploring his am-
bitions, motivations, cultural roots, and personal
struggles” (viii) during his most formative years,
until he left his post as a curator at the American
Museum of Natural History in New York in 1906.
For Cole, this marks a decisive point in Boas’s
life, when finally “the leaf had turned” and Boas
secured a more established career as a professor
at Columbia University and commenced a more
settled life in his new Grantwood home. Important
events and activities in Boas’s later life, until
his death in 1942, are not touched upon or even
referred to in this book which leaves a number of
questions open for the reader.
One of them, for example, is the striking
contrast in Boas’s commitment to social issues and
politics in those two periods of his life - if one
follows Cole’s argument that such concerns were
“almost entirely absent from his writings, public
and private” (278) during his early years, whereas
others see Boas and his students as “founders
of anti-racism and cultural relativism, [which]
brought the United States into a new era” (3).
Although roots of his increasing involvement in
the political debate - probably triggered by Boas’s
struggles in dealing with his personal German
identity crisis during later disastrous political de-
velopments in his home country - can be traced by
the reader of this biography even to his early years.
To explore and to better understand this significant
shift in Boas’s orientation from initially focusing
narrowly upon academic issues to becoming more
of a social and political activist in his later years
certainly would have been one of the most exciting
issues in Boas’s biography - and possibly this was
one of the more demanding tasks to be reserved
for Cole’s planned second volume.
The book is divided into 17 chapters, each
entitled with a quote from his personal papers
which highlights Boas’s general sentiment at a
given period of his life. These Boas family papers,
1 Cole, Douglas: Franz Boas. The Early Years, 1858-1906.
Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre; Seattle: University of
Washington Press, 1999. 360 pp. 48 photos. ISBN 1-55054-
746-1; ISBN 0-295-97903-8. Price: $ 50.00
housed at the American Philosophical Society in
Philadelphia, form the nexus of this biography.
Among its 60,000 items, particularly the volu-
minous and quite personal correspondence with
his parents and his wife shed light into Boas’s
own reflections on his life and work. It is Cole’s
significant contribution, to have for the first time
systematically investigated this invaluable material
over the period of 17 years, since he - during his
research into Northwest Coast history and culture -
inevitably must have crossed Boas’s path and
obviously was not left without fascination for the
man behind the work.
In the first chapter “‘My Old, Good Home-
town’: Minden, Westphalia,” Cole meticulously
pieces together Franz Boas’s family background,
spanning even his grandparents and close family
friends who - after emigration to America - at
times played a major role in Franz Boas’s later
career. According to Cole, Boas was born into
a typical segment of 19th century German Jew-
ry, which was eager to integrate Jewish identity
with German nationality and which strived to
assimilate the enlightened culture of that century’s
“Bildungsbiirgertum.” Such upbringing and later
encounters with anti-Semitism during his student
years in Berlin kept Boas sensitive to his Jewish-
ness, while throughout his life considering himself
above all to be an “ethnic” German, preserving and
promoting German culture and values in America.
“What Claim Can Someone Like Me Have
upon Fame?” hints at Boas’s ambitions which al-
ready became apparent in his boyhood years. Even
at the age of fifteen he was determined to “rise
above others” and to become “really famous”
as it “would be terrible if I had to spend my life
unknown and unregarded” (28). His developing
broad interests in science and literature and his
less impressive performance at school lead Cole to
conclude that “much of Franz’s Bildung ... was
formed outside the school curriculum, the result of
his own intellectual and emotional curiosity” (32).
“One Learns to Be Content” reviews Boas’s
university years. At different universities - Heidel-
berg, Bonn, and Kiel - he pursued his early inter-
ests in physics and other natural sciences, although
never being content with this alone, nor being
satisfied with his dissertation, the findings of which
meant “nothing special” to him. The challenge of
“Allgemeinbildung” was still with him, and he saw
the danger of becoming one-sided (49). Through
encounters with leading German philosophers of
that time he became increasingly convinced “that
my previous materialistic Weltanschauung was no
longer tenable” (56). Instead he began to share
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579
the German philosophical concern, current at the
time, that genuine knowledge must be universal.
Eventually he embraced geography because of its
interdisciplinary character. A recurrent theme from
Boas’s student years is his deeply felt loneliness,
which made him join the “Burschenschaft” Ale-
mannia, a student fraternity. This meant company,
but also at least five duels which left Boas with a
scarred face for the rest of his life. This experience
of ritual scarring and being “a participant in a tribal
sub-culture of German student life” (62) might
have prepared him for later encounters with Kwa-
kiutl Hamatsa bites or Eskimo tattooing, involving
similar concepts of honour and retribution as in the
respective native clan groups.
“I Belong to the Men of Arnanitung” describes
Boas’s careful preparations for his research on
Baffin Island and what were to be mixed first
fieldwork experiences in the Arctic. This was
the realisation of his boyhood dream, although
living conditions and intense loneliness left almost
traumatic memories with him, having looked for
the first time “into hell” (the second time was to
be when he became unemployed in 1894). But it
was a crucial period in his life, which caused him
to revise some of his earlier assumptions about
the role of the environment in determining hu-
man behaviour. His immersion among the Eskimo
made him more concerned with the mental life of
the people with whom he lived for over one year.
Although Boas did not cease to be a geographer,
he now began to see ethnology as “more pressing”
(81).
“How Depressing It Is” depicts Boas’s struggles
tom between America and Germany and seeking
a way of improving his prospects and uncertain
future. Because of his strong desire to marry his
fiancée, Marie Krackowizer, in New York he was
more inclined towards an American career. But
two lectures at Columbia University turned out to
be a disaster because of his inadequate command
of the English language - which meant a depress-
ing exit from his first American sojourn. His dis-
couraging failures in America repeated themselves
in Germany, where invitations to lecture did not
turn into job offers. Even his controversial and
humiliating habilitation procedure solved little in
this regard. Although the winter of 1885-86 spent
in Berlin was, according to Cole, “pivotal to his
future. Partly by inclination, but partly also by
chance and opportunity, Boas was increasingly
becoming an anthropologist” (94 f.), while he was
Working temporarily as an assistant to Adolf Bas-
tian at the Royal Ethnological Museum. Less the
acquaintance with Bastian himself, but the inspi-
ration of his colleagues and new friends Albert
Griinwedel, Wilhelm Grube, and Felix von Lu-
schan made the Berlin museum into an “anthropo-
logical hothouse.” Having worked with a touring
group of Bella Coola Indians, Boas was overjoyed
to develop something new beyond his “eternal”
Eskimo, to expand his breadth as an Americanist
which would make him more marketable in the
new world (97).
“The Whole Field Lies before Me” reflects
Boas’s initial optimism at launching a quick Amer-
ican career, after having received a 2-year assign-
ment as a Science editor in New York, which
finally allowed him to marry. Although Boas
deepened his interest and expertise on Northwest
Coast Indian culture by means of several research
trips, all his aspiration during these first years in
America proved abortive: his ambitions simply
“overreached what was realizable for a young new-
comer,” but “American science was prepared to
offer opportunities for apprenticeship to a qualified
and industrious European” (119 f.)-
“An Ardent Desire to Remove Obscurity” lets
Cole pause to examine some of Boas’s ideas and
concerns up to this date, before he began working
at Clark University in 1889. Cole sees the most
important change during these years not in the
move from geography to anthropology, but in a
decisive shift in his basic approach to both fields.
The collapse of Boas’s posited connection between
the external world and human behaviour, after
his Eskimo research, threw him into a person-
al intellectual crisis, into a period of “tortured”
thought and “severe mental struggles” (122). The
solution for him was to make his new field of
geography an entirely “historical” discipline. Es-
pecially after his first trip to the Northwest Coast,
his historicism became Boas’s leading principle -
a conviction, which brought him his first fierce
academic battle on anthropological method with
Otis T. Mason. Cole makes it clear that Boas was
discussing method by attacking deduction, but not
evolutionary theory itself (129), as he also did
most often in later debates. Even when dealing
with diffusion, one of the great questions in the
ethnology of the 1880s, and making his strong
points on relativism - to contest the subjectivity
of Western society - Boas was, according to Cole,
“searching for methods while practicing research
strategies” (135).
“The Idea Is Better than the Execution” covers
Boas’s years as lecturer at Clark University (1889—
1892). Boas’s personal papers reveal what kind
of a challenge it must have meant to him, suffering
from the worst “Lampenfieber,” stage fright, of his
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580
Berichte und Kommentare
life, and feeling strange and insecure for the first
weeks, as well as believing he had lectured badly
(138). But he enjoyed the opportunity to “learn
again” during his practical in physical anthropolo-
gy, which was to become a more dominant issue in
his research and work at Clark University. Again,
he was thrilled at the stimulating environment and
the new friends he made among his colleagues,
whom he missed badly after he left Clark in dis-
content together with most other faculty members.
“All Our Ships Have Gone Aground” describes
the most frustrating outcome of Boas’s involve-
ment in setting up anthropological exhibitions for
the 1893 Chicago World Fair. When the exhibition
later become part of the Chicago Field Columbian
Museum, not Boas but William Henry Holmes
was appointed as director of the anthropological
department. This was perceived by Boas as an
“unsurpassed insult” (160) - which in 1894 left
him, 35 years old and a father of two children, once
again unemployed. In Cole’s judgement, Chica-
go’s preference for Holmes was entirely justifiable
on scientific and museum grounds. For Cole, Boas
was not so much “excluded from the network
of personal and institutional loyalties that largely
controlled entrance and advancement in American
anthropology” - as it was seen by others - “as
not yet fully incorporated” - and there was simply
no other place for a runner-up like him (166).
“I Have Looked into Hell” describes Boas’s
mood during those years, when he was - by the
summer of 1894 - exhausted and near nervous
collapse. Short-term contract work with the Amer-
ican Museum of Natural History in New York and
with the National Museum in Washington kept
him afloat, and he was able to secure support to
continue his fieldwork on the Northwest Coast. In
particular, staying with the Kwakiutl at Ft. Rupert
for the time of their winter ceremonies that year,
turned out to be one of the most intense and
richest periods of his Northwest Coast work, which
gave him great satisfaction. After another trip to
Germany, in 1895, Boas’s future looked somewhat
brighter: a joint appointment at the American
Museum of Natural History and at Columbia Uni-
versity was offered to him - which Boas, after his
usual quarrels over rank and authority eventually
accepted.
“The Greatest Thing Undertaken by Any Mu-
seum” quite properly addresses some of Boas’s
activities at the museum during the following
years. In 1897 Boas proposed a systematic eth-
nological and archaeological investigation of both
sides of the North Pacific which soon would
become the Jesup North Pacific Expedition - as the
museum president Morris K. Jesup’s imagination
was immediately struck by the great problem of
Asian-American contacts. The roots of this project
went back to 1895 when Boas had already sounded
out Berlin people with a view to possible fieldwork
in the Amur region. Part of the impetus came
from Boas’s having completed for publication
his “Indianische Sagen” that year. Together with
what he had already learnt from G.W. Steller on
the peoples in Kamchatka and from an article
on shamanism of the Nanai he was struck by
obvious similarities to what he had already seen
and experienced on the Northwest Coast. Boas
developed a detailed scheme, employing other
young researchers to do most of the fieldwork on
the American side, while the Siberian part turned
out to be more difficult to organize - although with
Laufer, Jochelson, and Bogoras he eventually did
find qualified people for the task.
“A Certain Work Lies before Me Here” reflects
Boas’s vision of how to organize anthropology in
New York. The Jesup North Pacific Expedition
was but one project incubating in Boas’s fertile
mind. At the same time he was trying hard to
get funds and to put his students to work on his
“vanishing tribes” project which saw his activities
expanding as far as the southwestern parts of the
United States. And there was the East Asian pro-
ject, which succeeded at least to the point where
he could dispatch his colleague and friend Berthold
Laufer to China. Beyond that, Boas by then played
a leading role in keeping the American Anthropolo-
gist alive, in financially difficult times. “One mark
of Boas’s age was,” according to Cole, “the end
of his long succession of field trips.” Boas felt he
was “getting to be too old to be accumulating all
the time and not working] out my stuff’ (218).
Boas’s success and satisfactions during these years
came “less from his own work than from his
ambitious organizational drive” (220). Still, the
museum was his primary focus, but the Columbia
connection was vital in providing students for his
projects.
“Nothing Has Worked Out - Or Only a Little”
echoes Boas’s dissatisfaction with the American
Museum. In 1901, major changes in the museum
administration occurred, resulting in Putnam tak-
ing charge of a new museum at the University
of California. Suddenly Putnam and Boas, having
been supportive of each other for so many years,
became rivals. To Boas it was a betrayal, Putnam
had simply stolen California from him (225).
“Fundamental Differences of Opinion” eventu-
ally made Boas leave the museum. At that time,
this was already in great part due to Boas’s own
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
581
choice as he hoped to be able to minimize his
museum activity in favour of his more promising
work at Columbia. Again, a controversy over in-
terference from others into Boas’s exhibition con-
cepts caused him to leave his position as curator
at the museum, although under quite favourable
terms. Another fact that caused Boas to become
infuriated was the recruitment of his former as-
sistant, Clark Wissler, as successor to his post.
Whereas Boas had wanted to keep him full-time
and under his control at the university. Boas’s
museum career was now over, and although he
always recognized the limitations of anthropologi-
cal museums, he had accomplished much, though
nothing seemed complete (254). Gaps in his work
and even incidents where his own strict scientific
standards and methodological premises were not
adhered to by himself become most evident in
his serious neglect of indispensable research on
Alaska within his great North Pacific Expedition
scheme. As Cole points out, this led Boas to
conclusions, which were not based on facts, such
as the presumed later migrations of Eskimo-Aleut
populations from the north, breaking the former
homogeneity of the cultures on the Asian and the
American side. And he drew even more specula-
tive subsidiary conclusions on people’s migrations
from America to Asia (255). Even Cole is not
prepared to give a plausible explanation - based on
his study of Boas’s personal papers - of why Boas
was so blinded, ignorant, and did not even consider
including Alaska and the Aleut in his otherwise
so comprehensive fieldwork scheme of the North
Pacific rim. The question might be raised whether
Boas - emotionally - was still so frustrated and
horrified from his Baffin Island experience that
he did not even want to think about once again
becoming involved in research in the Arctic?
In “Laying Clear the Complex Relations of
Each Individual Culture” Cole seeks to summa-
rize Boas’s views on race, culture, and method
~ as far as these had already taken shape by
that time. Cole emphasizes that Boas’s critique
of cultural evolutionary theories centred not on
evolution itself so much as on the methodology
employed. In challenging the comparative method,
he sometimes envisaged its marriage with the his-
torical method, which was vehemently promoted
by him, the one acting as a restraint upon the
other (266). Boas could demonstrate that there was
no necessary association between race, language,
and culture. In his physical anthropological work
the stress was on variability whereas “type” in
itself was a constructed abstraction. Anthropology,
f°r Boas, was essentially psychological and his
strategy was to examine the dissemination of ideas
and their acculturation into existing ones in an
associational psychology (273). Finally, Cole dis-
cusses the controversial use of the term “culture”
(274), which even in Boas’s time, and up until
now, causes nothing but confusion and irritation,
especially among social anthropologists.
“The Human Mind Has Been Creative Every-
where” tries to explore Boas’s cultural values. His
relativism and appreciation of foreign races and
cultures clearly assumed “ethical importance” and
is seen as an indication of his personal values
(276). Boas’s political views, however, remained
personal and he himself remained politically pas-
sive. According to Cole, Boas did not share social
concerns as he always required the resources of
the better-off classes. In those cases, where he was
suspected of having sympathies for reform move-
ments, they were those of a patrician (279). There
is no evidence of discrimination against Boas in
these years. He owed his successes and some of his
failures to his personality and temperament, such
as his considerable ability for building up enmities
and sowing antagonism (Kroeber), and showing a
deficiency of empathy (Lowie) (283). If there was
a whiff of intellectual, even cultural arrogance in
Boas’s regard for American anthropologists, that
was due to his scientific professionalism. And
in part this was justified, as Boas brought with
him an intellectual preparation unmatched by his
American colleagues (284).
“Searching for Opportunities in Other Fields”
provides a brief outlook for the time ahead. By
1907, according to Cole, the leaf has turned for
Boas. With positions in three major institutions
- curator of ethnology at the American Muse-
um, professor of anthropology at Columbia, and
philologist at the Bureau of American Ethnology
- he had a strong base of training, research,
and appointments. He now threw his energy into
university-based projects.
Cole’s in-depth research and careful analysis
of the extensive and the diverse sources he in-
vestigated is impressive. It backs some previous
views on the man behind his work, as well as
shedding some new light on certain aspects of
his personality, which may contribute to a more
balanced understanding. Cole seeks to interpret the
material with caution while raising the question,
“How much of the man is in the boy? Hindsight
is dangerous. Used facilely, it can destroy the
historian’s work; used deftly, it can lift it to
explanation” (36). Following such concerns it may
be rather inappropriate to piece together certain
episodes and personal notes from different periods
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Berichte und Kommentare
of Boas’s life in order to obtain a more coherent
picture of certain traits of his personality. Although
one is tempted to elaborate a little bit more on
some issues not explicitly touched upon in this
book.
There is the matter of distinction which had
already been the key element in the boy’s ambition
and throughout Boas’s later life. His determined
independence already becomes visible during his
school years when he obviously was not willing
to succumb to what was expected in the regular
classes, but instead almost created a curriculum of
his own. Later on, all his field trips to the Arctic
and to the Northwest Coast were self-propelled
expeditions from scratch, even including piecing
together their funding from often obscure and
diverse sources. His continuous clashes over status
and authority with his employers and colleagues
were due to the fact that he was unaccustomed
to subordination and that he disliked any idea
of interference and restraint upon his scholarly
activities.
Or was this a sign of an overambitious, at times
even sick drive for power to create and continu-
ously expand his “empire”? Boas was extremely
possessive with regard to territories, which he had
laid a claim upon, as well as on young anthro-
pologists trained by him, which were and should
remain dependent on or at least controlled by him.
The Kroeber and Wissler “disappointments” have
been mentioned already, and there were more.
The break-up of his long-lasting collaboration and
even friendship with Putnam seems hardly under-
standable, since it came about because of Boas’s
imagination about “loosing California.” Another
incident may be mentioned here, regarding how
Boas perceived the competition with George Dor-
sey from the Field Museum with regard to his
Northwest Coast work. Boas furiously resented
Dorsey’s incursion into his own territory. “This
trip of Dorsey’s annoys me more than I can say” he
told Marie: “this Chicago crowd simply adopt our
plan and try to beat us to it.” The Northwest Coast
was Boas’s beat and anyone seriously intending to
study the area “should seek and take my advice
and not just run out here at random” (195). Here
one is reminded of the short note by Cole - which
would have required further explanation - that
the Museum “did have ‘a mass of manuscript
material’ on the Southeast Alaska group, but it
belonged to G. T. Emmons and was not accessible
even to Boas” (255). Would it not have been
natural to invite Emmons as a collaborator into
the Jesup North Pacific Expedition, in order to
fill the gap that needed to be filled so badly?
Or was neither Boas nor Emmons prepared for
an agreement on shared authority? On the other
hand, it might be justifiable, at times, to defend
one’s concepts and work base against alienation
by competitors. To draw the borderline here can be
difficult, although in the case of Boas he obviously
lacked the capability to collaborate with colleagues
of equal standing.
Boas was over-anxious to be in control of
things, which even might provide some hints for
a better understanding of his fieldwork methods.
Baffin Island must have been a nightmare for
Boas, feeling dependent on waiting for and being
provided with the dog-team he needed and being
forced to waste his time sitting at ice-holes. As
in any participant fieldwork situation one has to
cope for long periods of time with being almost
entirely dependent on situations caused by the
environment and by the hosts - which are largely
beyond control of the field-worker. This must have
been an unbearable situation for Boas. Interesting-
ly enough, he almost always avoided living with
native families during his later Northwest Coast
work, instead preferring to stay in - albeit some-
times lousy - hotels, which is hard to understand
given the genuine hospitality of these people.
The Boas family papers also cast light on
Boas’s relationships with the native people he
was working with - or better, there is hardly any
information at all on this, though one would have
expected otherwise. He obviously made no real
friends among them, otherwise he would have
mentioned personal affections for one or the other.
His letters remain empty of any comments or
concerns about Natives’ emotional reflections on
their living conditions, which at least some of them
must have shared with Boas. When informants are
referred to, then often only in the capacity of, for
example, having been “‘pumped’ empty” (148),
meaning that all the requested information had
been squeezed out of them.
This, in turn, helps us to assess more accurately
what was behind Boas’s proposed concern for
the “vanishing tribes.” Of course, the cloaking
of one’s personal power ambitions with a search
for the advancement of science - or in more
recent times often with morality and ethics -
is not an unusual strategy among self-promoting
academics, it has been particular prominent with
Boas. His urge to preserve endangered cultural
traditions was exclusively geared towards his own
academic reputation or towards securing funds for
his field projects. But it was in no way matched by
even the idea of, for example, installing parallel
community-oriented programs in native villages
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
themselves - which would have more efficiently
contributed to keeping these traditions alive, and
which Boas must have also realized.
Cole’s book is a fascinating biography of an
even more fascinating man whose character, con-
troversial as it might be, provides lots of inspira-
tions for rethinking personality, temperament, and
the building of academic careers.
Die vielen Gesichter des Islam
Anton Quack
Als 1995 die für den Friedenspreis des Deut-
schen Buchhandels nominierte Annemarie Schim-
mel Verständnis für die Entrüstung vieler Mus-
lime über Salman Rushdies “Satanische Verse”
äußerte, erhob sich über den Stammtischen der
Intellektuellen von Habermas bis Grass ein Schrei
der Empörung. Die Argumentation sonst durchaus
differenziert denkender Verteidiger der Menschen-
rechte bemühte sich kaum um gründliche Unter-
scheidung islamischer Belange. Im Gegenteil. Es
hatte den Anschein, als wollte man bei dieser Ge-
legenheit wieder einmal das Feindbild “Islam” be-
mühen: Die Weltmacht Islam, die das “christliche
Abendland” umklammert und bedroht. Khomeini,
Kadhafi, Saddam Hussein werden gleichermaßen
als Kronzeugen dafür herangezogen; Naher und
Mittlerer Osten verkörpern die islamische Welt.
Islam wird hier gesehen als monolithischer Block.
Diesen Eindruck unterstreichen auch Fernsehsen-
dungen wie “Das Schwert des Islam” von Peter
Scholl-Latour. Von Islam als geschlossener Einheit
scheinen selbst als seriös geltende Islam-Wissen-
schaftler auszugehen, wenn sie etwa von dem
öialog des Christentums mit dem Islam reden und
den Islam dabei als unveränderliche, ideale Größe
Postulieren, mit der leicht umzugehen ist.
Doch der Islam hat viele Gesichter. Den Is-
lam gibt es so wenig wie das Christentum oder
den Hinduismus. Auch der Islam hat im Lauf
seiner reichen Geschichte unendlich viele unter-
schiedliche Formen und Varianten gefunden und
ausgeprägt, und diese Geschichte ist noch nicht
2u Ende. Man wird ihn nicht verstehen und ihm
schon gar nicht gerecht werden können, wenn man
unzulässig verallgemeinert. Die Realität des Islam
sieht jedenfalls anders aus, als die öffentliche und
vcröffentlichte Meinung von Peter Scholl-Latour
583
bis Bassam Tibi zu suggerieren scheint, sie er-
schöpft sich auch nicht in Fundamentalismus.1
Das jedenfalls zeigen auch die beiden Neu-
erscheinungen von Curzon Press, die in die-
sem Rezensionsartikel vorgestellt werden: “Mus-
lim Diversity”1 2 und “Islam Outside the Arab
World”.3 Beide Sammelbände können dazu beitra-
gen, das geläufige Vorurteil vom monolithischen,
fundamentalistischen Block Islam aufzuweichen
und zu korrigieren. Für den, der sich über die
Vielfalt des Islam informieren will, gab und gibt
es natürlich auch weitere geeignete Literatur, in
Deutsch z. B. “Die Welten des Islam. Neunund-
zwanzig Vorschläge, das Unvertraute zu verste-
hen” (1993, hrsg. von G. Rotter), “Muhammads
Erben. Die unbekannte Vielfalt des Islam” (1999,
von W. G. Lerch) oder “Kibla - Reisen in die Welt
des Islam” (2000, von J. Goytisolo). Unverzichtbar
für jeden, der sich eine gründlich fundierte Mei-
nung zum Thema bilden will, ist nach wie vor
das Standardwerk “Der Islam in der Gegenwart”
(4. Aufl. 1996, hrsg. von W. Ende und U. Stein-
bach).
“Muslim Diversity” umfaßt neben einer gründ-
lichen Einleitung in die Thematik (von L. Manger;
1-36) und einem kurzen, gleichwohl überflüssi-
gen Schlußwort (von W. R. Roff; 244-256) acht
Beiträge, die auf einen Workshop der Autoren
1992 an der Universität von Bergen zurückzuge-
hen scheinen. Sie zeigen in Fallbeispielen gelebten
Islam in unterschiedlichen Regionen der Welt, von
Asien (Syrien, Pakistan, Bangladesch, China, In-
donesien) bis Afrika (Westafrika, Sudan). Ein sehr
knapper Index beschließt den Band (257-260).
“Global Migrants and Local Shrines” (von K.
Gardner; 37-57) zeigt die sich wandelnde Rolle
örtlicher Zentren der Heiligen Verehrung in Sylhet
in Nordost Bangladesch. Unter dem Einfluß der
Wanderarbeit aus dieser Region nach Übersee
(Westeuropa, Arabien) verlieren örtlich-synkreti-
stische Formen des Islam an Zugkraft. Neotraditio-
nalistische Elemente gewinnen demgegenüber zu-
nehmend an Bedeutung. Mekka wird immer mehr
assoziiert mit Begriffen wie Zentrum, internatio-
nal, orthodox, reich, Bildung, Macht, während für
Sylhet zunehmend Begriffe wie Peripherie, lokal,
synkretistisch, arm, ungebildet, machtlos stehen.
1 Vgl. zu diesem Vorwurf der Engführung “Islam gleich
fundamentalistischer Islam” auch Abdallah 1998.
2 Manger, Leif (ed.): Muslim Diversity. Local Islam in Glob-
al Contexts. Richmond: Curzon Press, 1999. 260 pp. ISBN
0-7007-1104-X. Price: £ 45.00
3 Westerlund, David, and Ingvar Svanberg (eds.): Islam Out-
side the Arab World. Richmond: Curzon Press, 1999. 476
pp. ISBN 0-7007-1124-4. Price: £ 45.00
Anthropos 96.2001
584
Berichte und Kommentare
In “The Theological Construction of Conflict”
(von T. H. Aase; 58-79) geht es um die Span-
nungen zwischen Sunniten einerseits, Schiiten und
Ismaeliten andererseits, wie sie im Gefolge von
ökonomischen, sozialen und politischen Verände-
rungen unter Bürgerkriegsverhältnissen im Gebiet
von Gilgit, Nordpakistan, auftreten. Die Gruppen-
zugehörigkeit wird neu definiert: stand früher die
Abstammungsgruppe im Vordergrund, so domi-
niert nun immer mehr die Religionsgruppe, der
man zugehört. Auch hier wird die lokale Situation
des Islam geöffnet, Gilgit wird besser eingebunden
in die gesamtpakistanische Infrastruktur. Der Streit
zwischen den einzelnen Richtungen des Islam ist
aber nur vordergründig ein Religionsstreit; es geht
eigentlich nie um die Dichotomie orthodox/hete-
rodox.
“The Salafiyya Movement in Northwest China”
(von D. C. Gladney; 102-149) ist der bei weitem
längste der geographischen Beiträge. Es geht um
die Hui, die vor allem in Nordwest China siedeln,
aber auch im ganzen übrigen China zu finden
sind; sie stellen heute etwa die Hälfte der fast 20
Millionen chinesischen Muslime dar. Die unter-
schiedlichen Variationen und Strömungen, die die-
ser Hui-Islam heute zeigt, werden auf verschiedene
Reformbewegungen der Geschichte zurückgeführt,
die bis heute ihre Spuren hinterlassen haben, sich
nicht abgelöst oder gar ausgelöscht haben, sondern
mit- und gegeneinander weiterleben: Gedimu (die
“alte” Lehre, 7.-14. Jh.); Sufi Gemeinschaften (die
“neue” Lehre, ab 17. Jh.) mit vielen Untergliede-
rungen; nationalistische, modernistische Strömun-
gen, von außen angeregt (Ende 19., Anfang 20.
Jh.); schließlich die neue Salafiyya Bewegung (seit
Mitte 20. Jh.).
Thema von “To Colour, Not Oppose” (von E.
Braten; 150-172) ist der Islam im ländlichen,
dörflichen Java, der Elemente von Resten tradi-
tioneller vorislamischer Religionsformen bewahrt
hat und bis vor kurzem (1998) auch durch die
aufgezwungene staatliche Säkularisierung geprägt
war. Die Situation, so wird argumentiert, läßt sich
nicht mehr in den Geertz’sehen Begriffen san-
tri, abangan, priyayi darstellen. Harmoniestreben
und Doppeldeutigkeit in Sprache und Verhalten,
Uminterpretation von Riten und Festen, Privatisie-
rungsbestrebungen fallen ins Auge, wenn Muslime
versuchen, das “sowohl als auch” zu leben, also
Islam und traditionelle Werte vielleicht nicht in
der Form eines Synkretismus, sondern in der Form
eines Parallelismus zu verbinden.
Der vierte asiatische Beitrag, “Faith and Iden-
tity in Northeast Syria” (von A. Rabo; 173-199),
führt in die Kernlande des Islam, in den Vorde-
ren Orient. Unterschiedliche Weisen und Formen
des Islam in der Region um die Stadt Raqqa in
Nordost Syrien werden thematisiert. Islam wird
als selbstverständliche Lebensform vorgestellt, als
Praxis nicht als Theorie, die ein gewisses Maß an
Toleranz beweist. Die diversen islamischen Grup-
pen, die hier Zusammentreffen, sprechen einander
nie den Glauben ab, eher schon “Zivilisation”, so
unterschiedlich auch ihr Islam sich ausprägt, etwa
bei Stadt- und Landbewohnern.
“Jihäd in West Africa” (von K. S. Vikpr; 80-
101) fällt als Beitrag etwas aus dem Rahmen:
Er ist geographisch bei den asiatischen Beiträgen
eingeordnet; er handelt zum andern nicht von
Islam in der Gegenwart, sondern er thematisiert
eine Periode islamischer Geschichte in Westafrika,
die mehrere Staaten bzw. Regionen berührt, die
Jihads der Fulbe im 19. Jh., angeführt von cUthmän
dan Fodio, Ahmadu Lobbo und cUmar al-Fütl.
Dabei zeigt sich die Vielschichtigkeit des Konzepts
vom “Heiligen Krieg”, das die Elemente takßr,
hijra, jihäd zusammenbringt: die Feststellung von
Unglaube, Rückzug aus dem Land des Unglau-
bens und militärische Aktion. Der Beitrag betont,
daß die westafrikanischen Jihads nicht einfach
als beschränkte lokale Ereignisse gesehen werden
dürfen, daß sie vielmehr immer auch Aspekte der
Eingebundenheit in globale muslimische Entwick-
lungen und Bewegungen zeigen.
“The Mosque and the Sacred Mountain” (von
Sharif Harir; 200-223) bringt ein Fallbeispiel aus
dem Nordwesten des Sudan. Das Hirten- und
Nomadenvolk der Zaghawa in der Dafur-Provinz
gilt seit mehr als 1000 Jahren als muslimisch.
Es hat gleichwohl bis heute in seiner religiösen
Praxis einen flexiblen Dualismus bewahrt, der den
“reinen” Islam mit “vorislamischen” Traditionen
verbindet. Die Verehrung von Bergen, Felsen und
Bäumen geht eine Verbindung ein mit dem Glau-
ben an Allah, sowie dem Glauben an Geister als
Mittlerwesen. Sharif Harir, der Autor des Beitrags,
ist selbst ein Angehöriger der Zaghawa; er sieht in
dem hier praktizierten Islam, der in den weniger
gebildeten Schichten die größte Zahl seiner An-
hänger findet, eine authentische Form des Islam,
nicht eine defizitäre, verunreinigte Religionsform.
Der moderne Trend zur Sudanisierung, der bereits
mit dem Kolonialismus der Engländer einsetzte,
brachte eine bessere islamische Allgemeinbildung
und damit auch eine gewisse Zurückdrängung tra-
ditioneller religiöser Praktiken.
Um die Lafofa Nuba, ein Bauernvolk in den
südlichen Nuba Bergen in Zentralsudan, geht es im
letzten Beitrag, “On Becoming Muslim” (von L-
Manger; 224-243). Im Gegensatz zu den Zaghawa
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
585
ist diese Volksgruppe erst seit wenigen Generatio-
nen zum Islam konvertiert. Dieser Islamisierungs-
prozeß, der sich nach und nach vollzieht und noch
längst nicht abgeschlossen ist, geht einher mit der
zunehmenden Sudanisierung, mit Migration, mit
wirtschaftlichem und sozialem Wandel; er wird
und wurde zum guten Teil getragen und ange-
stoßen durch die Sufi Bruderschaft der Qädirl, die
seit Anfang des 20 Jhs. in den südlichen Nuba
Bergen missionarisch wirkte. Die traditionelle Re-
ligion mit ihren Riten, die um Lebensübergänge
und um die Bedürfnisse des bäuerlichen Lebens
kreisen (Regen, Fruchtbarkeit, Ernte), wird un-
modern, islamische Riten werden adoptiert; doch
die Islamisierung schreitet unterschiedlich schnell
voran, je nach Individuum; dem Selbstverständnis
nach sind zwar alle gute Muslime, aus der Sicht
der andern wird das jedoch oft und gern bezwei-
felt.
Die vorgestellten Beiträge zeigen, mit den ge-
nannten Fällen und in unterschiedlicher Gründ-
lichkeit, verschiedene Beispiele von Islam, wie er
heute gelebt und praktiziert wird, “Local Islam in
Global Contexts”, wie der Untertitel ankündigt.
Der geschichtliche Bezug tritt m. E. dabei leider zu
oft in den Hintergrund, was einer gewissen Gefahr
der Oberflächlichkeit Vorschub leistet. Skizzen und
Karten, die die Fallbeispiele geographisch lokali-
sieren helfen könnten, sucht man vergebens (eine
Ausnahme bildet der Beitrag von Aase). Störend
wirkt manchmal der sinnlose Gebrauch von Zwi-
schenüberschriften, etwa im Beitrag von Sharif
Harir. Ärgerlich mutet gelegentlich der inflationäre
Gebrauch des Joker-Wortes “discourse” an, das
offenbar für alles und jedes stehen kann, jedenfalls
den Autor jeder stilistischen und gedanklichen
Präzision zu entheben scheint.
Wendet sich “Muslim Diversity” nach Form
und Inhalt eher an ein informiertes Fachpubli-
kum, so möchte “Islam Outside the Arab World”
einen weiteren Leserkreis jenseits von Islami-
stik und Religionswissenschaft erreichen. Dement-
sprechend zeigt dieser zweite Sammelband, der
hier vorgestellt wird, einen anderen Zuschnitt und
Charakter. Das beginnt schon mit der umfangrei-
chen Einleitung (von C. Hedin, I. Svanberg und
D. Westerlund; 1-35), in der für den unbedarften
Leser die Grundelemente und Grundbegriffe des
Islam dargelegt werden und ein Überblick über
die Vielfalt der Entwicklungen des Islam und
sich daraus ergebender Fragestellungen gegeben
wird.
Der Band ist in drei Teile gegliedert: Africa (37-
124), Asia and Oceania (125-294), Europe and
Americas (295-461). Im 1. Teil finden sich
Beiträge zu: Somalia; Nigeria; Senegal; Tanzania;
Southern Africa. Der 2. Teil bringt Beiträge zu:
Turkey; Turkic Central Asia; Iran, Afghanistan,
and Tajikistan; China; South Asia; Indonesia and
Malaysia; Australia and New Zealand. Der 3.
Teil faßt Beiträge zusammen über: Bosnia and
Herzegovina; Germany and Austria; France; Brit-
ain; The Nordic Countries; Russia and Trans-
caucasia; North America; The Caribbean and Latin
America.
Es werden in diesem Band, wie die Aufzäh-
lung zeigt, also nicht Fallbeispiele mit geogra-
phisch eng begrenztem Zuschnitt gegeben, sondern
Übersichtsartikel, die ganze Länder oder Regionen
umfassen. Berücksichtigt sind dabei, wie der Titel
angibt, nur die Länder außerhalb der Arabisch
sprechenden Welt. Vollständigkeit wird aber auch
dann offenbar weder angestrebt noch erreicht; die
Auswahlkriterien sind jedenfalls nicht auf den
ersten Blick ersichtlich. Warum Länder wie Süd-
afrika, Australien und Neuseeland aufgenommen
wurden, ist kaum zu verstehen, wenn wichtigere
Länder ohne Begründung fehlen, z. B. Philippinen,
Mongolei, Singapur, Zypern, große Teile Westafri-
kas usw.
Recht ungleichmäßig ist im übrigen die Art
und Qualität der Beiträge, was wohl zum guten
Teil an der Qualität und Kompetenz der Autoren
liegt, zum geringeren Teil vielleicht an der zur Ver-
fügung stehenden Literatur. Während bei einigen
Beiträgen die augenblickliche Situation in ihrer hi-
storischen Verankerung gezeigt wird, kommen an-
dere über eine oberflächliche Aufzählung und Dar-
stellung moderner religionspolitischer Strömungen
nicht hinaus. Während einige Artikel einen guten
Einblick in gelebten Islam, oder wenigstens eine
Ahnung davon, vermitteln, lassen andere jeden
Bezug zu konkretem Leben vermissen. Deutlich,
manchmal überdeutlich wird der Einfluß von Sufi
Bruderschaften in den unterschiedlichsten Spielar-
ten auf den Islam weltweit gezeigt.
Es werden in diesem Band also eine Fülle
von Informationen vermittelt; ob es die von ihm
gesuchten oder gewünschten sind, muß der Leser
im Einzelfall sehen. Über den Islam in Spanien
etwa, der Europa und seine Geistesgeschichte in
nicht überschätzbarer Weise beeinflußt hat, findet
sich in dem umfangreichen Werk kaum eine Silbe.
Und um ein zweites Beispiel zu nennen: Wenig ist
auch zu lesen über die reiche, seit früher Zeit vom
Islam geprägte Kulturgeschichte Zentralasiens.
Am Ende eines jeden Artikels findet sich ein
Blick auf die relevante Literatur, die in der Re-
gel sachverständig ausgesucht und kommentiert
ist und lobenswerterweise auch nicht englisch-
Anthropos 96.2001
586
Berichte und Kommentare
sprachige Werke aufführt. Ein Index (462-476)
beschließt den Band. Geographische Skizzen und
Karten sucht man auch in diesem Werk, das im
übrigen mit einer Reihe von Schwarzweißfotos
illustriert ist, leider vergebens.
Die beiden Sammelwerke “Muslim Diversity”
und “Islam Outside the Arab World” ergänzen
einander, wie etwa in den jeweiligen Beiträgen
über China oder Indonesien deutlich wird; ge-
meinsam geben sie einen guten Einblick in die
Vielfalt islamischen Lebens weltweit. Doch die
eingeflochtenen kritischen Bemerkungen zeigen
auch: Ein Standardwerk wie z. B. W. Endes und
U. Steinbachs “Der Islam in der Gegenwart”
(4. Aufl. 1996) können sie allerdings weder erset-
zen noch übertreffen, wenn es um die Darstellung
der vielgestaltigen Welten des Islam geht.
Zitierte Literatur
Abdallah, Laila
1998 Islamischer Fundamentalismus - eine fundamentale
Fehlwahrnehmung? Berlin: Das Arabische Buch.
Ende, Werner und Udo Steinbach (Hrsg.)
1996 Der Islam in der Gegenwart. Unter red. Mitarbeit von
G. Krüger. München: Verlag C. H. Beck. [4., neubearb.
und erw. Aufl.]
Goytisolo, Juan
2000 Kibla - Reisen in die Welt des Islam. Frankfurt: Suhr-
kamp Verlag.
Lerch, Wolfgang Günter
1999 Muhammads Erben. Die unbekannte Vielfalt des Islam.
Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag.
Manger, Leif (ed.)
1999 Muslim Diversity. Local Islam in Global Contexts.
Richmond: Curzon Press.
Rotter, Gernot (Hrsg.)
1993 Die Welten des Islam. Neunundzwanzig Vorschläge, das
Unvertraute zu verstehen. Frankfurt: Fischer Taschen-
buch Verlag.
Westerlund, David, and Ingvar Svanberg (eds.)
1999 Islam Outside the Arab World. Richmond: Curzon
Press.
Parenté, début de siècle
Laurent S. Barry
De F histoire tumultueuse des études de parenté en
anthropologie, des années 50 à nos jours, l’on peut,
me semble-t-il, tirer certains enseignements signi-
ficatifs des orientations épistémologiques globales
de la discipline toute entière.
Comme on le sait, suite à la publication au cours
d’une même année, 1949, de deux ouvrages ma-
jeurs - “Les structures élémentaires de la parenté”
de Claude Lévi-Strauss et “Social Structure” de
George P. Murdock, ce thème va constituer, vingt
ans durant, à la fois l’un des objets de prédilection
de l’anthropologie et surtout celui censé témoigner
de la “scientificité” que revendiquait alors la disci-
pline dans son ensemble. A compter du début des
années 70, cependant, le renouveau culturaliste et
relativiste - qu’annonçaient déjà en leurs temps les
écrits critiques de Rodney Needham et de David
Schneider et dont l’engouement “postmoderniste”
n’est, à l’évidence, que l’un des derniers avatars -
finira par avoir raison de telles ambitions positives,
et les deux décennies suivantes seront a contrario
marquées par un virulent rejet de nombre des sujets
autrefois jugés “majeurs” par les anthropologues,
en tout premier lieu de leur objet fétiche, la
parenté.
Ceci nous conduit au seuil des années 90. Or,
si nous ne disposons pas encore de tout le recul
nécessaire, nombre d’indices laissent pourtant à
penser que cette date marque, tout à la fois, le
début de la réaction à l’encontre du legs des années
70, mais également - dans un cadre plus restreint
- une nouvelle étape dans l’histoire des études
de parenté. Si l’on en juge simplement à l’aune
du nombre de publications s’y rapportant, cette
dernière décennie du siècle, se caractérise en effet
par un évident regain d’intérêt pour le thème.
S’il n’établit pas, dans la préface de l’ouvrage
collectif, “Dividends of Kinship”,1 qu’il vient de
publier, de rapprochement entre l’épistémè d’une
discipline et la valorisation d’un champ de re-
cherche particulier, c’est pourtant également à ce
dernier constat - celui du renouveau des études
de parenté - que parvient Peter P. Schweitzer. Les
essais que contient ce volume émanent des ateliers
de la quatrième conférence de l’EASA (European
Association of Social Anthropologists) qui se tint à
Barcelone en juillet 1996. Or, comme le remarque
Peter Schweitzer, cette association, créée en 1989
- en pleine période “postructuraliste” donc -, n’a-
vait jusqu’alors pas jugé bon de mettre à l’ordre du
jour ce thème de la parenté au cours des premières
conférences européennes qu’elle organisa à Coim-
bra en 1990 puis à Prague en 1992. À compter de
sa troisième conférence, celle d’Oslo en 1994, elle
1 Schweitzer, Peter P. (ed.): Dividends of Kinship. Meanings
and Uses of Social Relatedness. London: Routledge, 2000-
221 pp. ISBN 0-415-18284-0. Price: £ 15.99.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
587
lui consacrera pourtant trois ateliers réunis sous
l’intitulé “A New Agenda for Kinship Studies”.
Dans le symposium suivant, à Barcelone en 1996,
la parenté est à nouveau présente ... très présente
même, et c’est de ces dernières discussions que
l’on tirera la matière de cet ouvrage “Dividends
of Kinship”. Comme le remarque alors Schweit-
zer, “since then, publishers’ catalogues and the
tables of contents of anthropological journals are
filled with signs of a new ‘kinship vogue’” (ix).
Or, ces conclusions auxquelles il aboutit rejoignent
très exactement celles auxquelles plusieurs auteurs
parvenaient également dans les pages du numéro
spécial que la revue L’Homme vient de consacrer
à cette thématique des études de parenté.2 Qu’une
telle convergence de point de vue se fasse jour
autour de la reviviscence d’un champ de recherche
témoigne amplement, ce me semble, de la réalité
et de l’importance du phénomène.
Ceci dit, de telles rencontres ne doivent pas
masquer la réelle diversité des approches récentes
autour de ce thème. Ainsi, les essais regroupés
dans cet ouvrage illustrent une tendance assez par-
ticulière, que je qualifierai, faute de mieux, “d’u-
tilitariste”, laquelle, si elle est incontestablement
présente dans ce renouveau des études sur la
parenté, n’en est cependant pas nécessairement
la plus représentative. Peter Schweitzer est d’ail-
leurs conscient du fait, puisqu’il précise d’emblée
dans sa préface qu’il a surtout retenu pour ce
livre, non les thèmes développés au cours de ces
dernières décennies,3 mais plutôt (à l’exception
peut-être du texte de Gertraud Seiser qui revient
sur le concept de “maison” en Autriche rurale,
notion qui a suscité un certain nombre d’écrits
récents)4 sur des perspectives qui ont jusqu’alors
peu retenues l’attention. Le parti pris théorique de
l’ouvrage est ainsi centré sur les usages sociaux
de la parenté et sur la manière dont les acteurs
en instrumentalisent les multiples facettes. Les
auteurs mettent ainsi moins l’accent sur le sens
que sur la fonction: opposant une approche que
Schweitzer qualifie de “primordialiste” à celle,
“instrumentaliste”, qu’il revendique; ou encore,
2 Laurent S. Barry (ed.), “Question de parenté”, numéro spé-
cial de L’Homme (2000).
3 On pensera notamment aux études abordant la construc-
tion sociale de la personne et du genre, à l’intérêt porté
aux formes d’alliance complexes ou semi-complexes ou
aux pratiques matrimoniales endogames qui ne s’inscrivent
qu'avec difficulté dans un schéma fonctionnalo-structura-
liste, etc.
4 Cf. notamment l’ouvrage de J. Carsten and Stephen Hugh-
Jones (eds.), “About the House: Lévi-Strauss and Beyond”
(1995).
substituant à la question “what is kinship” celle
“what kinship does” (14).5 On remarquera alors
que, si officiellement le point de départ de ces
réflexions est ancré sur la construction culturelle
du concept de “relatedness”6 - censé permettre
de dépasser le “relativisme culturel” dont furent
empreintes nombre d’études au cours des années
70-80, sans se replier sur les précédents modèles
“biologiques” ou “généalogiques” de la parenté -,
à la lecture il apparaît que les auteurs ne s’y
réfèrent que très marginalement. Si l’on cherchait
in fine un fil directeur à cet ensemble d’articles, par
ailleurs très disparate, on pourrait plutôt le trouver
dans l’idée “d’affiliation”, de parenté “à option”
dont traitent mutatis mutandis trois des six articles
rassemblés par Schweitzer dans ce volume.
Ainsi du texte de Mark Nuttall qui s’intéresse
au monde Inuit et conteste l’idée d’un modèle de
parenté eskimo façonné autour de relations biolo-
giques ou de co-résidence. Il insiste au contraire
sur la multiplicité des modes d’affiliations qui
permettent de se créer de nouveaux “parents” voire
de rendre obsolète des relations “biologiques”
existantes. Dans une large mesure “people can
choose their kinship relationships” et un simple
eqqarleq (parent éloigné) pourra être consanguini-
sé; considéré désormais comme ilaqutaq, comme
membre de la parentèle proche ilaqutariit, il sera
désigné terminologiquement et traité comme tel.
Inversement une relation de parenté “biologique”
peut être “oubliée” si elle ne donne pas toute
satisfaction. Nuttall en conclut donc que “biology
does not structure kinship relationships and de-
termine how people who are biologically related
should behave towards one another” (44). Cette
5 Instrumentalisme qui apparaît bien dans l’usage du terme
“dividends” dans le titre, même si Peter Schweitzer se
défend d’un emploi trop restrictif du terme qui se bornerait
aux retombées “économiques” de la parenté, mais y inclut
des dimensions liées aux profits émotionnels, en terme de
“santé mentale” (16), de cohésion sociale, etc. On remar-
quera incidemment que l’approche “primordialiste” dont
parle Schweitzer est en fait plus caractéristique de travaux
plus récents (ceux d’auteurs comme Françoise Héritier,
Marilyn Strathern ou Maurice Godelier qui tous se sont
penchés sur la question de “l’essence”, de la “nature”
des faits de parenté) que de ceux des décennies 50-60.
Ces derniers, ceux des écoles fonctionnalo-structuralistes,
plutôt que de s’intéresser à la question “qu’est-ce que la
parenté” s’efforçaient surtout, me semble-t-il, de répondre à
une autre interrogation, “la parenté, comment ça marche?”,
les approches les plus récentes sur ce thème me semblent
justement marquées par une synthèse de ces deux dernières
questions.
6 Concept qui connaît un succès certain si l’on considère qu’il
apparaît également dans le titre d’un autre ouvrage collectif
publié cette même année 2000 et dirigé par Janet Carsten.
ônthropos 96.2001
588
Berichte und Kommentare
logique a pourtant ses limites, ainsi, .. it is not
really acceptable to deny the existence of one’s
parents, siblings, grandparents and possibly aunts
and uncles” (44). Si l’auteur passe rapidement sur
ce point, j’aurai aimé qu’il nous précise la signi-
fication qu’il accorde à ces “limites” ... serions-
nous in fine confrontés à ce même “irréductible
biologique” qu’il rejette par ailleurs?
C’est également à ces notions de “reconstruc-
tion” et de façonnage par les acteurs des liens
existants que font appel Elke Mader et Richard
Gippelhauser, même si le traitement des faits de
parenté sert parfois, dans ce texte, de prétexte
pour évoquer ce qui semble le plus retenir ici
l’attention des auteurs, à savoir les dimensions
politiques du monde Jivaro. Shuar et Achuar uti-
lisent les préfixes nekâs (vrai) et kanâ (distant,
éloigné) pour distinguer les parents “proches” des
autres. La relative liberté d’emploi de ces préfixes,
permet alors de “rapprocher” ou d’“éloigner” des
individus selon le bon vouloir des acteurs. Comme
pour les Inuit, cependant, cette relative labilité
des relations d’apparentement trouve aussi ses
limites dés lors que la distance sociale décroît. Les
auteurs admettant, par exemple, qu’on ne pourra
pas qualifier de kanâ, de parent “éloigné”, le père
ou la mère, les germains, les beaux-parents, les
beaux-frères et belles-sœurs, etc.
L’article de Jenny B.White est sans doute le
plus caractéristique de cette approche. L’auteur y
étudie en effet comment, dans les classes labo-
rieuses d’Istanbul, les relations de parenté sont
dévolues à ceux qui en assument le rôle: “those
people who do what kin do”. White inscrit expli-
citement son analyse dans une perspective schnei-
derienne, définissant la parenté moins comme es-
sence que comme caractérisation culturelle à pos-
teriori d’un état de relations existantes (ici des
relations de production). L’auteur distingue alors
deux niveaux: celui des parents (akraba) par le
sang relevant d’une idéologie “biogénétique” et
agnatique, et un autre niveau, celui de la “parenté
fictive”, qui englobe tous les “proches” culturel-
lement définis. Ces deux domaines sont profon-
dément inscrits dans une relation de production:
des partenaires non-consanguins mais investis dans
des relations d’échange et de coopération à long
terme deviennent des “proches” et des “parents”.
Inversement des parents “par le sang” qui se
désengagent de la participation productive perdent
le bénéfice des ressources partagées par le groupe
des parents. Je mets cette dernière proposition en
italique, car, comme pour Nuttal, nous assistons ici
à un découplage entre une parenté “à options” et
une autre, “biologique”, jugée finalement tout aussi
“précaire” que la première. N’y a-t-il pourtant
aucun enseignement à tirer du fait qui veut que
la remise en cause ne porte jamais dans ce dernier
cas, sur l’identité ou le statut de “parent”, mais
seulement sur l’accès aux ressources, et que pour
être “mauvais parent” on n’en demeure pas moins
“parent”?
La filiation de la critique schneiderienne - et
aussi bourdieusienne dans le cas de White - du
modèle “biologique” et généalogique de la pa-
renté dans ces trois textes, forts intéressants au
demeurant, est évidente. En l’absence de réels
contradicteurs une telle critique a pourtant, de
longue date, amplement succombée aux travers
du modèle qu’elle avait autrefois dénoncé. A
vouloir à toute force démontrer que les faits de
parenté ne sont pas seulement une construction de
l’expérience que toute société à de certains faits
d’observation (la succession des générations, la
reproduction sexuée, etc.) mais qu’ils sont aussi
une construction culturelle, l’on en arrive à nier
l’existence du premier terme et à construire, en
définitive, un modèle tout aussi univoque.7
Avec le texte de Seiser évoqué plus haut, deux
articles se démarquent nettement de cette perspec-
tive. Celui d’Antônia Pedroso de Lima en premier
lieu, qui se penche sur les “bénéfices” de la parenté
dans le cadre des grandes entreprises familiales
portugaises. L’auteur souligne 1’“inconfort cogni-
tif’ (“cognitive discomfort”, 152) que suppose
l’interaction de ces deux facteurs, économie et
parenté, fondés sur des valeurs a priori antago-
niques. Pourtant, paradoxalement, l’investissement
dans un projet économique commun des membres
de ces familles aboutit à une survalorisation des
relations de parenté et à l’activation des réseaux
de la parentèle étendue, là où la cellule familiale
portugaise “moyenne” ne reconnaît pas une telle
extension. Le projet commun contribue finalement
plus ici à maintenir vivace d’amples relations
de parenté que l’idéologie d’une communauté de
7 On notera, ce faisant, la remarquable modération dont
Peter P. Schweitzer fait montre lorsqu’il écrit: “[h]owever,
I believe that the issue of the relationship between kinship
and biology still awaits a balanced answer. While the last
twenty years were characterised by extreme positions - the
complete decoupling of kinship and biology by culturalist
and feminist approaches, on the one hand, and the reduction
of everything to biology by sociobiology, on the other
hand - none of these positions is entirely satisfying. After
all, while it has become evident that biology alone is
insufficient for a comprehensive understanding of what
kinship is and does, it is equally hard to maintain that
kinship has nothing to do with biology and procreation’
(16).
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
589
“sang” et “[...] the enterprise itself becomes a
cultural symbol of kinship” (153).
La contribution de Christoph Brumann enfin,
basée sur une thématique des plus originale, une
argumentation serrée et une démonstration cons-
truite, est, avec celles de Peter P. Schweitzer, l’une
des plus rigoureuses de cet ouvrage. Brumann
entreprend une analyse comparative de commu-
nautarismes religieux - plus rarement politique
comme pour les Kibboutzim - fonctionnant sur un
mode collectiviste et qui se caractérisent souvent
par une remise en cause des liens familiaux “tra-
ditionnels” (monogamie, famille nucléaire, etc.).
L’auteur nous montre alors, force arguments à
l’appui, que la longévité de ces expériences n’est
pas fonction de leur capacité à “briser” les attaches
familiales au profit du dévouement à la seule
communauté, ce contrairement à l’idée répandue
qui veut que communauté et famille soient deux
unités rivales dans une compétition pour l’ob-
tention de la loyauté de leurs membres. Dans
cette dernière perspective célibat et “mariage de
groupe” apparaissent équivalents: la parenté doit
être faible pour que la communauté soit forte.
Après avoir recensé une quinzaine de ces groupes
fondés, soit sur la monogamie, soit sur d’autres
modèles, Brumann montre que si ceux basés sur
le “mariage de groupe” sont moins durables que
ceux basés sur le mariage monogame,8 ces derniers
ne représentent cependant que cinq des quinze cas
d’établissements d’une durée de plus de 60 ans, les
dix autres étant basés sur le célibat. Ce premier
examen semble conforter l’idée de “l’avantage
sélectif’ à la déstructuration des liens familiaux.
Pourtant, une lecture plus attentive permet d’éta-
blir que si les communautés fondées sur le célibat
ont su accéder à une certaine longévité, elles
n’en ont pas moins “mal vieilli”. Les Shakers, par
exemple, existent depuis prés de 200 ans, mais ils
ne comptent aujourd’hui que quelques membres
âgés et n’occupent plus qu’un seul des 18 villages
fondés au temps de leur plus grande prospérité.
Harmony, une autre communauté, survécut durant
un siècle, mais elle ne recensait plus alors qu’une
vingtaine de membres pour prés d’un millier à ses
débuts. Au contraire, les cinq communautés basées
sur le mariage monogame, si elles sont minori-
taires, semblent également les plus prospères: qu’il
s’agisse des Kibboutzim, avec 130.000 membres
ou encore des Hutterites, qui, partis d’un noyau de
443 individus en 1874 comptent désormais 30.000
8 Les Oneida, la communauté la plus pérenne de celles
valorisant le mariage de groupe ne dura que 37 ans.
membres. Ayant donc établi une possible compa-
tibilité des idéaux familiaux et communautaires,
Brumann n’en conclut pas pour autant aux “vertus
de la monogamie”, mais, plus subtilement (prenant
en compte un communautarisme yoruba qui connu
un retour à la polygamie) au bénéfice obtenu par
les communautés qui ne s’écartent pas trop du mode
de relations familiales culturellement dominant. Le
seul regret que je conserve vis-à-vis de ce brillant
article est qu’il se soit abstenu de la discussion
qu’entraîne à l’évidence de telles conclusions si on
les rapproche de celles, défendues par Jack Goody
(1983), qui rendent compte des premiers succès
de l’implantation de la secte chrétienne en Europe
par la capacité de l’Église à rompre les solidarités
familiales préexistantes de ses fidèles.
Nonobstant la réelle qualité de certains des
textes qu’il contient, “Dividends of Kinship” n’é-
chappe pourtant pas au travers commun à bien
des ouvrages collectifs et laisse une impression
d’accumulation de “cases studies” qui nous font
nous demander, à la suite de Schweitzer, “where
does this leave the anthropology of kinship ...?”
(207). A l’image des positions soutenues par cet
auteur, l’ouvrage balance en permanence entre,
d’une part l’idée d’une nécessaire poursuite de la
“déconstruction” schneiderienne laquelle conduit à
la négation de toute autonomie de ces phénomènes,
et d’autre part le “fruitful challenge” (214) que
nous proposent actuellement les études compara-
tives de parenté. Entre culturalisme et compara-
tisme, tentation relativiste et credo scientifique,
il serait pourtant peut-être bon que nous nous
déterminions à trancher un jour.
Références citées
Barry, Laurent S. (ed.)
2000 Question de parenté. L’Homme 154-155.
Carsten, Janet (ed.)
2000 Cultures of Relatedness. New Approaches to the Study
of Kinship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Carsten, Janet, and Stephen Hugh-Jones (eds.)
1995 About The House. Lévi-Strauss and Beyond. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press.
Goody, Jack
1983 The Development of the Family and Marriage in Eu-
rope. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Schweitzer, Peter P. (ed.)
2000 Dividends of Kinship. Meanings and Uses of Social
Relatedness. London: Routledge.
Anthropos 96.2001
590
Berichte und Kommentare
Zum Rendille
Rainer Voigt
1. Forschungsgeschichte
Das Rendille, in eigener Orthographie: Ren dille,
d. i. [Rendille], ist eine Tiefland-Ostkuschitische
(Lowland East Cushitic) Sprache, die von etwa
35 000 bis 40 000 Sprechern südöstlich des Tur-
kanasees in Kenia gesprochen wird. Eng verwandt
sind in sprachlicher Hinsicht die Somali, von den
Rendille auch Dafära [(¿äfärä] genannt, und die
Boni.
Das Rendille ist hauptsächlich durch die Arbei-
ten von B. Heine (1975-76, 1980) und G. Schlee
(1978) bekannt geworden. Unter den weiterfüh-
renden Studien seien hier lediglich R. J. Sim und
A. Oomen (1981) und (dazu) R. Voigt (1985) ge-
nannt. Mit Steve Pillinger ist in den 80er Jahren ein
Wissenschaftler hinzugekommen, der sich intensiv
mit dieser Sprache beschäftigt hat. Neben sei-
ner - unveröffentlichten - Doktorarbeit (London
1989) hat er einen “Rendille Grammar Outline”
herausgegeben, der 1995 in Nairobi erschienen
ist. Da mir auch diese Arbeit nicht zugänglich
war, ist das vorliegende Wörterbuch1 die erste
regulär veröffentlichte und allgemein zugängliche
Arbeit zum Rendille seit vielen Jahren. Sie wurde
von S. Pillinger zusammen mit L. Galboran ver-
faßt, wobei über die Art der Zusammenarbeit im
Vorwort nichts gesagt wird.
Die Daten für die mehr als “5 500” im Wör-
terbuch erfaßten Rendille-Wörter wurden über ei-
nen Zeitraum von zehn Jahren, zwischen 1988
und 1997, von den Verfassern, die als Mitarbeiter
des Bible Translation & Literacy Rendille Pro-
jects unter Beteiligung des Summer Institute of
Linguistics (SIL) in Kenia tätig waren, vor Ort
gesammelt. Dabei wurden die Daten nur teilwei-
se direkt erhoben. Ein Großteil stammt aus den
“literacy materials” und anderen Publikationen,
die im Rahmen des Projektes herausgegeben wur-
den “on a wide ränge of subjects, from animal
husbandry to Rendille traditional religion, from
children’s fables to village health care” (7 f.).
Bibelübersetzungen sind nicht erwähnt; es ist aber
1 Pillinger, Steve, and Letiwa Galboran: A Rendille Dictio-
nary, including a Grammatical Outline and an English-
Rendille Index, Köln: Rüdiger Koppe Verlag, 1999. 416
pp. ISBN 3-89645-061-1. (Kuschitische Sprachstudien, 14)
Preis: DM 98,00.
anzunehmen, daß diese bei der Kompilation des
Wörterbuchs einbezogen wurden. Es ist doch das
SIL an dem Projekt beteiligt gewesen. In der allzu
knappen Bibliographie (415) werden nur zwei im
Rahmen des Projekts in Nairobi herausgegebene
Publikationen (von Steve Pillinger) erwähnt, die
der Bekämpfung der Illiteralität und der Verbrei-
tung der Schriftsprache unter den Rendille dienen,
nämlich ein “Rendille Spelling Guide” (21991) und
der schon erwähnte “Rendille Grammar Outline”
(Teil 1, 1995). Es wäre nützlich gewesen, einige
(wenn nicht alle) Bücher und Hefte zu nennen, die
in Kenia zur Hebung des BildungsStandes, zum Er-
halt traditionellen Bildungsgutes und zur Erbauung
der Rendille gedruckt wurden, auch wenn es im
einzelnen schwierig sein dürfte, an dieses Material
heranzukommen.
2. Die Orthographie
Die Orthographie dieser neuen semitohamitischen
Schriftsprache wurde von westlichen Wissen-
schaftlern entwickelt und im Jahre 1987 der
Rendille-Gemeinschaft vorgestellt und erläutert.
Die danach leicht revidierte Orthographie wurde
allen Veröffentlichungen seitdem und natürlich
auch der vorliegenden Arbeit zugrunde gelegt.
Die Digraphen, die einer Erklärung bedürfen, sind
lediglich 5d und ’h. ’D bezeichnet den einfachen
stimmhaften dentalen Verschlußlaut, der z. B. im
Deutschen und Somali als d erscheint, während
Rendille d den stimmhaften retroflexen Verschluß-
laut [q(] bezeichnet, der im Somali mit dh wie-
dergegeben wird. Es ist zu befürchten, daß Ren-
dille-Wörter in Zukunft nach dieser offiziellen
Orthographie zitiert werden und im Falle des d
bei dem Nichtspezialisten der falsche Eindruck
erweckt wird, es handle sich um ein einfaches [d].
’H meint den globalen Frikativ [h], während h für
den stimmlosen pharyngalen Frikativ [Ä] (in der
landläufigen arabistischen Transkription h) steht,
welcher im Somali mit je wiedergegeben wird. Es
wäre in diesem Falle zweifelsohne vorteilhafter
gewesen, sich dem Somali-Usus anzuschließen.
Man kann nicht ausschließen, daß hier nationale
Argumente eine Rolle gespielt haben, indem man
sich in solchen Fällen gerade nicht der Somali-Or-
thographie anschließen wollte. An die Wiedergabe
des stimmlosen velaren Frikativs [je] durch kh
wird man sich am ehesten gewöhnen können. Der
einzige Trigraph ng’ steht für den velaren Nasal
toi- „ .
Da das Rendille eine Tonsprache (oder Ton/
Akzentsprache, s. u.) ist, wurde der Notation der
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
591
Töne großes Gewicht beigemessen. Ein fehlender
Akzent bezeichnet den Tiefton (kurz: a [ä], lang:
aa [da]), während ein Akut für den Hochton steht
(kurz: ä [ä], lang: ad [aa]). Schließlich gibt es
noch einen fallenden Ton: da (offensichtlich [ad]).
Einen steigenden Ton [aa] gibt es nicht, für ihn tritt
der lange Hochton ein. Sinnvoll ist die Nichtmar-
kierung des Tieftons. Denn die nicht-hochtonigen
(oder die nicht-betonten) Vokale sind als phonolo-
gisch unmarkierte Vokale weitaus häufiger als die
markierten hochtonigen Vokale.
Dies erkennt man schon aus der Liste der
präfigierenden Verben, die weiter unten gegeben
werden. Es kommen bis auf die Formen mit Ver-
balpräfixen keine Hochtöne vor. Sieht man sich bei
den Verbalparadigmen (42-53) die Paradigmen
der suffigierenden Verben (47-52) an, so tragen
die wichtigsten Formen (hier jeweils in der 1.
[= 3. m.] und 2. [= 3. f.] sg.) des Musterverbs
für- “lösen, öffnen” keinen Hochton. In den ent-
sprechenden negativen Formen ist lediglich die
Negativpartikel hochtonig:
pos. neg.
Indikativ
des Imperfektivs: fura,furta
Indikativ
des Perfektivs: fure,furte
Subjunktiv
des Imperfektivs: furo,furto
Subjunktiv
des Perfektivs: jure, furte
ma furo, mafurto
mâfurin, mäfurin
i-furin, i-furin
i-furin, i-furin
Im Optativ (d furo, d furto) ist lediglich die
Optativpartikel hochtonig. Ein Hochton auf der
Verbalwurzel begegnet im negativen Imperativ (sg.
afürin), im Plural des positiven Imperativs (füra,
sg. fur) und im Konzessiv (füré-ey, fûrté-ey; neg.
mâfuriné-ey, ma füriné-ey). Man beachte, daß der
Hochton hier jeweils auf der vorletzten Silbe liegt.
Die angegebene tonale Struktur gilt nicht nur für
einsilbige Wurzeln (wie fur-a), sondern auch für
mehrsilbige (wie khakkhar’dabd-a [xàxxàrdàbcj-
à] “mehrfach treten auf’).
Im Unterschied zum Verb, das in den meisten
Formen auf dem Wurzelvokal keinen Hochton
an den Tag legt, ist die Situation im nominalen
Bereich anders. So sind alle Personalpronomina
auf der letzten Silbe betont, und alle Zahlwörter
tragen einen Hochton. Bei den Substantiven gibt
es nur wenige Formen ohne Hochton.
Es ist hier schon erkennbar, daß der Hochton
auf einen Akzent zurückgeht und auch teilweise in
der Sprache noch so motiviert ist. Die Betonung
von Optativ- und Negativpartikeln (sowie Fokus-
partikeln, s. u.) passen besser zu einem ursprüngli-
chen Akzentsystem. Wie wir sehen werden, lassen
sich bei einigen Nominaltypen die morphologi-
schen Regeln besser erfassen, wenn man von der
Betonung der vorletzten Silbe (und dem Schwund
auslautender Vokale) ausgeht.
3. Das Wörterbuch
Das Wörterbuch richtet sich nicht nur an die
Rendille-Sprecher, die sich der Schreibweise eines
Wortes versichern wollen, sowie an die Kenianer
im Norden des Landes, die sich über diese Sprache
informieren wollen, sondern auch an Kuschitisten
und Semitohamitisten, für die diese dem Somali
und Boni am nächsten stehende Sprache besonde-
res Interesse beanspruchen kann. Wem dies als ei-
ne Aufgabe erscheint, der man nicht durch ein ein-
ziges Werk in gleicher Weise nachkommen kann,
wird sich durch vorliegende Arbeit eines Besse-
ren belehren lassen. Das Ergebnis dieses Wag-
nisses kann nur als gelungen bezeichnet werden.
Weil die Verfasser Rücksicht auf die Sprecher der
Sprache, welche gewöhnlich keine Sprachwissen-
schaftler sind, genommen haben, ist ein sehr benut-
zerfreundliches Werk entstanden, das “dennoch”
höchsten wissenschaftlichen Ansprüchen genügt.
Bei manch anderen semitohamitistischen Werken
scheint sich die Wissenschaftlichkeit durch idio-
synkratische Bezeichnungsweisen, minimalisti-
sche Abkürzungen, das Fehlen von Verweisen
und mangelnde Erläuterungen von Grundbegriffen
und spezißschen Termini ausweisen zu wollen. So
sind manche Fachwerke den unter Umständen ge-
ringen Fachkenntnissen möglicher Benutzer nicht
angepaßt. Manchmal scheint gar die Beherrschung
der jeweiligen Sprache und deren Regelwerk die
Vorbedingung für die erfolgreiche Benutzung eines
Wörterbuchs zu sein.
In vorliegendem Wörterbuch, das in dem Band
die S. 57-301 ausmacht, zeigt sich die Benutzer-
freundlichkeit in vielen Punkten:
- Es werden homonyme Wörter durch eine
hochgesetzte Ziffer differenziert. Es werden dabei
Homonyme auch in solchen Fällen unterschieden,
wo man in historischer Perspektive eher einen Zu-
sammenhang sehen würde. So wird z. B. zwischen
hiyx [hiy] “Wurzel, Faser” und hiy3 “Verwandte(r),
Familie”, zwischen hol1 “Ärger, Streit” und hol2
“Arbeit, Mühe” und zwischen käl1 “Knöchel” und
käl2 “Selbst, Ego” (nur in einer Redewendung “er
ist schwach in kal2” d. h. “er ist selbstsüchtig”)
unterschieden, obwohl man in diesen Fällen eher
eine Verbindung herstellen würde. Der rein syn-
Anthropos 96.2001
592
Berichte und Kommentare
chrone Ansatz, der den Bedürfnissen der Sprecher
gerecht wird, hat jedoch den Vorteil, daß jeder
selbst Homonyme zu Gruppen zusammenfassen
kann.
- Für viele Wörter werden instruktive Bei-
spielsätzchen gegeben. Diese machen keinen kon-
struierten Eindruck; sie sind vielmehr aus den
erwähnten Rendille-Publikationen entnommen. Es
werden erfreulicherweise auch zahlreiche Sprich-
wörter und Redewendungen geboten, z. B. Waakh
miksiin mä rannyo “Gott [wääx] weist nicht die
Armen ab” (nny [hh]). Daraus wurde übrigens die
Gottesbezeichnung: Miskiimmarännyo.
- Es werden viele Begriffe durch Skizzen ver-
deutlicht. So dürfte es sehr schwierig sein, die
Handbewegung für “sechs” {lih) oder “sieben”
(.teebä) bzw. auch für die anderen Zahlwörter
(108), eine Neumondzeremonie {Maänti Haye De-
latte oder verkürzt: Häy), einen Milchbehälter aus
Holz (soröor), einen traditionellen Ohrring für
Männer (lahaägti nabaheet), einen geflochtenen
Milchbehälter (murüub), einen großen Wasser-
behälter (haandn) u. v. a. ohne Verwendung von
Bildern zu beschreiben. Die Zeichnungen sind
dabei den originalen Rendille-Publikationen ent-
nommen, deren Aufzählung die Autoren uns vor-
enthalten.
- Es werden zu den Lexemen auch Synonyme
und sogar Antonyme gegeben. So steht bei ruusän
“fett” der Verweis auf rukkhän [rüxxän] “mager”.
- Es wird immer auf verwandte Formen hinge-
wiesen. So stehen bei dem erwähnten ruusän “fett”
Verweise auf rurruusän (reduplizierte Form), ruüsi
(’’Fettigkeit, Fettsein”), ruusa (“fett sein”) und
ruusicha (“fett machen”).
- Bei Verben werden oftmals die von der Zi-
tierform (der 1. sg. des Impf.) abweichenden For-
men angeführt. So wird unter kädagcha [käcfägcä\
“verbergen” der Imperativ kädagi, die 2. sg. käda-
gissa, die 1. pl. des Impf, kädaginna und der
Stamm (kädagich) angegeben. Bei furma “sich
öffnen” werden die 3. f.sg. furanta (< *furam-ta),
die 1. pl. furanna (< *furam-na) sowie der Stamm
(furam) zitiert.
- Es wird die Valenz des Verbs vermerkt. Es
werden die drei Klassen transitiv, intransiv und
ditransitiv (mit zwei Ojekten) unterschieden.
- Abgeleitete oder zusammengesetzte Verbal-
formen werden analysiert. Bei kärooricha oder
körooricha “jem. veranlassen, etw. zu fürchten”
findet sich der Eintrag “[Analysis: kä+roor+ich+a
‘cause to be afraid of’]”. Die abgeleiteten Ver-
balstämme werden alle als solche markiert. Außer
dem Grundstamm mit den Unterklassen transitiv,
intransitiv und ditransitiv sind es die Ableitungen
des Kausativs, Reflexiv-Mediums, Neutral-Passi-
vums, Passivums und Inchoativs (s. u.), die auch
jeweils miteinander kombiniert werden können.
- Jede Besonderheit, die sich aus dem Zusam-
mentreffen bestimmter Konsonanten ergibt, wird
bei dem jeweiligen Verb und auch bei der unre-
gelmäßig erscheinenden Verbalform verzeichnet,
wie bei rucchülahe [rùccûlàhè], 2. sg. rucchüssahe
“klein sein”. Dies ist im Grunde keine unregelmä-
ßige Form, da ss aus It (und somit letztere Form
aus *rucchül-tahe) entstanden ist. Das Verbum
gadda [gàdidià] “(ver)kaufen” ist der reflexive
T-Stamm von gata “schicken”, strukturell also als
*gatda (wie khalda “für s. schlachten” von khala)
anzusetzen. Man findet dort nicht nur verschie-
dene Formen dieses Verbs (wie 2. sg. gatatta <
gat-at-ta, wobei -at- das Reflexivmorphem ist),
sondern die unregelmäßig erscheinenden Verbal-
formen sind auch noch einzeln verzeichnet. Ein
solches Verfahren ist bei anderen Wörterbüchern
unüblich. Es hat eine lange Tradition, ein Verb nur
in einer Form im Lexikon erscheinen zu lassen und
für alle anderen Angaben auf die Grammatik zu
verweisen. So sind in dem bewährten “Der kleine
Stowasser” (München 1958 usw.) und vielen an-
deren lateinisch-deutschen (Schul-)Wörterbüchern
alle Verben nur in der 1. sg. des Präsens angege-
ben, wobei der Infinitiv, der sonst als Zitationsform
gilt, nicht alphabetisch verzeichnet ist. Der Infini-
tiv erscheint nur, wenn er unregelmäßig ist, und
dann wird er nur im jeweiligen Haupteintrag (wie
bei ferö, ferre “tragen”) vermerkt, ohne daß von
ferre auf das Verb verwiesen würde. Auch für
andere Sprachen wäre es eine hilfreiche Neuerung,
ein Wörterbuch so benutzer- und anfängerfreund-
lich zu gestalten, wie es bei dem Wörterbuch des
Rendille geschehen ist.
- Segmentierbare Morpheme, die als Präfixe
und Suffixe - meist beim Verb - erscheinen,
werden im Lexikon berücksichtigt. So wird unter
a-2 das negative Verbalpräfix des Imperativs (z. B.
a-maälin “melk nicht” von maala “melken”) und
unter -a2 das pluralische Imperativsuffix (z. B.
maäla “melkt!”) erwähnt. Unter t- und -t werden
die verschiedenen personalen Affixe des präfigie-
renden bzw. suffigierenden Verbums behandelt. Es
ist bemerkenswert, daß so wenige Grammatiken
und Wörterbücher an die Bedürfnisse der Anfänger
und nur gelegentlichen Benutzer denken. Selbst in
einem Englisch-Wörterbuch sollten solche Formen
wie is “ist” und are “sind” verzeichnet sein, wie
vielmehr erst in Wörterbüchern und Grammatiken
semitohamitischer Sprachen, die von den wenig-
sten ja in der Absicht der Spracherlernung zur
Hand genommen werden, sondern gewöhnlich le-
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
593
diglich inbezug auf bestimmte Fragen konsultiert
werden.
- Beim Substantiv werden die Pluralformen so-
wohl beim Singular als auch getrennt (mit Verweis
auf den Singular) angeführt.
- Ein Substantiv wird näher bestimmt durch das
Genus, die Zugehörigkeit zu einer der insgesamt
drei Deklinationsklassen und durch das enklitische
Determinativ. So bedeutet z. B. “i'nam N1 (M -
ki)" “Junge, Sohn”, daß es sich um ein maskulines
Substantiv der 1. Deklinationsklasse mit dem De-
terminativ ki, das vor einem folgenden abhängigen
Element verwendet wird, handelt; vgl. “inäm N1
(F - ti)" “(unverheiratetes) Mädchen”. Die enkli-
tischen Determinative m. -ki oder -i, f. ti, pl. hi
[hi] (d. i. m. -k-i oder -0-i, f. t-i, pl. h-i), welche
sich durch ein auslautendes -i auszeichnen, treten
nur an ein Substantiv, das durch ein folgendes
Element, nämlich ein Substantiv im Genetiv, ein
Adjektiv oder einen Relativsatz, determiniert wird.
Durch die Angabe dieses enklitischen Determi-
nativs ist auch die Bildung der anderen Determina-
tive vorgegeben. Denn diese beginnen auch jeweils
mit -k-, -0-, -t- und -h. Beim unbestimmten Artikel
(m. -koö oder -oö, f. toö, pl. hoo) wird so jeweils
-oö angehängt.
Nur in einem unbedeutenden Fall scheinen mir
die Angaben in dem Wörterbuch nicht ausreichend
zu sein. Wenn nämlich bei der Angabe der De-
terminativendung nicht klar wird, ob der Auslaut-
konsonant des Substantivs vor der Endung erhal-
ten bleibt oder mit dem konsonantischen Auslaut
verschmilzt. Im Falle von “¿7 (F - ssi)", pl. indö
“Auge” muß man - z. B. nach Schlee 1978: 128 -
wissen, daß hier das auslautende l getilgt wird
(issi); es liegt hier nämlich die synchrone Lautregel
*/r > ss vor. Daneben existiert ein ‘77 (M - i)",
pl. ildl, welches “Land” bedeutet. Dies erinnert
einen an das (Türkei-)Türkische, wo el sowohl
“Land” als auch einen Körperteil (hier “Hand”)
bezeichnet. Allerdings ist die Aussprache des Vo-
kals bei dem Wort für “Land” geschlossener als
in dem für “Hand”, was in anderen Turksprachen
auch in der unterschiedlichen Orthographie zum
Ausdruck kommt, vgl. im eng verwandten, mit
kyrillischen Lettern geschriebenen Azerbaidscha-
nischen oji “Hand” mit eji “Land”.
4- Die Verbalklassen
Die Verben werden in der 1. sg. des Imperfektivs
zitiert, wobei in der englischen Übersetzung (und
auch hier) der Infinitiv erscheint. Einige Beispiele
für die verschiedenen Arten von Verbalstämmen:
suffigierendes Verb im Grundstamm: fukkha \füxxä\
“zerbrechen (intr.)”,
suffigierendes Verb im reflexiv-medialen T-Stamm: kar-
sada [kärsäclä] “(für sich selbst) kochen”,
suffigierendes Verb im kausativen C (< *S)-Stamm:
gu’duu dicha [güdüüdicä\ “rot (gu’duu’dän) ma-
chen”,
suffigierendes Verb im kausativ-reflexiven ST-Stamm:
khonnokhsada [xönnöxsäclä] “für sich zerknüllen”,
suffigierendes Verb im kausativ-intransitiven SM-
Stamm: khonnokhsama “zerknüllt, gepreßt werden”,
suffigierendes Verb im intransitiv-passiven M-Stamm:
’dubma “(von selbst) geröstet werden” (vgl. trans.
5duba “rösten”),
suffigierendes Verb im passiven NM-Stamm: ’dubnama
“(von jem.) geröstet werden”, furnama oder (mit
Metathese) furmana “geöffnet, gelöst werden”,
suffigierendes Verb im denominalen inchoativen W-
Stamm: khVdowa [xidöwä ] “Unsicherheit ikhid)
fühlen”, 5heebowa [heebdwä], eebowa “beschämt
sein, Scham (5heebo [heebö], eebo) empfinden”,
suffigierendes Verb im reduplizierten Grundstamm: dad-
daaga [c[äclcläägä] (< *daag-daag-a) “immer wie-
der hören (daaga)”, furfura “lösen, öffnen”,
suffigierendes Verb im reduplizierten T-Stamm: furfurda
(< *fur-fur-at-a) “für sich öffnen”,
hybrides Verb, das sich aus einem verbalen Adjektiv
und der Kopula (ahe “ich bin”) zusammensetzt:
husüb-ahe [hüsüb-ähe] “neu (husüb) sein”,
hybrides Verb mit redupliziertem Stamm: hahhaaggän-
ahe [hähhääggän-ähe] (< *haag-haagän, vgl. häag
< *hdagg “Schönheit”) “(mit pluralischer Referenz)
schön (hahhaaggän) sein”,
präfigierendes Verb: amiit “kommen” mit den beiden
Perfektivstämmen imiy und imaat-.
5. Die präfigierenden Verben
Die präfigierenden Verben des Rendille sind von
besonderer Bedeutung, da diese Art der Konju-
gation vom Norden des kuschitischen Sprachge-
bietes, d. i. vom Becfauye, ausgehend im Süden
immer seltener wird. Erstaunlicherweise gibt es
nun im ganz südlich gelegenen Rendille immerhin
noch “13 basic prefixing verbs” dieser Art. Es sind
dies, wie eine Durchsicht des Lexikons zu Tage
fördert (auf das Imperfektiv folgt, durch ein Semi-
kolon abgetrennt, das Perfektiv, welches oftmals
zwei Ausprägungen aufweist):
a’adeeh; V idaah, -idaah- “viel oder oft erzählen, sa-
gen”,
aal; iill “leben, wohnen”,
abhuub [äbhüüb]; ubhub, ubhaab- “trinken”,
abuu’d \äbüüd]; ubu’d, ubaa’d “können”,
adeeh [äc[eeh]; idah, idaah- “sagen, erzählen”,
agiis; igis, igaas- “töten”,
aham; uhum “essen”,
Vithropos 96.2001
594
Berichte und Kommentare
ahe, (mit Vokalangleichung) ehe; eheneet, eheet, aha-
naay “sein”,
amiit; imiy, imaat- “kommen” (s. u. kd-amiit),
amuut; umuy-, umaat- “sterben”,
an d; iri’d “rennen” (teilweise ersetzt durch das suffi-
gierende Verb orya, s. u.) (s. u. kä-and),
asassil; isissil, isissaall- (S. 69; die Form isissall- auf
S. 161 ist wohl ein Druckfehler) “halten (intr.)”,
assil; issil, issaall- “setzen, legen”,
ateeh; itah, itaah- “werden”,
is-agiis; is-igis, is-igaas- “sich selbst töten” (3. f. / 2.
sg. is-tagiis) (Hier wäre es notwendig, das Präfix
is- “selbst” durch einen Strich von der eigentlichen
Verbalform zu trennen.),
is-aham; is-uhum “sich gegenseitig auffressen” (3. m.sg.
is-yaham),
kä-amiit; ki-imiy, ki-imaat- “herkommen von” - das
kä / &f-Präfix sollte durch einen Strich als solches
markiert werden -,
kä-arVd; ki-irVd “(an einem Platz) rennen” (3. m.sg.
kä-yind, mit vokalischer Angleichung ki-yind, ki-
iri d),
lee-ahe [lee-ähe] “haben, sein” (1. pl. lee-nahe).
In diese Liste der präfigierenden Verben wurden
auch die eine Weiterbildung darstellenden Verben
assil und asassil sowie die durch ein Verbalpräfix
(is- oder kä) erweiterten Verben aufgenommen.
Das Verb arVd; in d “rennen” scheint das ein-
zige präfigierende Verb zu sein, das auch Formen
an den Tag legt, die nach der Suffixkonjuga-
tion flektiert werden. Im Perfektiv wird anstelle
von *yiri’d oder *yiraa’d das suffigierende Verb
(*oriy-a >) orya, 3. f.sg. (*oriy-ta >) oriita ver-
wendet.
Die Zitationsform des Verbums ist die l.sg.
(a-) des Imperfektivs, die anderen Formen des
präfigierenden Verbs 3. f. / 2. sg. ta-, 3. m.sg. ya-,
1. pl. na-, 2. pl. ta-...(:)-iin, 3. pl. ya-...(:)-iin.
In den pluralischen Formen wird bei man-
chen Verben vor -iin der letzte Radikal des
verbalen Kernmorphems gelängt, z. B. taalliin
“ihr lebt/wohnt”, aber yabhuubiin [yäbhüübiin]
“sie trinken”. Eine Prüfung aller Beispiele zeigt,
daß die Längung des letzten Wurzelkonsonan-
ten nur bei / und bei allen auf / auslautenden
Wurzeln in Erscheinung tritt, d. s. (außer aal-)
assil- und asassil-. Die beiden zischlauthaltigen
Verben stellen zudem Kausativstämme zu aal-
dar. Daß in asassil- das Kausativmorphem doppelt
gesetzt wird (SS-Stamm, gebildet vom S-Stamm),
kennen wir zumindest aus dem Berberischen, vgl.
die doppelten Kausativbildungen:
isdssirdm “faire faire essayer” (Prasse 1973: 99),
isdssommdr “se chauffer au soleil” (ibid.: 96),
isdssdggdn “faire faire s’accroupir” (ibid.: 106).
Prasse äußert die Vermutung, daß doppelte Kau-
sativverben “pour une raison inconnue” besonders
bei Verben mit schwachem (d. i. geschwundenem)
erstem (oder, wie sich hinzufügen läßt) zweitem
Radikal vorkämen (1973:68). Ein Grund dafür
könnte darin liegen, daß z. B. isogon “faire s’ac-
croupir” (S-Stamm von igon “s’accroupir”) als
zu kurze Bildung (wenn nicht als dreiradikaliges
Verb) aufgefaßt wurde, so daß eine weitere S-Kau-
sativierung möglich wurde. In igon wäre der zwei-
te Radikal geschwunden (nach Prasse < *yaghiri).
Diese Rekonstruktion findet ihre außerberberische
Bestätigung durch das syrische Verb ghen mit glei-
cher Bedeutung; es ist fraglich, ob hier die altäthio-
pische Wurzel Vgwhn “verbergen”, gwdhan u. ä.
“Geheimnis” heranzuziehen ist. Es gibt nur wenige
SS-Formen von starken Verben, wie isossonkor “se
mettre en route avant le jour” (Prasse 1973: 92).
Eine solche Bildungsweise läßt sich gut nachvoll-
ziehen, indem nämlich die Ausgangsform isonkor
(das einfache Kausativ) als vierradikalige Verbal-
form des Typs iblonkds “é. garni de franges”,
ihhnkot “peigner” (202 f.) aufgefaßt wurde. Wenn
man von diesen Verben einen S-Stamm bildet,
so lautet das Imperfekt isdbbdlonkds, izohholonkot,
d. i. jeweils mit Längung des auf den Zischlaut
folgenden Konsonanten. Daraus ergibt sich die
Längung des Zischlautes auch im Falle des dop-
pelten Kausativs isossonkor.
Wenden wir dieses Modell auf das Rendille-
Verbum aal (3. m.sg. yaal, usw.) an, so können wir
einen schwachen Radikal an erster oder zweiter
Position vermuten. Es bietet sich die altäthiopische
slhlw “existieren, sein” an, deren zweiter Radikal
immer gelängt ist (02-Stamm halläwä, Impf, yo-
hellow). Wird nicht auch im Rendille beim Im-
perfektiv aal der Auslautradikal vor Pluralsuffixen
gelängt? Und weist der Perfektiv iill nicht als
einzige Perfektivform einen gelängten Auslautkon-
sonanten auf?
Die drei Verben aal-, assil- und asassil- schei-
nen nicht die einzigen präfigierenden Verben zu
sein, die einen morphologischen Zusammenhang
erkennen lassen. In dem Verb ateeh “werden” liegt
wohl ein T-Stamm des Seins verbs ahe vor; man
vergleiche den berberischen Tw-Stamm yättwolku
“é. méprisé”, zum Grundstamm ilku “mépriser”
(Prasse 1973: 115 ff.).
Es werden im Wörterbuch auch unregelmäßige
und lautlich weiterentwickelte Verbalformen an-
gegeben. So heißt “sie essen” nicht *yahamiin,
sondern yamhiin mit einer wohl regelmäßigen Me-
tathese, vgl. die Formen des suffigierenden Verbs
hamar- “zittern”: 2. sg. hamarta “du zitterst”, aber
(*hamara >) harma “ich zittere”. Andere Beispiele
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
595
für eine Metathese in Verbindung mit r sind dafär,
pl. (*dafarö >) darfö “Tuch, Stoff’, agarta “du
siehst”, aber arga (< *agar-a) “ich sehe, er sieht”,
yaharta “du hustest”, aber yarha (< *yahar-a) “ich
huste, er hustet”.
Der Liste der präfigierenden Verben ist das
konjugierte Hilfsverb hinzuzufügen, das bei den
suffigierenden Verben an den Verbalstamm tritt.
Es ist dies im Imperfektiv 3. m. / 1. sg. -a, 2. sg. /
3. f.sg. -ta; 1. pl. -na, 2. pl. -taan, 3. pl. -aan, und
im Perfektiv entsprechend -e, -te\ -ne, -teen, -een.
Auch diese beiden Morpheme sind dankenswerter-
weise im Wörterbuch verzeichnet (als -a2 und -e2)
und können dort von einem kuschitistisch weniger
Versierten nachgeschlagen werden.
6. Grammatik
Der grammatische Abriß (15-55) stellt die beste
Beschreibung der Grammatik des Rendille dar,
wenn auch aufgrund der Kürze nicht alle Proble-
me hinreichend dargelegt werden konnten. Einige
der folgenden Kritikpunkte erklären sich vielleicht
einfach dadurch.
Der pägagogische Ansatz kommt der Darstel-
lung zugute. Allerdings ist es nicht angebracht, mit
nicht-tonierten Beispielen und Beispielssätzen zu
beginnen, auch wenn in Klammern vermerkt wird,
die Gleichheit der angeführten Sätze mit unter-
schiedlicher Bedeutung gelte nur, solange die Töne
nicht berücksichtigt würden. Es handelt sich hier
nicht um einen Anfängerkurs, sondern um eine
Kurzgrammatik, die man immer wieder zu Rate
ziehen sollte. Die Tabelle auf S. 17 ist besonders
irreführend. Es ist die einzige Stelle im grammati-
schen Teil, in der die Formen des Genitiv Plurals
angeführt werden - und dann ohne Töne. Es dürfte
auch keine gelungene Formulierung sein, wenn es
heißt, der Genitiv würde durch Anhängung von
-aat, -eet, -iit, -oot oder -uut an Substantive mit
auslautendem -a, -e, -i, -o bzw. -u gebildet, wobei
diese Auslautvokale schwinden. Einfacher ausge-
drückt, wird ein -t an den gelängten Auslautvokal
gehängt (also -:t), z. B. wör, pl. worö “Brunnen”,
gen. pl. woroot (mit Akzentwechsel). Daß diese
Endung tieftonig ist, kann - lediglich mit Beispie-
len für ...e-et und ...a-at - der Deklinationstabelle
auf S. 39 entnommen werden.
Bei der Behandlung von Genus und Numerus
(21) legen die Verfasser besonderen Wert auf die
Feststellung, daß sie den Plural nicht als Katego-
rie des Numerus (im Gegensatz zum Singular),
sondern des Genus (im Gegensatz zum Mask.
und Fern.) betrachten. Damit gäbe es die drei
Genera Mask., Fern, und Pl. Übersehen wird dabei,
daß Mask. eigentlich für M. Sg. und Fern, für Fern.
Sg. steht, und beide in einer morphologischen
Relation zum Plural stehen. Zu der Idee eines
“plural gender” sind die Verfasser vielleicht durch
das Bantu gelangt, wo die Klassenaufteilung der
Nomina die Singular-Plural-Dichotomie anderer
Sprachen ersetzt.
Zweifelhaft ist auch die Konzeption eines
“common gender” (22), das vorliegen soll, wenn
ein Substantiv mit maskulinen Demonstrativa m.
und mit femininen Demonstrativa f. ist. So soll
das “common gender”-Substantiv waladl die Be-
deutungen 1. Bruder, 2. Schwester haben. Ich halte
es eher für einen historischen Zufall, daß hier nicht
die Betonung die Bedeutung differenziert (wie in
inam “Sohn” : inäm “Mädchen”), so daß eine
methodisch weniger aufwendige Beschreibung von
zwei Substantiven ausgeht: waladl (m.) “Bruder”,
walaali “Bruder von”, und waladl (f.) “Schwe-
ster”, walaassi (< *walaal-ti) “Schwester von”.
Wenn kein Demonstrativum oder keine Konkor-
danz auf das Genus hinweist, ist eine Entscheidung
nicht möglich (vgl. engl, sibling). Es gibt übrigens
auch Fälle, in denen im Singular ein tonaler
Unterschied zwischen Mask. und Fern, besteht
{maar “männl. Kalb”, f. maar “Färse”), welcher
im Plural aufgehoben ist (pl. maarö “(männl. u.
weibl.) Kälber”), ohne daß man hier - im Sinne der
Verf. - eine “common gender”-Kategorie ansetzen
muß.
7. Die tonalen Gegebenheiten beim Substantiv
Wichtig ist die Behandlung der tonalen Verhält-
nisse (22 f.). Der markierte Hochton, der in Op-
position zum unmarkierten Tiefton steht, kann -
nach Darstellung der Verf. - Wörter und auch
Sätze unterscheiden. Dies ist zweifellos richtig.
Sieht man sich jedoch die Beispiele an, findet
man - was die lexikalische Nutzung des Tones an-
langt - kaum Beispiele, wo der Ton etymologisch
unterschiedliche Wörter differenziert. So gehören
z. B. teeba “sieben” und teeba “Woche”, aram
“Ehemann” und aram “Ehefrau”, maar “männl.
Kalb” und dessen Feminin maar “Färse”, arab
“Elephant” und dessen Plural arab, bahag “Fisch”
und dessen Plural bahag in morphologischer Hin-
sicht zusammen. Man sieht, daß die Formen mit
finalem Hochton entweder Feminin oder Plural
sind:
Anthropos 96.2001
596
Berichte und Kommentare
m. : f.
äram “Ehemann” : aräm “Ehefrau”,
inam “Junge, Sohn” : inäm “Mädchen”,
mäar [määr] “männl. Kalb” : maär [määr < *määr]
“Färse”,
nyirakh, f. nyiräkh “Kamelfohlen”,
makhaäbal “Mann, Ehemann” : makhaabäl “Frau, Ehe-
frau”,
wähar, f. wahär “Ziege”.
Bei teebä “sieben” und teeba “Woche” scheint
die Beziehung umgedreht zu sein; denn das Zahl-
wort für “7” ist trotz seiner Endbetonung maskulin.
sg. : pl.
ärab, pl. ardb “Elefant”,
ütub, pl. utüb “curved house pole” (s. Abb. S. 287),
bähag, pl. bahäg “Fisch”,
ehel, pl. ehel “Esel”,
galtäam, pl. galtaäm “heiratsfähiges Mädchen”,
wejel, pl. wejel “Nashorn”,
lähaw, pl. lahäw “Holzpfeil”,
wärab, pl. wardb “Hammel”,
keleh, pl. keleh “kastrierter Bock”.
In beiden Fällen wird bei einem auf der Pä-
nultima betonten Wort im Feminin oder Plural der
Akzent (= Hochton) auf die letzte Silbe verlagert.
Als Grund dafür habe ich die Akzentverlagerung
auf die vorletzte Silbe und den Schwund einer
Endung im Feminin bzw. Plural angesehen, wo-
durch die betonte Silbe in den Auslaut geriet (Voigt
1985: 174 ff.):
äram “Ehemann”
+ Femininendung *-a(t) *äram-a
Akzentverlagerung *aräm-a
Elision des Auslautvokals aräm
Dasselbe gilt für die Pluralformen:
ärab “Elefant”
+ Pluralendung *-a(t) *ärab-a
Akzentverlagerung *aräb-a
Elision des Auslautvokals aräb
Für die Präferenz der Pänultimabetonung
spricht die gängige Pluralbildung folgenden Typs,
bei dem dieselbe Akzentverlagerung stattfindet,
der letzte Radikal dabei aber gelängt wird:
gä’dab, pl. ga’däbbe “großes Wasserloch”,
5damäam [dämääm], pl. ’damaämme “gierig”,
3daräam (< engl, drum), pl. 5daraämme “Trommel”,
yäbar, pl. yabärre “Seil”,
gblfof, pl. golföffe “Skelett”,
galtäam, pl. galtaämme “heiratsfähiges Mädchen”,
däbar [cjäbär], pl. dabärre “Rückgrat”,
miris, pl. mirisse “Wolke”,
3däbbal, pl. 3dabbälle “Kinn”,
gölol, pl. golölle “Essen”,
kär (< *kärr), pl. karärre “Hund”.
Der häufigste Typ ist Kv'K(K)vKj, pl. KvK(K)v'
KJifi-, galtäam hat die Struktur KvK.Kv'.vK (der
Punkt markiert die Morengrenze). Ich setze fol-
gende historische Entwicklung an:
*däbarr “Rückgrat”
Längenreduktion im Auslaut däbar i
+ Pluralendung *-a(t) *däbarr-a
Akzentverlagerung dabärre
Bei einem anderen gängigen Typ wird im Plural
der letzte Wurzelradikal wiederholt:
säm, pl. samäm “Nase”,
jit, pl. jität “Weg”,
meel [meel < *meel] (arab. mahall), pl. meeläl “Platz”,
öor, pl. oorär “Lastkamele”,
töor, pl. toorär “Speer” (mit Abb.),
miil, pl. miiläl “Körperteil”,
säab, pl. saabäb “schmale Lederstreifen”.
Dieser Pluraltyp läßt sich leicht schematisieren:
Kv'(v')Kh pl. KvvKjv'Ki. Die Ableitung:
*sämm “Nase”
Längenreduktion im Auslaut säm i
plural. Geminatenaufsprengung *sämam
+ Pluralendung *-a(t) *sämam-a
Akzentverlagerung *samäma
Elision des auslautenden Vokals samäm
Das Hauptmerkmal der beiden angeführten Plu-
ralbildungen war das angefügte -a, welches ich
als “feminines” singularisches *-at identifizieren
möchte. Daneben wird auch das “feminine” plura-
lische *-aat verwendet, das im Auslaut zu (*-oo
>) -o wird.
gämbar, pl. gambarö “Kamelhöcker”,
nyirakh, pl. nyirkhö “Kamelfohlen”,
wähar [wähär], pl. waharö “Ziegenbock”.
Man beachte, daß im Plural der zweite Vokal
des Singulars manchmal getilgt wird. Die Gründe
dafür liegen wohl im Lautlichen. Die Vokalelision
tritt nicht ein, wenn die Silbenstruktur dem ent-
gegensteht (wie bei einem unmöglichen °gambrö)
oder wenn bestimmte Konsonantenfolgen (wie hr
in °wahrö) nicht erlaubt sind.
Ein Untertyp zeichnet sich durch die Betonung
der letzten Silbe aus, während der Plural (mit
oder ohne vokalische Elision) mit dem zuletzt
genannten Pluraltyp (KvK(v)Kv') übereinstimmt:
yaäf [yääf < *yääf\, pl. yaafö “Stamm, Volk”,
bihin, pl. bihinö “Bogen”,
ilim, pl. ilmö “Träne”,
matäg, pl. (*matgö >) magtö “Reibeholz”,
jilib, pl. jilbö “Knie”.
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
597
Ich setze hier im Singular die Femininendung
*-¿7(7) an, die später geschwunden ist:
*dafär-a(t) “Tuch, Stoff ’
Vokalelision im Auslaut dafür i
-a(t), pl. *-aa(t) *dafär-aa(t)
Lautwandel *aa(t) > *-oo > - o *dafdr-o
Akzentverlagerung *dafarö
Vokalelision *dafrö
Konsonantenmetathese darfö
Ein Großteil der nominalen Pluralbildung läßt
sich also leicht erklären, wenn man davon ausgeht,
daß Substantive auf der letzten langen Silbe (z. B.
pl. darfö) bzw. auf der vorletzten Silbe, wenn
die letzte kurz ist (z. B. sg. nyiraklr, pl. mirisse),
betont werden. In allen Fällen, wo eine betonte
Silbe im Auslaut steht, wird die Feminin- bzw.
Pluralendung *-at (oder *-ei) angesetzt. Dies wird
bei der femininen- Singularklasse des Typs inäm
“Mädchen” (< *inäm-at) durch den Nominativ-
kasus bestätigt, der iname (< *inam-a(t)) lautet.
Andere Beispiele für diese Klasse sind:
(f.) chimbir (< *chimbir-at), pl. chimbirö (< *chimbir-
adt) “Spatz, kl. Vogel”,
(f.) geleb (< *geleb-at), pl. gelebö (< *geleb-aät), Nach-
mittag”.
Schon Oomen (Sim and Oomen 1981) hat dar-
auf hingewiesen, daß ein Dental in dieser Klas-
se auch im Genitiv belegt ist. Der Genitiv von
inäm lautet iname et (bei Oomen inamet). Der
Dental ist wohl wegen eines ursprünglichen, später
weggefallenen Vokals erhalten geblieben (etwa <
*inam-eeti < *inam-ati)\ die Längung des Vokals
vermag ich nicht zu erklären.
Im Fall von ärab, pl. aräb “Elefant” zeichnet
sich der Plural durch eine “singularische” Feminin-
endung aus (< *aräb-at).
Die Beziehung zwischen ebba “niemand” und
ebbd “jeder” gründet sich auf die zwischen bä
“jeder” und der Negativpartikel bä. Die Opposition
zwischen eleel [eleel], einer Form des Verbs eleela
ein-, überholen” und eleel [eleel] “Muschel” ist
rein zufälliger Natur.
8* Fokus und Kasus
^ei der Behandlung des Fokus (23 f.) ist die Fest-
stellung wichtig, daß jeder Satz eine Fokuspartikel
enthalten muß. Dies ist entweder ein präfigiertes
°ftmals vor einer Verbalform stehendes ä-, wel-
ches vor einem vokalischen Anlaut die Form V-
^at (z. B. i-irda < *ä irda “ich gehe (gerade)”)
°der ein suffigiertes -e, welches nach einem voka-
lischem Auslaut die Form -v' hat (z. B. irti von irti
“Perle” mit Akzentwechsel).
Bei den Kasus (26 ff.) wird zwischen der Zi-
tationsform, die gewählt wird, wenn ein Wort in
Isolation gesprochen wird, dem Nominativ, dem
Akkusativ und dem Genitiv unterschieden. Für den
Akkusativ schlagen die Verf. aus zwei Gründen
den Terminus Absolutus vor. Zum einen sei er mit
der Zitationsform identisch. Weshalb wird dann,
wenn dem so wäre, die Zitationsform vom Abso-
lutus unterschieden? In der Tabelle (39) wird von
allen Nominalklassen sowohl die Zitationsform
als auch der Absolutus angegeben, auch wenn
beide sich nur in einem Fall unterscheiden (cit.
hoolä, abs. hoola “Herde”). Zum anderen werde
der Absolutus auch für den “Dativ” verwendet, wie
in Konstruktionen mit dem Verb siicha “jem. etwas
geben”. Hier erscheint zwar in der Übersetzung ein
Dativ; man kann das Verb aber auch als doppelt
transitiv bezeichnen, da es zwei Akkusative nach
sich zieht. Auch wenn der Terminus Absolutus
eine kuschitistische Tradition hat, scheint mir die
Bezeichnung Akkusativ in diesem Fall einfacher
und treffender zu sein. Man wundert sich über die
Einführung eines “Dativ”s, haben doch die Verf.
solche doppelt transitiven Verben - sinnvollerwei-
se - doch selbst als ditransitiv klassifiziert.
9. Verbalpräfixe
Eine Besonderheit des Rendille sind die Verbalprä-
fixe. Es lassen sich folgende Fälle unterscheiden.
Bestimmte einsilbige Präfixe werden prä- und suf-
figierenden Verbalformen vorangestellt:
- zur Ergänzung der Verbalhandlung: Direktiv
(soö- “zu”), Instrumental (kä- “mit etwas”), Komi-
tativ (lee- “mit jem.”, z. B. Jiira Röoble lee-yimiy
“Jiirä kam (yimiy) mit Röoble”), “Reflexiv” (is-
“s. selbst”, z. B. is-yagiis “er tötet s. selbst”),
- zur Bezeichnung eines direkten Objekts oder
eines benefaktiven Objekts, wobei der Ton hier
eine entscheidende Rolle spielt, z. B. usü i-’hele
[üsü i-hele] “er fand mich” gegenüber usü i-’hele
“er fand (es) für mich / ihn” (23),
- zur Impersonalisierung der Verbalaussage
(.la-).
Es können mehrere Verbalpräfixe der Art ge-
bündelt werden, z. B. i-kä-soö-weyne “wir (-ne)
trieben (wey-) (das Vieh) für ihn (7-) von (kä-) (da)
nach (soö-) (dort)”.
Den grammatikalischen Outline beschließt eine
umfangreiche Sammlung von Tabellen und Para-
digmen der Nominalklassen (mit den vier “Ka-
sus”), den Personalpronomina, den verschiedenen
598
Berichte und Kommentare
Klitika, den Zahlwörtern und - vor allem - den
präfigierenden, suffigierenden, hybriden und unre-
gelmäßigen Verben (insges. S. 15-53).
10. Englisch-Rendille-Wörterverzeichnis
Der “Englisch-Rendille Index” (303-414) ist eine
Umdrehung des Rendille-Wörterbuchs. Er erweist
sich nicht nur als nützliches Hilfsmittel bei der
Arbeit mit dem Wörterbuch und dem grammati-
kalischen Abriß, sondern er bietet auch Informa-
tionen, die erst mühselig aus dem Wörterbuch zu-
sammengesucht werden müßten. Es sei besonders
verwiesen auf die Liste der Bezeichnungen für
Kamele und Kamelkälber (weitere Wörter finden
sich unter dem Eintrag young camel), die Liste der
Zeremonien, die Clannamen, die Monatsnamen,
die Wochentage (s. week) und die Zusammenstel-
lung der greetings and farewells.
Eine Karte (56) zeigt das Verbreitungsgebiet der
Rendille in Kenya. Es ist verdienstvoll, daß auch
die Ortsnamen in einheimischer Lautung wieder-
gegeben werden.
Es wäre zu wünschen, wenn die meisterhafte
Durchdringung des Stoffes, die sich in diesem
Werk zeigt, auch bald in einer ausführlichen Gram-
matik dieser so archaisch anmutenden kuschiti-
schen Sprache ihren Niederschlag finden würde.
Zitierte Literatur
Heine, B.
1975-76 Notes on the Rendille Language (Kenya). Afrika und
Übersee 59: 176-223.
1980 Language and Dialect Atlas of Kenya.Vol. 2: The Non-
Bantu Languages of Kenya. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer
Verlag.
Pillinger, S.
1989 Accent, Tone, and Prosodie Structure in Rendille, with
Particular Reference to the Nominal System. [Unpub-
lished Ph. D. Thesis, University of London]
1991 Chiirnáan Mújjunkiissa: Rendille Spelling Guide. Nai-
robi: Bible Translation & Literacy. [2nd ed.]
1995 Aß Ren’dille abán: A Rendille Grammar Outline. Part
I. Nairobi: Bible Translation & Literacy.
Pillinger, S., and L. Galboran
1999 A Rendille Dictionary, including a Grammatical Outline
and an English-Rendille Index. Köln: Rüdiger Koppe
Verlag. (Kuschitische Sprachstudien, 14)
Prasse, K.-G.
1973 Manuel de grammaire touarègue. VI-VII [d. i. Bd. 3]:
Verbe. Copenhague: Editions de l’Université de Copen-
hague.
Schlee, G.
1978 Sprachliche Studien zum Rendille. Hamburg: Buske
Verlag.
Sim, R. J., and A. Oomen
1981 Morphophonemics of the Verb in Rendille (by R. J.
Sim). Gender and Plurality in Rendille (by A. Oomen).
Malibu: Undena Publications. (Afroasiatic Linguistics,
8,1)
Stowasser, J. M.
1958 Der kleine Stowasser. Lateinisch-deutsches Schulwör-
terbuch (bearb. von M. Petschenig). München: Freytag.
Voigt, R.
1985 Besprechung von Sim and Oomen 1981. Zeitschrift der
Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 135: 163—
178.
Report on the Seventh North
Americanist Conference
Dagmar Siebelt
The seventh annual meeting of German-speak-
ing North Americanists, organized and chaired
by Peter Bolz, took place at the “Ethnologisches
Museum” in Berlin from 6-8 October 2000.
Peter Bolz (Berlin) not only held the open-
ing speech, but also the first of five lectures
on Saturday’s theme “Exhibitions.” Together with
Hans-Ulrich Sanner (Berlin), he had prepared the
first permanent exhibition of the North American
Collection at the “Ethnologisches Museum Berlin”
since the early 1940s, which extends over about
1,000 m2 and had opened in November 1999.
As the North America Collection with almost
30,000 objects from 220 collections is a quite
large and important one, only a very small part
could be exhibited. The collection’s heterogeneity
and the idea of not confusing the public led to a
concentration on 4 cultural areas, viz. Prairie and
Plains, Southwest, Northwest Coast, and Arctic.
The sectors covering the cultural areas are framed
by, e.g., prehistoric objects as well as others
showing cliché images of North American Indians
in the entrance area and contemporary paintings
representing today’s Indians at the exit.
The stereotypes involved in the image of Native
North Americans are increasingly made the theme
of exhibitions in order to heighten the visitors’
awareness of their existence. On several occasions,
Richard Kelly (Berlin) arranged sections on the
subject. As the clichés changed during time from
noble or bloodthirsty savages to militant activists
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
599
and ecological saints, the range of stereotypes
grew. Another field of growing importance in
exhibitions is the multimedia sector which Kelly
also put forward for discussion. Both topics were
lively debated by the participants. Concerning the
clichés, opinions were divergent. One discussant
suggested using them as a starting point to correct
such ideas, another even thought that we should be
glad about them because they attract visitors, and
one stated that the stereotypes were so strong that
they might conceal reality. With Kelly’s example
of a showcase decorated like a playroom in mind,
one might tend to support the last statement, espe-
cially at the sight of visitors who will probably
mainly remember having recognized books and
toys they themselves had possessed when they
were young. Regarding the multimedia tendency in
exhibitions, opinions also varied. Some discussants
were rather negative about the employment of
multimedia, others would like to use them to a
certain degree.
Tina Wodinig (Zurich) focused on the concept
of exhibitions drawing on examples from the “In-
dianermuseum Zürich.” Although this museum is,
of course, not only a museum for children, many of
the visitors are children or families, who often plan
to spend a whole afternoon at the museum. As
the institution doesn’t have a special section for
children, but doesn’t want to ignore their wishes,
the staff tries to consider both adults’ and chil-
dren’s interests when organizing exhibitions. Thus,
they, e.g., frequently integrated objects the visitors
could touch and play with into their exhibitions.
By means of slides Wodinig graphically described
the results of their efforts: As the visitors readily
seized each of the opportunities offered, in some
cases objects and maps were no longer visible
due to larger clusters of people standing in front
of them. In one case the public even grinded
corn with a Hopi grinding stone (mano) and slab
(metate) which the staff originally had intended
to be for decoration only. After having considered
what further damage might be caused by this and
whether there was any substitute available, the
Museum decided to provide more corn. The views
concerning hands on objects expressed in the dis-
cussion following this lecture also ranged from
Partial acceptance to complete rejection. As adults
are open to such experiences, too, they should not
be restricted to children’s education. Moreover,
in the right dose their integration into exhibitions
should not result in diminishing people’s interest
f°r other objects. Still, every exhibition is more or
less an experiment, because the public’s reaction
ls foreseeable only to a certain degree.
Anthropos 96.2001
The same applies to an exhibition of Inuit ma-
terial from Greenland at the “Museum für Völker-
kunde” in Vienna, which was prepared and pre-
sented by Verena Traeger (Vienna). In this case, the
visitors were afraid to sit down on a fur which was
intended for this purpose, but had touched a kayak
and had stepped into a house - both reactions
were not intended and hence, soon prevented by
barriers. With regard to the exhibition in general,
about 90% of the museum’s Inuit collection came
from Greenland, so it presented itself to focus on
this material in an exhibition which was opened
to the public in 1992. Hence, objects from Alaska
and Canada are exhibited only in a small room,
together with some general information and a few
showcases at an eye level suitable for children,
which contain toys and school materials from
twentieth-century Greenland Inuit. A larger show-
room is dedicated to the Greenland exhibits which
were mainly arranged according to the economic
year of the Greenland Inuit. One highlight of this
exhibition is a house which was built in 1950,
abandoned in 1975, and afterwards found its way
to the museum’s collection together with some
personal belongings left behind by the former
inhabitants. A tape of their voices could be heard
until the supervisory staff could no longer stand
the continuous repetitions, but visitors can still
smell at some dried fish. All in all, judging from
Traeger’s remarks and slides, the exhibition leaves
a good impression.
Eike de Vries (Bremen) dedicated her paper to
another kind of exhibition: The “Übersee-Muse-
um” in Bremen had difficulties with the storage
room for their collections which, among other
things, was so contaminated that stays there were
only possible for a limited period of time. After
some coming and going, a new building on a
neighboring site now houses a visible storage as
well as a cinema. The storage, which presently
contains about 15,000 objects and eventually will
include approximately 20,000 items, is arranged
according to continents, collections, and material
or purpose of the exhibits. The objects are all
kept under identical conditions. They are exhibited
with minimum captions including only the type of
object, the inventory number, the ethnic affiliation,
and the continent. Visitors will have access to
further information on all objects exhibited at eight
PCs in the future. As also indicated by its name,
the museum was a typical crammed overseas mu-
seum which was cleared out for aesthetic reasons
in the 1970s, so the open magazine complies with
Bremen’s inhabitants’ wish to see more of the
museum’s collections. The subsequent discussion
600
Berichte und Kommentare
got to the heart of it: The storage problem is
solved adequately, but possibilities for research are
limited because no qualified personnel is available
for the magazine.
As to the topics discussed, the papers delivered
on Sunday varied a great deal. Karin Berning (Ber-
lin) opened the session with a detailed summary
of the origin myth of the Messenger Feast from
Kauwerak, which was the main village of the
Qaviaragmiut. Among the Qaviaragmiut and some
other Native North Alaskan neighbors the Messen-
ger Feast, that expressed the relationship between
man and his animated environment, was celebrated
in a more or less similar way. Berning illustrated
her report with pictures of objects involved in the
ceremony. In this way, she stressed the cultural
context to which an item belongs, an aspect which
is sometimes neglected.
In her paper on the whaling revival among
the Makah, Liane Gugel (Frankfurt/Main) dealt
with a theme which has led to severe arguments
among supporters and opponents. The Makah, who
live in the US-American part of the Northwest
Coast cultural area, have a contractual right to
whaling dating back to 1855, which they gave up
in 1926 as a result of the animals’ decimation by
commercial whalers. When in 1995 a stray whale
got caught in a Makah fishing net, they were
allowed to keep the animal, and started to think
about reviving whaling. The International Whaling
Commission rejected the Makah’s first application
arguing that it had been their own decision to
give up whaling and called in question the Makah
tradition and continuity in this field of hunting.
When the Makah brought to bear not only the
archaeological proven long-lasting whaling tradi-
tion in their territory but also the lack of jobs in the
fishing industry resulting from close seasons and
the wish to strengthen their disrupted community,
the IWC gave permission to the Makah to hunt 20
whales in a period of four years. The species con-
cerned is the Californian gray whale (Eschrichtius
robustus) counting approximately 26,000 animals.
Unfortunately, about 800 of them die each year
as a consequence of environmental pollution and
overfishing. On May 17, 1999 the Makah killed
a first whale under vehement protests of animal
welfarists. Two further hunts failed, and then the
permission was repealed. As the Makah will take
action against the prohibition, the matter is not
settled yet. The participants of the conference also
had different opinions on the subject; the greatest
problem concerning indigenous whaling is that
industrial nations like Norway and Japan also refer
to their tradition, even though in these cases the
whaling is carried out for commercial reasons
only.
Ruben Wickenhauser (Berlin), who has written
a novel for adolescents set among the Lakota
as well as a nonfiction work on Indian games,
provided a report on his reading experiences in
schools. In these readings, Wickenhauser had also
shown slides. He had held them in classes of pupils
from ten to twelve of various school types. The
children’s knowledge of certain aspects regard-
ing the aboriginal population of North America
differed considerably. For example, they knew that
the horse and the gun had been introduced by
Europeans, but they were not sure whether Native
North Americans still lived in tents and hunted.
The teachers’ comments were often reserved, but,
at the end of a reading, some stated that they also
hadn’t known all the facts. Furthermore, Wicken-
hauser mentioned the existence of two general
trends regarding fictional publications on Indians
for adolescents which are more or less equal -
one uses stereotypes and the other tries to impart
a sophisticated and correct image of Native North
American cultures.
Marin Trenk (Hanover) outlined his current
research on Christian Gottlieb Priber. This German
follower of early Enlightenment and utopian ideas,
born in 1697, was a lawyer and escaped his immi-
nent arrest by flight to England in 1730. From there
he went to Charleston, S.C., in 1735, which he
later left in order to live among the Cherokee in the
Southern Appalachians. He learned their language,
adapted to their way to dress and paint, and, within
a few years, obtained the position of one of their
aldermen. Priber tried to convince the Cherokee
of the dangers impending from the spreading of
the European colonies and of his ideas of a new
society, which included public property, equality
of men and women, and asylum for refugees. Espe-
cially the latter was not to the liking of the colonial
government, so he was arrested in 1743 and sent to
prison without preferment of a charge. He probably
died in jail in 1748, and it is doubtful whether
his writings still exist. Hence, Trenk depended
on the descriptions of Priber’s contemporaries as
well as on the inspection of records. Under these
circumstances, his investigation has been rather
successful up to now.
A critical study of two publications on the
abandonment of old people in North America
was offered by Anja Schulte (Frankfurt/Main)-
She traced 130 sources back to their origin with
interesting results. More than half of the quotations
are speculation; either later authors using them
read an abandonment into them where there is
Anthropos 96.2001
Berichte und Kommentare
601
no clear statement or the quotations themselves
are not trustworthy. A further large group of
quotations Schulte called into question included
cases in which it is difficult to decide whether
an old person was really left behind. It is evident
from the preceding that reliable quotations are very
rare. All of these few cases were from the cultural
areas of the Arctic and the Subarctic. Hence, the
abandonment of aged individuals actually didn’t
seem to occur as often as generally supposed, but
it should be taken into consideration that Schulte’s
viewpoint was a very critical one.
Rainer Hatoum (Markkleeburg) discussed the
question whether the powwow is a cultural ex-
pression of Pan-Indianism. To this end, he first
presented two opinions regarding Pan-Indianism
from the literature. In 1955, James Howard con-
sidered this development a sign of diminishing
tribal identity and the last phase preceding assimi-
lation. Ten years later, Robert Thomas interpreted
Pan-Indianism as the expression of a new identity.
Hatoum described the development of the Tulsa
Powwow in Oklahoma as an example of the dance
events in question. This intertribal city powwow
first took place in 1951 and, thus, can look back
on an eventful history. For instance, there was
a period of many different organizers succeeding
one another as well as one in which one ethnic
group was responsible for the organization of the
powwows, and whereas show and communication
with Whites was of great importance until the
1970s, the contest dances became the focus of
attention afterwards. Although powwows show a
lot of Pan-Indian traits, they also contain specif-
ic tribal elements. Whether the Pan-Indian traits
dominate in a specific powwow or not depends on
the occasion.
Having a long experience as an Indian hobbyist,
Curt-Dietrich Asten (Velten) made this field more
accessible to the circle of listeners. Early German
Indian hobbyists - the first club was founded in
1913 - were attracted by books of, e.g., Karl
May, James Fenimore Cooper, and James Willard
Schultz, carnival, and the presentation of Indian
groups in zoos and circuses. The further develop-
ment, which was only interrupted between 1937
and 1947, led the growing community to special-
ized literature - their main source of information.
Hence, a part of this circle acquired great knowl-
edge, generally first of material culture and later of
other fields as well. Through this knowledge and
as a consequence of their practical experience they
also have an expert eye for mistakes in exhibitions.
As many hobbyists have a rather modest school
education and their English is only average, these
persons are not readily accepted by academic
anthropologists. The latter might be one reason
why no German hobbyist came to be an authority
regarding Native North American material culture,
whereas some North Americans with similar roots
achieved scientific acceptance.
Veronica Ederer (Munich) presented three ex-
amples suggesting a reinforced cooperation be-
tween cultural and physical anthropology. The
first one perhaps provides evidence concerning
the question of what happened to the Greenland
Vikings, i.e., whether they were driven away by
the Inuit or assimilated. Human mortal remains
can contribute to this question. The second exam-
ple concerned the assumption of a similarity of
language and genetics because the longer an area
is settled the larger the diversity of both language
and genetics among the population. The last ex-
ample pointed to a parallel concerning the social
biology of insect states and some human societies.
Just as infertile insects take special care of their
siblings, maternal uncles particularly look after
their sister’s children in societies with a certain
degree of uncertainty regarding paternity - both
behavior patterns, at least, insure the promotion of
blood relations. This last lecture was followed only
by the announcement of next year’s conference
venue, Gottingen.
Anthropos 96.2001
158-159
avril/septembre
2001
L’HOUtlS
Revue française d’anthropologie
JAZZ ET ANTHROPOLOGIE
Présentation Jean Jamin & Patrick Williams
Le jazz comme anthropologie ?
Lucien Maison • Anne-Marie Mercier-Faivre & Yannick Séïté
Du style ethnique
Pascal Colard • Jean-Luc Jamard
Claude Macherel • Jean-François Baré
Une esthétique paradoxale
Xavier Daverat • Alexandre Pierrepont • Francis Hofstein
La vie à l’œuvre
REVUE TRIMESTRIELLE PUBLIÉE
PAR LES EDITIONS DE L’ÉCOLE
DES HAUTES ÉTUDES EN
SCIENCES SOCIALES
DIFFUSION Éditions du Seuil
VENTE au numéro en librairie 210 F
RÉDACTION Laboratoire d’anthro-
pologie sociale, 52 rue du Cardinal
Lemoine, 75005 Paris
Tel. (33) 01 44 27 17 34
Fax (33) 01 44 27 17 66
e-mail L.Homme@ehess.fr
Francis Marmande • Denis Laborde • Patrick Williams
Diffusion, réception, acclimatation
Olivier Roueff • Denis-Constant Martin
Michel Naepels • Jean Jamin
Glossaire et index des musiciens
établis par Jean Jamin & Patrick Williams
À Propos
Gaetano Garcia • Régis Meyran • Giordana Charuty
Margarita Xanthakou • Nicolas Menut
Comptes rendus
Rezensionen
Adam, Barbara, Ulrich Beck, and Joost Van Loon
(eds.): The Risk Society and Beyond. Critical Issues
for Social Theory. London: Sage Publications, 2000.
232 pp. ISBN 0-7619-6469-X. Price: £ 16.99
Der Sammelband geht zurück auf eine Tagung mit
dem Titel “Risk, Technologies, Futures”, die bereits
1996 an der Universität von Wales in Cardiff statt-
fand. Sie vereinte europäische und vorwiegend angel-
sächsische Sozialwissenschaftler, die sich kritisch mit
technischen/technologischen Entwicklungen auseinan-
der gesetzt hatten und je nach Standpunkt das Thema
Risikogesellschaft/Risikokultur thematisierten. Seit der
Veröffentlichung von Ulrich Becks “Risikogesellschaft”
(1986) wird insbesondere seit dessen Übersetzung ins
Englische Anfang der neunziger Jahre Risiko nicht nur
von Versicherungsexperten und einigen wenigen Fach-
leuten diskutiert, sondern auch in weiten Kreisen der
Öffentlichkeit.
Bereits in den siebziger Jahren begann Niklas Luh-
mann in seinen Vorlesungen über Gefahren (hazards)
und Risiken zu sprechen, die dann 1995 in einem Band
zusammengefasst wurden. Außerdem veröffentlichten
Mary Douglas und Aaron Wildavsky 1983 gemeinsam
ihr Buch “Risk and Culture”. Aber erst mit Becks
Beitrag wurde die Debatte um die Risikogesellschaft
breiter geführt, was sicherlich auch damit zusammen-
hing, dass in der Zwischenzeit Katastrophen wie in
Tschernobyl, Windscale/Sellafield, Bhopal, Seveso -
um nur einige zu nennen - stattgefunden hatten und in
der Öffentlichkeit diskutiert wurden. Seitdem sind wei-
tere kritische Entwicklungen in der Gentechnologie, der
Reproduktions-, Bio- und Kommunikationstechnologie
hinzugekommen.
In ihren Beiträgen nehmen alle Autoren Bezug auf
Becks Werk, um die dort enthaltenen Thesen weiter-
zuentwickeln. Sie reichen von soziopolitischen und so-
ziowissenschaftlichen Themen, die mit diesen Techno-
logien Zusammenhängen, und durch die gesamte gegen-
wärtige Existenz, vom Körperlichen und Persönlichen
zum Familialen, Öffentlichen und Globalen, wobei alle
Autoren diese nunmehr schlichten Auftrennungen in
Teilbereiche angesichts des alles umfassenden Risiko-
Themas zu überwinden suchen.
Gleichzeitig soll das Buch, nach den Worten der
Herausgeber, der “Social Theory” (die definiert wird als
an organized abstraction of sense-making practices”;
10) einen wichtigeren Platz innerhalb des wissenschaft-
lichen (und politischen) Kanons sichern helfen, indem
gezeigt werden soll, was diese Wissenschaft angesichts
komplexer Sachverhalte an Potential entwickeln kann,
um zu einem besseren Verständnis der Risikogesell-
schaft und ihrer zukünftigen Implikationen zu kommen
- und dann auch noch gehört zu werden! Risikoeinschät-
zung ist damit nicht nur ein Rechenexempel für Verwal-
tungs- und Versicherungsexperten, sondern ein allgemei-
nes Gut, das erst durch unterschiedliche Reflexionen,
etwa einerseits von Laien, andererseits von Experten, in
seinem ganzen Umfang geleistet werden kann.
Die außergewöhnlich ausführliche Einleitung von
Barbara Adam und Joost Van Loon mit dem Titel
“Repositioning Risk; the Challenge for Social Theory”
beginnt mit einer Diskussion der Rolle, die die “Social
Theory” einnehmen sollte angesichts rasanter techno-
logischer Entwicklungen und ihrer meist verdeckten
politischen, ethischen und moralischen Implikationen,
die es aufzudecken gelte. Mit anderen Worten geht es
im ersten Teil der Einleitung darum, der “Social Theo-
ry” einen wichtigeren Platz im wissenschaftlichen und
politisch/ethischen Diskurs zuzuweisen, sozusagen als
Referenzwissenschaft für die Konsequenzen des Lebens
in einer Risikogesellschaft.
Die Beiträge des Buches zeigen, dass “technolog-
ically-constituted hazards and their associated social
relations of risk definition turn out to be source, me-
dium, and outcome in unspecified time and space, at
once globally dispersed, locally specific, contextual and
personal, constructed and lived now into an open future.
... An integral part of this effort is the endeavour to
deconstruct bipolar oppositions by aligning themselves
neither with the realist-absolutist stance nor with the
constructionist-relativist position, transgressing instead
(either pragmatically or synthetically) the borders be-
tween them” (8). Das hört sich zunächst abstrakt an,
wird jedoch an höchst aktuellen Beispielen exemplifi-
ziert.
Im ersten Teil des Buches mit der Überschrift “Re-
casting Risk Culture” finden sich drei Beiträge, die sich
insbesondere mit den kulturellen Dimensionen von Risi-
ko auseinander setzen, da diese überall unterschiedliche
Formen annehmen, so dass selbst im nördlichen Europa,
etwa in Dänemark oder Deutschland, die ansonsten
als sehr ähnlich konzipiert werden, Risiken anders
diskutiert, wahrgenommen und institutionell gehandhabt
werden.
604
Rezensionen
Das zeigt etwa das Beispiel um die Implikationen der
Gentechnologie. Während in Dänemark der Umgang mit
Gentechnologie strenger Überwachung seitens Gremien
unterliegt, in denen die Bevölkerung repräsentiert ist,
wird in Deutschland gerade erst eine Diskussion darüber
begonnen, wie über die exklusiven Expertenrunden hin-
aus Ethikkommissionen zur Technikfolgenabschätzung
gebildet werden könnten, in denen viele Denkweisen
vertreten sein sollen. Der in den letzten zehn Jahren
verantwortungslose Umgang von Interessen- und Poli-
tikergruppen mit BSE hat zu diesem Bekenntnis einer
breiteren Einbindung nicht unwesentlich beigetragen.
Alan Scotts Aufsatz im ersten Teil beschäftigt sich
mit “Risk Society or Angst Society? Two Views of Risk,
Consciousness, and Community”, und Scott Lash zeigt,
warum der Begriff “Risk Culture” ungleich genauer sei
als der von der Risikogesellschaft, was letztlich als mü-
ßige Differenzierung erscheint, geht es doch bei beiden
um die Abschätzung von Folgen, die in ihrer gesamten
Dynamik schwer vorstellbar, damit kaum einschätzbar
und handhabbar sind, zumal sie ja noch nicht eingetreten
sind. Hilary Rose beschäftigt sich mit “Risk, Trust,
and Scepticism in the Age of the New Genetics” und
deren gesellschaftlichen Folgen, etwa im Umgang mit
Experten- oder Politikermeinungen.
Im zweiten Teil, “Challenging Big Science” - mit
der jene gemeint ist, die große Mengen Finanzmittel für
sich generieren kann (z. B. Nuklear- und Gentechnik)
und über hohes politisches, symbolisches und soziales
Kapital verfügt sowie völlig neue Arbeitsbedingungen
für Wissenschaftler schafft, die Ziman (1995) als “post
academic Science” bezeichnet hat und die zu völli-
ger Kritiklosigkeit gegenüber Auftrag und Auftraggeber
führt, werden drei Beiträge zusammengeführt, die recht
unterschiedlich sind: Alan Irwin, Stuart Allan und Ian
Welsh schreiben aus verschiedenen Blickwinkeln zum
Thema “Nuclear Risks: Three Problematics”, Lindsay
Prior, Peter Glasner und Ruth McNally über “Genotech-
nology: Three Challenges to Risk Legitimation” und Eli-
sabeth Beck-Gernsheim über “Health and Responsibilty:
From Social Change to Technological Change and Vice
Versa”. Die Beiträge zeigen, wie bestimmte Diskurse
geführt und inszeniert werden, um bestimmte Meinun-
gen (und Finanzmittel) zu erhalten. Sehr deutlich wird
dies im Beitrag von Ruth McNally, die anhand des Eu-
ropäischen Tollwut-Bekämpfungs-Programms und der
Einführung von gentechnisch manipulierten Impfstoffen
zeigt, wie einflussreiche Gruppen zu einem bestimm-
ten Zeitpunkt z. B. die Europäische Kommission so
manipulieren konnten, dass ein Impfstoff hergestellt
wurde, dessen Auswirkungen auf andere Lebewesen
noch keineswegs erforscht ist, ohne dass jemals dafür
überhaupt eine absolute Notwendigkeit bestanden hätte.
Gleiches gilt im übrigen ja auch für genmanipulierte
Pflanzen.
Der dritte Teil des Buches, “Mediating Technologies
of Risk”, bringt einen eher ethnografisch zu nennenden
Beitrag von Claudia Castañeda zu “Child Organ Stealing
Stories: Risk, Rumour, and Reproductive Technologies”,
die anhand der spezifischen Geschichte Guatemalas -
mit von Militärs erschossenen oder verschwundenen
Kindern - zeigt, dass die Gerüchte in ihren spezifischen
Kontext gesetzt werden müssen. Im Verlauf des Beitrags
kommt sie zu der Schlussfolgerung, dass es bis heute
noch nicht gelungen sei, völlig auszuschließen, dass
Kinder tatsächlich wegen Organraubes getötet werden,
obschon viele Kommissionen Untersuchungen durchge-
führt haben. Insofern reicht es nach ihrer Meinung nicht,
das Gerücht durch ein Gegengerücht zu ersetzen, wie
dies etwa der von ihr angeführte Todd Leventhal, der
“United States Information Agency Program Officer for
Countering Misinformation and Disinformation” (136),
berufsmäßig macht.
Zwei weitere Beiträge gibt es in diesem Kapitel,
einer von Howard Caygill über “Liturgies of Fear:
Biotechnology and Culture” und einer von Joost Van
Loon über “Virtual Risks in an Age of Cybernetic
Reproduction”.
Der vierte und letzte Teil des Buches befasst sich
mit “P(l)aying for Futures” mit einem Aufsatz von
Deirdre Boden zu “Worlds in Action: Information, In-
stantaneity, and Global Futures Trading”, einem von
Ruth Levitas über “Discourses of Risk and Utopia” und
einem Schlusskapitel von Ulrich Beck, “Risk Society
Revisited: Theory, Politics, and Research Programmes”.
Beck nimmt hier nochmals alle von seinen Kritikern im
Buch geäußerten Punkte auf und “verteidigt” sie, was in
gewisser Weise etwas altväterlich wirkt.
Was die Diskussion um Risiken so schwierig macht,
ist ja gerade ihre volatile Eigenschaft, oder, wie Beck
formuliert, der Risikodiskurs beginne dort, wo das Ver-
trauen in unsere Sicherheit und Fortschritt ende. Er hört
auf, wenn die Katastrophe eingetreten ist: “The concept
of risk thus characterizes a peculiar, intermediate state
between security and destruction, where the perception
of threatening risks determines thought and action” (213,
kursiv im Original). Risiko und die öffentliche Risiko-
diskussion fallen damit ineinander, und er fährt fort:
“This peculiar reality status of ‘no-longer-but-not-yet’
- no longer trust/security, not yet destruction/disaster -
is what the concept of risk expresses and what makes
it a public frame of reference ... Risks, then, ‘are’
a type of virtual reality, real virtuality” (213, kursiv
im Original). Damit kann man sich wissenschaftlich
fruchtbar auseinandersetzen, weil Risiken Konsequen-
zen nach sich ziehen, auf die z. B. Institutionen nicht
immer hinreichend vorbereitet sind (wie ganz aktuell der
BSE-Fall zeigt). Der Beitrag der “Social Theory” muss
demnach darin bestehen, die verschiedenen (politischen,
kulturellen, sozialen, symbolischen etc.) Zusammenhän-
ge herauszuarbeiten, den Diskursen und Gegendiskursen
zu folgen, um schließlich zu kommen zum “... opening
up to democratic scrutiny of the previous depoliticized
realms of decision-making and for the need to recognize
the ways in which contemporary debates of this sort are
constrained by the epistemological and legal systems
within which they are conducted” (226 f.).
Auch die Rezensentin wünscht sich hiermit eine
breitere wissenschaftlich geführte Einmischung der ver-
schiedenen Soziab/Kulturwissenschaften in die Debat-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
605
ten um Gentechnologie etc., die bisher leider zum
großen Teil den jeweiligen Technikexperten überlassen
wurde, während Gegendiskurse der Öffentlichkeit noch
nicht hinreichend wahrgenommen und in den Vorder-
grund gebracht wurden. Auch das könnte ein Aufgaben-
feld der der “Social Theory” zugehörigen Fächer sein.
Katarina Greifeid
Adams, Richard E. W., and Murdo J. MacLeod
(eds.): The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples
of the Americas; vol. 2: Mesoamerica; 2 parts. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. 571 pp.;
455 pp. ISBN 0-521-65205-7 (set). Price: £ 120.00
Zusammenfassende und ausführliche Darstellungen
des aktuellen Kenntnisstandes zu den alten Kulturen
Mesoamerikas fehlten in den letzten Jahren. Das um-
fangreiche “Handbook of Middle American Indians”
gibt in seiner Hauptserie den Stand der Forschung von
vor gut 30 Jahren wieder und ist damit in den meisten
Teilen überholt, woran die wenigen Supplementbände
nichts Entscheidendes ändern konnten. Die Übersichts-
werke einzelner Autoren sind hingegen regelmäßig im
thematischen Zuschnitt zu schmal und verfügen nur
über zu geringe inhaltlichen Tiefe, um dem an prä-
ziser Sachinformation interessierten Leser hinreichend
Auskunft zu geben. Dieser Mangel war offenbar für
mehrere Verlage Anlaß, einen Mittelweg zu gehen und
unterschiedlich zugeschnittene Sammelwerke aufzule-
gen. “The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of
the Americas” ist als erste auf dem Markt erschienen
und wird deshalb, aber auch wegen der Tradition dieses
Verlages, ein breites Publikum erreichen.
Das in zwei Teilen gebundene Werk besteht aus 21
regional und zeitlich gestaffelten Beiträgen durchwegs
namhafter Autoren, alle anerkannte Spezialisten in ih-
rem Gebiet. Die inhaltliche Spanne reicht von der Ein-
wanderung der indigenen Bevölkerung nach Amerika
bis in oder nahe an die Gegenwart, wobei die Zeit
vor der Conquista ein deutliches Übergewicht erhält.
Sehr zweckmäßig sind die jedem Beitrag angefügten
“Bibliographical Essays”, in denen relevante Literatur
meist kommentiert und in den Forschungszusammen-
hang gestellt wird, vereinzelt findet sich aber auch eine
konventionelle Bibliographie oder nur eine geglieder-
te Aufzählung. Die englischsprachigen Autoren über-
legen. Besonders in den archäologischen Abhandlun-
gen fehlen lateinamerikanische Autoren so weitgehend,
daß der unzutreffende Eindruck entsteht, Archäologie
würde nur von nordamerikanischen Autoren betrieben.
Zu den Ursachen gehört sicherlich die Seltenheit qualita-
tiv hochwertiger Veröffentlichungen mexikanischer und
guatemaltekischer Archäologen, deren beinahe völlige
Abstinenz in methodischen Fragen und bei der Entwick-
lung und Analyse von innovativen Interpretationsmodel-
len, sowie die Dominanz der mexikanischen Archäo-
logie durch die Anforderung der Tourismusindustrie,
at>er nicht zuletzt auch nordamerikanische Zitierzirkel.
Somit spiegelt der erste Band des Werkes auch eine
forschungspolitische Situation.
Nur einige der Beiträge dieses Bandes, die unter-
schiedliche Qualität aufweisen und auch in Aufbau und
Souveränität der Themenbeherrschung stark abweichen,
können hier erwähnt werden: Lesenswert ist die auf Me-
thoden und Forschungsgeschichte orientierte Einleitung
von Adams, der überzogene theoretische Positionen der
letzten Jahrzehnte vorsichtig zurechtrückt. Wichtig der
Beitrag von Zeitlin und Zeitlin, die umfassend Aus-
kunft geben über die frühesten Kulturen und kompetent
die Forschungsentwicklung in so umkämpften Fragen
wie der Entstehung des Maises und des Zeitpunktes
der Einwanderung nach Amerika diskutieren. Cowgill
stellt Teotihuacan übersichtlich und problemorientiert
dar, die zahlreichen Defizite sind klar Folge einer un-
befriedigenden Forschungslage und ungelöster Dispute.
Gut informierend ist auch Hammonds an sich wohl
konzipierter Beitrag über die Maya, doch ist er von
den eigenen Forschungsinteressen in Belize zu stark
geprägt. Die umwälzenden Ergebnisse der weitgehend
erfolgreichen Lesung der Hieroglyphenschrift finden
sich bei ihm leider nur nebenbei in Form einzelner
Herrschemamen und sind nicht auf einem aktuellen
Niveau. Der Überblick über das zentralmexikanische
Hochland im Postklassikum von Charlton geht (ins-
besondere bei ethnohistorischen Fragestellungen) kaum
über den Kenntnisstand der 70er und frühen 80er Jahre
hinaus, auch wenn die Literatur bis 1996 reicht (aller-
dings ist nur der in diesem Jahr erschienene Band “Aztec
Imperial Strategies”, aber nicht die gleichzeitige, weit
tiefschürfendere Monographie von Carrasco “Estructu-
ra político-territorial del imperio tenochca” genannt).
Gorensteins Behandlung des west- und nordwestlichen
Mexiko bietet zumeist nur eine knappe Inhaltsangabe
zahlreicher Forschungsarbeiten.
Der historische Band für den Zeitraum nach der
Conquista bis zur Gegenwart ist insgesamt deutlich
überzeugender. Er beginnt mit einer vorzüglichen Ein-
leitung von MacLeod, dem es gelingt, Quellen und
historische Entwicklungen in einen großen Bogen über-
zeugend einzubeziehen. Gleichermaßen ausgezeichnete
Analyse bieten beispielsweise die Beiträge von Cline
und von Schryer über die Entwicklungen und Zustände
in Zentralmexiko und von Jones sowie von Lovell in
Yucatan und Guatemala. Alle diese Studien zeichnen die
prozeßhaften Vorgänge und deren Ursachen und Folgen
nachvollziehbar nach und bilden damit eine frucht-
bare Verbindung von Anthropologie (im angelsächsi-
schen und lateinamerikanischen Sinn) mit Geschichte.
Die in diesem Bereich besonders hochwertige mexika-
nische Forschung erhält dabei den gebührenden Stellen-
wert.
Die technische Qualität der Bände bleibt leider hin-
ter dem Anspruch weit zurück. Die Reproduktion der
zahlreiche Fotos im Text ist mittelmäßig bis schlecht
(zu dunkel und kontrastarm), so daß ihr Informations-
wert gering bleibt. Nicht alle der zahlreichen Karten
sind nach einheitlichen Konventionen durch den Verlag
gestaltet worden (auch weisen diese vermeidbare Fehler
der Beschriftungen auf: z. B. Map 16.1. Tenochititlán
für Tenochtitlan, Huexotxinco für Huexotzinco, Texco-
Anthropos 96.2001
606
Rezensionen
co ist als “archaeological site” ausgewiesen, Tlateloco
hingegen als “city”). Eine Andeutung der kulturökolo-
gisch überaus bedeutsamen Geländegestalt Mesoameri-
kas fehlt auf den Karten mit einer Ausnahme (Map. 19.3,
bei einigen weiteren unübersichtliche Höhenlinien). Ein
weitgehend auf Eigennamen beschränkter Index er-
schließt jeden der Bände für sich, umfaßt jedoch nicht
die in den bibliographischen Essays genannten Auto-
ren, die im Text der Beiträge, sofern überhaupt, nach
dem Autor-Jahr System genannt werden und deshalb in
den sachlich aufgebauten bibliographischen Essays nur
schwer zu finden sind.
Trotz mancher Mängel bieten die beiden Bände einen
anderweitig nicht erhältlichen, kompetenten, weitgehend
kompletten und vielfach ins Details gehenden Überblick,
den nicht nur allgemein Interessierte und Studierende
sondern auch Spezialisten außerhalb ihres engeren Kom-
petenzbereichs mit Gewinn heranziehen werden.
Hanns J. Prem
Alber, Erdmute: Im Gewand von Herrschaft. Moda-
litäten der Macht im Borgou (Nord-Benin) 1900-1995.
Köln: Rüdiger Koppe Verlag, 2000. 325 pp. ISBN
3-89645-211-8. (Studien zur Kulturkunde, 116) Preis:
DM 78,00
“Im Gewand von Herrschaft” ist eine historisch-so-
zialanthropologische Arbeit zur politischen Struktur des
Beniner Borgu zwischen 1900 und 1995. Drei Teile be-
handeln jeweils andere Zeiträume, verwenden verschie-
dene Methoden, und ihre zentrale Aussagen sind in un-
terschiedlichen Kontexten anschlussfähig. Der erste Teil
beschreibt die Reproduktionsbedingungen eines Kriegs-
herrensystems im vorkolonialen Borgu. Der zweite Teil
analysiert die Transformationen dieses Systems, die u. a.
dadurch hervorgerufen werden, dass die Kolonialregie-
rung ein administratives Häuptlingstum installiert. Der
dritte Teil widmet sich am Beispiel eines Dorfes dem
Beharrungsvermögen der kolonialen oder vorkolonialen
Institutionen und der Muster politischen Handelns bis
in die Gegenwart. Die empirische Grundlage der Aussa-
gen ist durch koloniales Archivmaterial, Reiseberichte,
teilnehmende Beobachtung und Interviews gebildet. Die
Kombination und Gegenüberstellung dieses Materials
ermöglicht Alber, die einzelnen Quellen kritisch und
überzeugend zu interpretieren.
Der vorkoloniale Borgu war durch Gewalt gekenn-
zeichnet, die sich auch nach innen richtete. Eine Schlüs-
selrolle bei ihrer Organisierung kommt den wasangari
genannten Häuptlingen zu. Dies waren Kriegsherren,
welche die auf Razzien gemachte Beute (Vieh, Sklaven
und Karawanengüter) verteilten und sich dadurch ein
Gefolge schafften, welches ihnen wieder militärischen
Erfolg und weitere Beute bei Razzien sicherte. Ein
ähnliches Bild vom Borgu hatte bereits J. Lombard
(Structures de type “féodal” en Afrique noire. Paris
1965) gezeichnet. Doch Alber präsentiert Fallbeispiele,
die seiner Einschätzung widersprechen, es habe sich bei
den Wasangari um eine Gruppe mit geburtsbedingter
Zugehörigkeit gehandelt, die im Rahmen ihrer Ämter
Gewalt ausübte. Alber dreht die Kausalität um: Wer
erfolgreich Gewalt ausüben konnte, erwarb mit Hilfe
seiner Erzwingungsmacht Ämter. Dies macht den Bor-
gu zum Terrain für empirische Studien zum Thema
Gewaltmärkte. Albers These ist, dass die Wasangari
ihre Macht nur reproduzieren konnten, wenn sie die
Ressourcen ihrer Macht regelmäßig ineinander überführ-
ten: Die Gewaltressourcen sicherten bei Razzien Güter,
die durch Umverteilung wieder eine Gefolgschaft für
Razzien sicherte und so fort. Damit ist Albers Arbeit
hoch anschlussfähig für Theorien redistributiver Bezie-
hungen. Empirisch bleibt Alber unentschieden, welche
Form der Ressourcenüberführung überwog. Einerseits
nennt sie die Variante, Kriegsherren hätten nach Razzien
ihre Beute unmittelbar an das Gefolge verteilt, so dass
ihnen nur die Ehre blieb (120). Bei einer anderen
Variante werden die Güter erst auf Festen an Preissänger
verteilt. Deren Lobgesänge schufen Prestige, welches
das Gefolge für Razzien sicherte etc. (117). Dieser em-
pirischen Unentschiedenheit entspricht die theoretisch
offene Frage, ob das Prestige notwendiger Bestandteil
ist, oder ob sich solche Kreisläufe auch allein durch
materielle Interessen stabilisieren können.
Im zweiten Teil beschreibt Alber, wie die Koloni-
alregierung versucht, die Häuptlinge zu etwas zu ma-
chen, was sie zuvor nicht waren: Mit Territorialität
und Legitimität ausgestattete Herrscher. Juristisch be-
nötigen die Franzosen lokale Autoritäten, um mit ihnen
international anerkannte Schutzverträge zu schließen.
Politisch brauchten sie Intermediäre, um die Bevölke-
rung verwalten zu können. Spannend ist dieser Teil des
Buches, weil die Dilemmata kolonialer Herrschaft gut
veranschaulicht werden. Es wurde die Kolonialregie-
rung in den Schutz Verträgen aufgefordert, das Land vor
Räubern zu schützen - Räuber, die zum Umkreis derer
gehörten, mit denen die Schutzverträge abgeschlossen
wurden. In dem Maß, wie die Regierung die Razzien
unterband, unterminierte sie die Reproduktionsbedin-
gungen der Macht jener Wasangari, die sie z. B. als
Steuereintreiber benötigte. Die Details, die Alber zum
Zuschnitt der Territorien der administrativen Häuptlinge,
zu deren Bezahlung und Nachfolgeregeln bringt, zei-
gen, dass die heutige Form so genannter traditioneller
Herrschaft erst vom kolonialen Staat geschaffen wurde.
Im Borgu bestätigen sich damit Theorien, wie sie auch
für andere Regionen aufgestellt wurden. Dies ist für
den gegenwärtigen Benin eine provokante Aussage, weil
einige seiner Intellektuellen immer wieder versuchen,
politische Legitimität und historische Reinheit aneinan-
der zu koppeln.
Im abschließenden Teil wird die Ämterstruktur ei-
nes Dorfes und dessen politische Geschichte bis 1995
analysiert. Hier wäre es vielleicht wünschenswert ge-
wesen, wenn Alber für die Akteure des gegenwärti-
gen Borgu die konkreten Ressourcen, Interessen und
Handlungsoptionen so systematisch beschrieben hätte,
wie sie es für den vorkolonialen Borgu tat. Wenn die
Institutionenlandschaft diffus ist, die Ämterfunktionen
sich wandeln und sich die faktischen Abläufe von den
offiziellen unterscheiden, kann sich eine Machtanalyse
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
607
nicht auf die politische Geschichte oder Symbol- und
Sprachanalysen beschränken. Eine Leistung von Alber
ist, dies gerade aufzuzeigen. Alber stellt die institutio-
nellen Folgen eines besonderen Konfliktverhaltens dar,
offene Konflikte werden im Borgu möglichst gemieden.
Deshalb werden, wenn der Staat neue Ämter im Dorf
einführt, um die alten zu ersetzen, die alten Ämter
mit transformierten Funktionen parallel zu den neuen
beibehalten. Es resultiert eine Ämtervielfalt, und aus
einzelnen Ämtertypen lässt sich nun nicht mehr auf
Machtstrukturen schließen. Ersatzweise betrachtet Alber
die Praktiken von Amtsinhabern, sich an den Bauern
zu bereichern. Dabei stellt sie die hohe Kontinuität
seit der vorkolonialen Vergangenheit heraus. Die ge-
waltsamen Aneignungen der Wasangari sind noch in
den Erziehungspraktiken präsent, welche Kinder auf
die Gefährdung ihres Eigentums vorbereiten. Auch die
willkürlichen Aneignungen seitens hoher Vertreter von
Bauernorganisationen werden im Dorf mit den Worten
kommentiert, man könne gegen solche Wasangari nichts
ausrichten. Jörn Sommer
Arce, Alberto, and Norman Long (eds ): Anthro-
pology, Development, and Modernities. Exploring Dis-
courses, Counter-Tendencies, and Violence. London:
Routledge, 2000. 232 pp. ISBN 0-415-20500-X. Price:
£ 16.99
This is an important book not only for development
anthropology, but also for general and theoretical an-
thropology. Development studies, as a field of enquiry
and practical endeavour, is in need of a theoretical over-
haul. There is a clear need for more ethnographically-
informed research inputs and for researchers to rethink
critically the kinds of contribution that anthropology can
make to issues of development and modernity in a global
era. In short, there is a need for a reflexive anthropology
of modernity and development.
The present volume is result of an EIDOS (Euro-
pean Inter-University Development Opportunities Study
Group) conference on “Globalisation and Decivilisa-
tion”, held at Wageningen in the Netherlands in De-
cember 1995. The editors wished to engage in a serious
study of the dilemmas and refractions of contemporary
“modernising” processes, hoping that this would con-
stitute the beginnings of a serious reflection on and
criticism of the unattainable goals of “progress” and its
unforeseen implications and countertendencies. As for
this, déjà vu, but the editors promise to provide new
anthropological perspectives on the encounter between
Western visions of modernity and the “modi operandi of
other cultural repertoires” (1). An encounter of actors,
visions, or cultures?
The editors wished to contribute to an understanding
how the ideas and practices of modernity are themselves
appropriated and reembedded in locally-situated prac-
tices, thus accelerating the fragmentation and dispersal
°f modernity into constantly proliferating modernities
(“multiple modernities”) and generating powerful coun-
tertendencies to what is conceived of as Western mod-
ernisation, exhibiting so-called “distorted” patterns of
development. The general focus is to develop a compar-
ative perspective on the constellations of people’s beliefs
and actions in their construction of diverse modernities.
The editors do not intend to offer a new and unified
conceptual framework for the field of study, but to
present rather new research findings and approaches that
can serve to guide future studies and analysis.
One of the main problems for the objectives of the
volume is to define its object(s), because “modernity”
is a concept with metaphorical character and only can
be understood in relation to its conceptual-metaphor-
ical counterpart, which is “tradition.” On the contrary,
the notion of “modernisation” is less complicated, as
it implicates a package of technical and institutional
measures aimed at widespread societal transformation
and underpinned by neo-evolutionary theoretical narra-
tives. The editors conceive modernity as reproducing
itself as a complex set of ideas and practices through
the proliferation of hybrid forms.
The chapters of the book focus on three central
themes: (1) discourse and language representations of
modernity; (2) state policy and people’s countertenden-
cies; and (3) violence and multiple modernities. The
principal approach is to underline countertendencies of
modernity with the aim to incorporate reflexivity and
some postmodern critical perspectives into the field of
development studies.
The authors are mainly anthropologists and sociolo-
gists working principally in British and Dutch institu-
tions. Alberto Arce’s and Norman Long‘s initial chap-
ter about “Reconfiguring Modernity and Development
from an Anthropological Framework” is a well-written
introduction to the volume’s conceptual frameworks,
while Arce‘s contribution about the representation of
modernities through language and discourse is quite
abstract, evidently not focusing on “development.”
Deniz Kandiyoti wrote about the paradoxes of mod-
ernisation without the market in the “Soviet East,”
presenting its contradictory interpretations, while Azza
Karam’s very well-written text about various forms of
islamism stretches that islamism in itself is a transna-
tional and global phenomenon tied to the migration of
people, information, and commodities. He focuses on
islamist discourses on “civilisation”, using a postmod-
ernist framework and showing that some islamist authors
defend their own ideas about development which have
nothing to do with being “traditionalistic.”
Eleanor Fisher and Alberto Arce present a chapter
about the attempts of British colonial administration in
Tanganyika to combat sleeping sickness by all means
considered “modern”, ignoring completely the indige-
nous livelihoods. James Fairhead‘s chapter is one of the
most interesting and well-written contributions, as he
shows how colonial administrators and politicians and
contemporary development “experts” create “develop-
ment problems” in West African countries by completely
misunderstanding local human-environment relations.
Pradeep Jeganathan’s chapter about tamilness in
Southern Sri Lanka is a very interesting text about ethnic
Anthropos 96.2001
608
Rezensionen
identity, but unfortunately doesn’t focus on modernity
and development. The same conclusion can be made
about Finn Stepputat’s text about the postwar situation
in Guatemala, which would combine better within a
volume discussing concepts of frontiers.
There are two chapters which deal with drugs: Ineke
van Wetering and Paul van Gelder about discourses
on drug addiction among Surinamese Creole migrants
in Amsterdam and Alberto Arce and Norman Long
about “Consuming Modernity: Mutational Processes of
Change,” one of the best contributions to the volume.
Arce and Long underline that the properties of modern-
ity are constantly constituted and refashioned in their
interaction with diverse other modes of organisation,
rationalities, and artefacts, discussing this by examin-
ing aspects of situated modernity, representations of
development, and the globalised commoditisation of
coca and cocaine production in the El Chapare area
of Bolivia. No other text shows so well the paradoxes
and contradictions of developmental and modernising
processes. It is coca production and drug trade which
brought “modernity” to the region and stimulated its
economical rise, the majority of their inhabitants seeing
in the US-supported attempts to combat drug produc-
tion and trade actions turned to block their access to
“modernity” and their commodities and services. An
astonishing aspect of regional development is the rise of
“local mixer’s” complex local knowledge to transform
coca leaves in coca paste.
In the final chapter, Norman Long identifies certain
key substantive and theoretical issues that will con-
tinue to present a major challenge to anthropologists
involved in studies of local and global development
and outlines some of the main concepts of the ac-
tor-oriented approach to development, modernity, and
local/global issues developed by him and his colleagues
at Wageningen University.
Two essential positions defended in this volume
are: (1) that there is no “end of development,” as
argued mostly in postmodernist discourses, and (2)
that it is crucial to stand back from essentialist and
reified interpretations of global change which assume
rather than demonstrate the force and uniformity of
such change. Given the multivocality of the concept of
development, which has not yet reached its saturation
point, it is unlikely that the concept will disappear
from our vocabulary. The concepts largely proposed
by the editors (countertendencies, counterdevelopment,
counterpoints, counterwork, localised modernities and
cultural mutants, instead of cultural hybrids) and the
actor-centred approach defended by them nevertheless
are more applied by themselves than by other contribu-
tors, but this doesn’t diminish the volume’s quality and
importance.
Two principal conclusions are: (1) Modernity should
be accepted as a contingency, that is, as a way in
which locally situated actors arrived at “modernity” by
experiencing and balancing uncertainties in favour of
their individual projects and expectations, and (2) it is
argued for an anthropology of mutation that emphasises
the importance of documenting the diffusion, refraction,
and internal production of processes of modernity.
Arce and Long plea for a sound anthropology of
development that necessitates the building of a more
reflexive ethnographic approach. Maybe this book can
contribute not only to innovate anthropological research
in an important area of development studies, but also
to revitalise anthropological debates about theories of
culture change. This instigating book should have many
readers. Peter Schröder
Assies, Willem, Gemma van der Haar, and André
Hoekema (eds.): The Challenge of Diversity. Indige-
nous Peoples and Reform of the State in Latin America.
Amsterdam: Thela Thesis, 2000. 315 pp. ISBN 90-5538-
045-8. Price: hfl 45.00
Das Buch stellt eine Artikelsammlung zum neu-
en Selbstverständnis der Nationalstaaten Lateinamerikas
dar, das sich im Laufe der letzten Jahrzehnte herausge-
bildet hat. Die kulturell homogene Nation, die viele Jah-
re lang als Bedingung für den Fortschritt eines Landes
galt, wird zunehmend von der Anerkennung der kultu-
rellen und ethnischen Vielfalt der Bevölkerung abgelöst.
Indianische und afroamerikanische Bevölkerungsteile
werden in ihren kulturellen und sprachlichen Beson-
derheiten akzeptiert und mit entsprechenden Rechten
ausgestattet. Nur ein Teil der Artikel zu diesem Buch
legt allerdings Gewicht auf den staatlichen Reformpro-
zess als solchen, d. h. auf die ab den 1980er Jahren in
vielen lateinamerikanischen Ländern erfolgten Verfas-
sungsänderungen und gesetzlichen Neuregelungen. Die
anderen richten den Blick stärker auf die politische
und soziale Dynamik der Umsetzung und Durchführung
dieser Reformen und konzentrieren sich auf Fragen der
Identität, der Landrechte, der Verfügungsgewalt über
Ressourcen, der Selbstverwaltung oder der traditionellen
indianischen Rechtsprechung im Verhältnis zum staatli-
chen Recht. Alle Artikel sind Beiträge zu einem Semi-
nar, das unter gleichem Titel wie das Buch am 29. und
30. Oktober 1998 in Amsterdam stattfand. Es kommen
weniger Ethnologen zu Wort als Lateinamerikanisten,
Rechtssoziologen oder Juristen. Dennoch ist die Lektüre
auch für Ethnologen ein Gewinn. Es werden Daten
und Analysen ausgebreitet, die dabei helfen, die Wende
hin zur Anerkennung der kulturellen Vielfalt auf dem
lateinamerikanischen Kontinent besser zu verstehen und
ihre Vorteile, aber auch ihre Tücken und Pferdefüße zu
erkennen.
Die 17 Beiträge sind in sieben Unterkapiteln zu-
sammengefasst. Das erste ist ein Einleitungskapitel und
beginnt mit einem Beitrag des Herausgebers Willem
Assies. Darin versucht er, die Bereitschaft der lateina-
merikanischen Staaten zur “multiethnischen Wende” in
einen größeren Kontext einzuordnen, den er einerseits
in einem (neoliberalen) Zwang zu staatlicher Reform
und Strukturanpassung erkennt, andererseits in interna-
tionalen Prozessen auf UN-Ebene sowie nicht zuletzt
in der Mobilisierung der Indianervölker selbst. Der
zweite Beitrag, von Roger Plant, über Guatemala re-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
609
flektiert im Spiegel lateinamerikanischer Entwicklungen
und internationaler Rechtsstandards die Lektionen, die
der Friedensprozess in Guatemala bereithielt, sowie das
Spannungsverhältnis zwischen den eigenständigen Insti-
tutionen der Maya und ihre Vertretung und Teilnahme
an den nationalen und gesellschaftlichen Prozessen.
Das zweite Kapitel ist der Dynamik der staatlichen
Reformprozesse gewidmet und stellt sie am Beispiel
Ecuadors (María Fernanda Espinosa), Mexikos (Moisés
Franco Mendoza) und Boliviens (Ricardo Calla) dar.
Hierbei wird deutlich, dass Mexiko seine Vorreiterrolle
in der staatlichen Indianerpolitik und -gesetzgebung ein-
gebüßt hat, die es in Lateinamerika bis in die siebziger
Jahren beansprucht hat.
Das dritte Kapitel ist vieldeutig mit “Identitätstänze”
überschrieben und geht auf die Neuformierung von
ethnischen Identitäten ein, die oft erst im Windschatten
der staatlichen Reformprozesse in Gang gesetzt werden.
Für den brasilianischen Nordosten könnte man von Re-
Indianisierung sprechen oder, wie José Mauricio Andion
Arruti es in seinem Beitrag tut, von “Ethnogenese”, da
immer mehr Nachfahren von Weißen und (mittlerwei-
le schon ausgerotteten) Indianergemeinschaften in be-
stimmten Konjunkturen ihre indianische Identität rekla-
mieren. Ein trauriges Kapitel ist das über die afroame-
rikanischen Gemeinschaften der kolumbianischen Pazi-
fikküste von Odile Hoffmann. Diese gelangten durch
die neue kolumbianische Verfassung in den Genuss von
gesetzlich verankerten Landrechten, welche afrokolum-
bianischen Traditionen folgen sollen, de facto aber Kon-
struktionen der afroamerikanischen Tradition darstellen,
die die tatsächlichen Traditionen zu vergewaltigen dro-
hen. José Eduardo Zárate Hernández schließlich legt
die Rekonstruktion der Purhépecha-Nation im Autono-
mieprozess im mexikanischen Michoacán dar, bei dem
traditionelle Organisationsformen ebenso wiederbelebt
wie neue Symbole erfunden werden.
Das nächste Kapitel, “Sitten und Gewohnheiten auf
Gemeindeebene”, beginnt mit einer historischen Be-
trachtung von Yvette Nelen über die indigène Bevölke-
rung von San Pablo Apetatitlán in Tlaxcala. Diese passte
sich den neuen Institutionen an, die im Zuge der Unab-
hängigkeit eingeführt wurden, bzw. eignete sich diese
an, wobei es zu einer Koexistenz von neuen mit alten
Praktiken und dem Auftreten von Synkretismen kam. Ei-
ne Indianisierung kommunaler staatlicher Institutionen
konstatiert andererseits María Cristina Velásquez Cepe-
da im mexikanischen Oaxaca. Hier wurde das Wahl-
gesetz nach indianischen Vorgaben geändert, was dazu
führte, dass Kommunen heute etwa nach Maßgabe des
traditionellen Cargo-Systems regiert werden. In Bolivien
stellt sich nach René Orellana Halkyer die Situation
wieder in anderer Weise dar. Gesetzesreformen stellen
hier eine indianische Selbstverwaltung in Aussicht, die
tatsächlich aber untergraben wird, weil Gebietskörper-
schaften und andere Territorialeinheiten die indianischen
Gemeinden zerschneiden.
Das fünfte Kapitel zu “Indianische Justiz und staat-
liches Gesetz” geht der Frage des Rechtspluralismus
innerhalb des existierenden Nationalstaates nach. Zu
Beginn reflektiert Raquel Yrigoyen Fajardo die Vor-
aussetzungen, die gegeben sein müssen, damit eine
Anerkennung der indianischen Justiz keine bloße Un-
terordnung unter offizielles staatliches Recht bedeutet.
Esther Sánchez Botero geht dann der widersprüchlichen
Situation in Kolumbien nach, wo 1991 die Verfassung
den Indianern eine autonome und indigenen Normen
entsprechende Rechtsprechung zugesteht, diese aber zu-
gleich darauf verpflichtet, verfassungs- und gesetzestreu
zu sein.
Das vorletzte Kapitel ist den Themen “Land, Res-
sourcen und Territorien” Vorbehalten. André J. Hoekema
und Willem Assies gehen in ihrem Beitrag der These
nach, dass indigène Landrechte vornehmlich dann Aus-
sicht auf Anerkennung haben, wenn sich damit zugleich
Umwelt- oder Biodiversitätsschutzmaßnahmen verbin-
den lassen. María Luisa Acosta zeigt am Beispiel einer
Mayagna-Gemeinde an der nicaraguanischen Atlantik-
küste, die seit den Zeiten der Sandinisten Autonomie ge-
nießt, wie Kompetenzgerangel und Zuständigkeitswirr-
warr zum Einfallstor ausländischer Wirtschaftsinteres-
sen werden, die verfassungsmäßig zugestandene Land-
rechte unterlaufen. Patricia Urteaga Crovetto schließlich
liegt am Beispiel der peruanischen Amazonasregion die
schwache Absicherung der indianischen Landrechte dar.
Der zentralistische peruanische Staat ist vielleicht in pa-
ternalistischer Weise bereit, einige Rechte zuzugestehen
bzw. zu gewähren, ihre Anerkennung ist von ihm jedoch
nicht zu erwarten.
Das Abschlusskapitel wurde von den drei Herausge-
bern zusammen erstellt. Es ist weder von den inhaltli-
chen Positionen noch vom Argumentationsstil her aus
einem Guss, spitzt aber einige der schon entwickelten
Thesen weiter zu, nämlich dass 1. das neue multi-
kulturelle, pluriethnische Staatsverständnis eine über-
fällige Strukturanpassung und neoliberale Strategie zur
Markteinbindung von Randgruppen sei, dass 2. indiani-
sche Selbstverwaltung nicht durch Gebietskörperschaf-
ten oder andere Territorialeinheiten (z. B. Schutzgebiete)
unterminiert werden darf, um wirkungsvoll zu sein, und
dass 3. Rechtspluralismus nicht die bloße Unterordnung
traditioneller Rechtsprechung unter staatliches Recht
bedeuten kann.
Es bleibt allerdings der Eindruck, dass die Heraus-
geber (bei den übrigen Autoren ist dies anders) die
Entwicklungen der letzten Jahre aus großer Distanz
verfolgt haben. Denn Begebenheiten, die zwar nur kon-
junkturellen und symbolischen Charakter, zugleich aber
eine große Bedeutung hatten, wurden nicht beachtet.
Dazu gehört der 500. Jahrestag der sogenannten “Ent-
deckung” Amerikas 1992, welcher der Indianerbewe-
gung des ganzen Kontinents neuen Auftrieb gab und
ganz Lateinamerika dazu brachte, indianische Anliegen
ernst zu nehmen. Er trug nicht unwesentlich dazu bei,
dass mit Rigoberta Menchü erstmals eine Indianerin
den Friedensnobelpreis erhielt und dass die Vereinten
Nationen eine ganze Reihe von Maßnahmen zugunsten
indigener Völker auf den Weg brachten, von denen die
“Internationale Dekade indigener Völker” nur eine ist.
Aufgrund der Fülle der vorgestellten Einzelstudien, die
Anthropos 96.2001
610
Rezensionen
bei weitem nicht alle Staaten einschließt oder (etwa
im Fall Brasiliens) Kernthemen ausspart, hätte man
sich einen Ausblick auf die Zukunft gewünscht. Denn
dass die “Herausforderung der Vielfalt” noch zu keinem
Abschluss gekommen ist, zeigt sich an den bisher an
Indianerbelangen eher desinteressierten Ländern wie Ve-
nezuela, wo nun durch die Verfassungsreform Indianern
der Zugang zum Parlament eröffnet und die Frage der
indianischen Landrechte in Angriff genommen wurde.
Lioba Rossbach de Olmos
Barnard, Alan: History and Theory in Anthropol-
ogy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
243 pp. ISBN 0-521-77432. Price: £ 12.95
The author has succeeded to summarize convincingly
a few centuries of anthropological thought within the
covers of a book of modest dimensions. To his fellow
anthropologists the book provides a rather original sur-
vey of the history of the discipline, its practitioners and
their ideas but I think that it is most useful to persons
not familiar with anthropology. It does not follow a
strict chronology but discusses the main theoretical
orientations as they manifested themselves through time.
The author identifies diachronic perspectives, society-
oriented and culture-oriented approaches and does treat
these all the way from the ideas of various precursors to
postmodern approaches. As regards the developments
since 1950, he presents his material in terms of three
“strands of thinking,” i.e., “structural, interactive, and
interpretive” (174).
Useful are the appendices, one with the dates of birth
and death of individuals mentioned in the text and in the
second with a glossary.
The author, reader in Social Anthropology in Edin-
burgh, does not restrict himself to British anthropology
but also treats in some detail French and American
anthropology. He refers to a few German, Dutch, and
Belgian authors but conhnes himself mostly to Brit-
ish and American literature. This, of course, is quite
common among English-speaking anthropologists who
pretend to have learned to learn no matter what African
and Asian language in a few months but often are unable
to read European languages other than their own.
In view of the applaudable shortness of the book it is
not difficult to identify what the reader would consider
as omissions. One should realise, however, that these
certainly are not due to a lack of knowledge on the part
of the author who has shown in his “Encyclopedia of
Social and Cultural Anthropology” (1996, edited with
Jonathan Spencer) to be quite aware of all kinds of
developments that are going on in anthropology.
Still, there are a few issues that maybe should not
have been left out of the book. One wonders, for
example, why subjects like the relevance of history,
especially ethnohistory, for anthropology and develop-
ment theories did not get a separate treatment. One
also would have liked to see more attention paid to the
relations between theory, fieldwork, and ethnography.
It is true that Barnard makes some passing remarks on
this subject saying amongst others (4) that “theory and
ethnography inevitably merge into one” but much more
could have been said about it. In my view the statement
cited is correct but I also think that one should add
that ethnography has always been largely autonomous
in its developments. A history of ethnography would
look quite different from a book like the present one.
Barnard himself points out the importance of “regional
traditions” in ethnography (59) but does not elaborate on
that view. In my opinion ethnography often lags behind
or deviates from theory and is more determined by local
conventions and situations than by what is thought in
academic circles.
In colonial times anthropologists often were asked
to investigate matters of practical rather than theoretical
concern. This in the early times was done by way
of expeditions during which research methods were
developed which had their impact on later notions of
intensive fieldwork. As J. Fabian has recently remarked
in his book “Out of Our Minds” (2000, p. 6): “Modern
practices of ethnography were developed from premises,
activities, and conventions that guided scientific travel
and exploration in the late nineteenth century.” In my
view also expeditions have played an enormous role in
the development of anthropology and the dividing line
between that kind of research and intensive fieldwork is
not always as clear as is often suggested.
An interesting new phenomenon is that many
anthropologists nowadays because of modern travel
facilities and cheap transport costs can frequently go into
the field which more than ever allows them to construct
reliable and detailed histories of developments through
time and to write less static ethnographies. It is also
easier now for anthropologists to entertain long-standing
relationships and even friendships with their informants
and follow them in their lives.
Despite my critical remarks I want to express my ap-
preciation for the way in which Barnard had succeeded
to survey a vast field of scholarship. It provides very
interesting and agreeable reading.
Albert Trouwborst
Barnes, Teresa: “We Women Worked so Hard.”
Gender, Urbanization, and Social Reproduction in Colo-
nial Harare, Zimbabwe, 1930-1956. Portsmouth: Hei-
nemann; Oxford: James Currey, 1999. 204 pp. ISBN
0-325-0172-3; ISBN 0-85255-636-5. Price: £ 16.95
Sozialhistorische Stadtgeschichtsforschung und De-
tailanalysen der sich verändernden Geschlechterverhält-
nisse werden in dieser Publikation auf sehr ansprechende
Weise kombiniert. Aufbauend auf einer umfassenden
Auswertung von Kolonialakten im zimbabwischen Na-
tionalarchiv und einer Vielzahl von Interviews mit Zeit-
zeuginnen, liefert die Historikerin Teresa Barnes Ein-
blicke in die Lebenswelt der afrikanischen Bevölkerung
in Harare, vormals Salisbury, während des Höhepunk-
tes der britischen Siedlerherrschaft in Rhodesien. Sie
beschränkt sich in ihrer Darstellung auf den Zeitraum
von 1930 bis 1956 und begründet diese Zäsur mit
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
611
historischen Ereignissen: Mit der Weltwirtschaftskrise,
die auch die Ökonomie des damaligen Rhodesien be-
einflußte, sowie den ab 1930 immer stärker gesetzlich
abgesicherten Siedlerinteressen in der Landwirtschaft,
die maßgeblich die fortschreitende Abwanderung der
bäuerlichen Bevölkerung in die Städte auslöste. Der
Endpunkt wird markiert durch die Formierung einer
antikolonialen, nationalistischen Unabhängigkeitsbewe-
gung Mitte der 1950er Jahre, die in den 1970er Jahren
zum Guerillakrieg überging und 1980 zur Gründung des
unabhängigen Staates Zimbabwe führte.
In dem so abgesteckten Zeitraum der intensiven
Urbanisierung konzentriert sich die Autorin auf das
komplizierte Zusammenspiel von Zuzugsregelementie-
rungen für die afrikanische Bevölkerung, hier im we-
sentlichen die Shona, durch eingeschränkte Aufenthalts-
und Arbeitserlaubnisse und deren Streben nach einem
besseren Leben. In insgesamt sechs chronologisch auf-
einanderfolgenden Kapiteln, denen eine ausführliche
Einleitung mit methodischen und theoretischen Refle-
xionen über den Erkenntnisgewinn sowie die Proble-
matik der “oral history” und über die Geschlechter-
forschung in der Kolonialgeschichte vorangestellt ist,
macht Teresa Barnes ihre Leser zunächst mit den Grund-
strukturen der städtischen Ökonomie und Gesellschaft
vertraut, um dann immer genauer die Bedeutung der Ge-
schlechterbeziehungen aufzuzeigen. Anschauliche Sta-
tistiken, historische Abbildungen und Fotos von Zeit-
zeuginnen sowie ein ausführlicher Index ergänzen die
Darstellung.
Indem die Analyse nur wenige handlungstheoretische
Ansätze der aktuellen “Gender”-Diskussion herausgreift
und diese Auswahl gut begründet, arbeitet sie immer auf
der Basis historischer Fakten und vermeidet Pauschali-
sierungen. Vielmehr geht es darum, die wirtschaftlichen
und sozialen Handlungsmöglichkeiten und -grenzen von
Frauen während des Untersuchungszeitraums zu veran-
schaulichen. Auch wenn dieser mit fast drei Jahrzehnten
auf den ersten Blick knapp bemessen erscheinen mag,
fanden in dieser Zeit dennoch enorme gesellschaftli-
che Umbrüche statt, die die Geschlechterbeziehungen
bis heute beeinflussen. Diese bestanden vor allem dar-
in. daß junge, unverheiratete Frauen erstmals relative
wirtschaftliche Eigenständigkeit erfuhren und Ehefrauen
im jahreszeitlichen Zyklus zwischen Stadt und Land
pendelten. Aus den Interviews mit den Zeitzeuginnen
wird deutlich, daß sie vor allem am Wohlergehen ihrer
Familien interessiert waren. Dies bezog sich sowohl
auf die Gesundheit und die Ausbildung der Kinder als
auch auf eine menschenwürdige Unterkunft und einen
Hausrat, der die Alltagsarbeit erleichtern sollte.
Die Mühsal der Frauen, ihre Ideale zu verwirklichen,
wird durch den Blick in die Kolonialakten offensicht-
lich: Räumliche Enge und überfüllte, schlecht gebaute
Häuser in den Townships boten ideale Voraussetzungen
für Krankheiten und wiederkehrende Epidemien. Bis
in die 1950er Jahre setzte die Siedlerregierung auf
die afrikanische Selbsthilfe, anstatt die Townships mit
sanitären Anlagen auszustatten oder Krankenstationen
einzurichten. Arbeitslosigkeit und Armut boten latenten
Konfliktstoff zwischen Ehepartnern; Trennungen und
Scheidungen waren an der Tagesordnung. Viele Frauen
kritisierten keineswegs nur die wegen der geringen Löh-
ne unzureichenden Versorgungsleistungen ihrer Männer,
sondern vor allem deren Untreue.
Die Widersprüchlichkeit der Geschlechternormen ar-
beitet Teresa Barnes in aller Deutlichkeit heraus. So
beanspruchten die Männer mit der von der rhodesischen
Regierung geduldeten Kommerzialisierung des Braut-
preises die absolute Macht über ihre Ehefrauen; mit
Hinweisen auf eben diese Brautpreiszahlungen wollten
männliche Verwandte junge Ehefrauen an Haus und
Herd aufs Land verbannen. Gleichzeitig forderten die
Verwandten des Mannes, eine Ehefrau solle Mann und
Kindern ein gutes Leben ermöglichen und für den
familiären Wohlstand sorgen. Wenn die Frauen die-
se hochgesteckten Ziele auch nur annähernd erreichen
wollten, mußten sie arbeiten gehen; sei es als Hausan-
gestellte, Händlerin oder Fabrikarbeiterin. Eindrücklich
veranschaulicht die Autorin, daß nur wenigen Frauen
das Privileg einer festen, wenn auch schlecht bezahlten,
Anstellung vergönnt war, denn sie mußten über eine
Aufenthalts- und Arbeitserlaubnis sowie über Lese- und
Schreibkenntnisse verfügen. Wie der Titel des Buches,
“We Women Worked So Hard”, andeutet, blieb der
Mehrheit der Frauen nicht anderes übrig, als sich mit
Gelegenheitsjobs durchzuschlagen, die jedoch keines-
wegs den Idealen einer respektablen Ehefrau entspra-
chen. Hierzu zählten vor allem das Bierbrauen und die
Prostitution. Der Anstieg häuslicher Gewalt und die
Gefahr der Vergewaltigung waren die Schattenseiten des
städtischen Frauenalltags, deren Opfer vor allem unver-
heiratete, geschiedene oder verwitwete Frauen wurden.
Aus der Perspektive vieler Männer genossen sie zu viel
Eigenständigkeit, obwohl diese sich darauf beschränkte,
daß diese Frauen nicht automatisch der Kontrolle eines
Mannes unterstanden.
Im Schlußkapitel bringt Teresa Barnes die Situation
der Frauen auf den Punkt: Während alte und neue männ-
liche Eliten unter Berufung auf Traditionen, Ahnen oder
christliche Werte moralisierten, gleichzeitig aber von
den umfangreichen Versorgungsleistungen der Frauen in
der Stadt selbstgefällig profitierten, arbeiteten die Frauen
trotz neuer Ungleichheiten und Gewalterfahrungen für
sich und ihre Kinder an der Verbesserung der Lebensver-
hältnisse. Zu ihren von Mühsal gekennzeichneten Stra-
tegien zählte vor allem die Ausübung unterschiedlicher
wirtschaftlicher Aktivitäten während einzelner Lebens-
phasen, das jahreszeitliche Pendeln zwischen dem Her-
kunftsgebiet der Ehemänner, um deren Verwandte zu
befrieden. Deutlich wird, daß die Zusammenarbeit im
Alltag und die in den 1950er Jahren neugegründeten,
kirchlichen Frauengruppen nur bedingt für einen Aus-
gleich sorgen konnten. Teresa Barnes’ Ausblick auf die
Zeit nach der Unabhängigkeit illustriert das schwerfälli-
ge koloniale Erbe und die Wichtigkeit ihrer historischen
Analyse, denn die zimbabwische Regierung erkannte
erst 1982 Frauen als eigenständige Rechtspersonen an
und dies auch nur aufgrund des Drucks neuer nationaler
Frauenorganisationen.
Anthropos 96.2001
612
Rezensionen
Insgesamt bietet das Buch eine anschauliche und fak-
tenreiche Detailstudie zur Bedeutung der Geschlechter-
verhältnisse während der Urbanisierung und im Kontext
des Siedlerkolonialismus in Rhodesien. Die gelungene
Verbindung von sozialhistorischen mit ethnologischen
Fragestellungen kann auch für Studien in anderen Re-
gionen Impulse geben. Rita Schäfer
Baroin, Catherine, et Jean Boutrais (éds.): L’hom-
me et l’animal dans le bassin du lac Tchad. Paris:
Editions IRD, 1999. 705 pp. ISBN 2-7099-1436-0. Prix:
FF 150,00
Dieser neunte Sammelband aus der Reihe “Méga-
Tchad” macht Beiträge eines Kolloquiums des gleich-
namigen Netzwerkes zum Thema “Mensch und Tier
im Tschadseegebiet” einem größeren Leserkreis zugäng-
lich. Er umfasst neben einer Einleitung der Herausgeber
31 weitere, überwiegend französischsprachige Beiträ-
ge von Wissenschaftlern aus unterschiedlichen europäi-
schen und westafrikanischen Ländern. Ähnlich breit ge-
fächert wie die behandelten thematischen Schwerpunkte
sind die hier vertretenen Disziplinen, die von der En-
tomologie und Veterinärmedizin über die Archäologie,
Geographie, Ökonomie bis hin zur Sprachwissenschaft,
Geschichte, Oralliteratur und Ethnologie reichen. Be-
reits in früheren Kolloquien des “Réseau Méga-Tchad”
stand das Verhältnis des Menschen zu seiner Umwelt
(Vegetation, Wasser) im Zentrum der Betrachtung. Im
vorliegenden Band werden nun in Überblicksartikeln
und zahlreichen Fallstudien die vielschichtigen Bezie-
hungen zwischen Mensch und Tier in einer Region
behandelt, die sich über die heutigen Staatsgebiete von
Niger (4 Beiträge), Nigeria (1), Tschad (9), Kamerun
(17) und der Zentralafrikanischen Republik (1) erstreckt
(s. Übersichtskarte, 6).
Zum einen werden Aspekte des früheren Vorkom-
mens und der Domestizierung bestimmter Tierarten und
zum anderen die Merkmale ihrer heutigen ökonomi-
schen Nutzung in der Untersuchungsregion beleuchtet.
Quéchon etwa begibt sich auf archäologische Spurensu-
che, um Überreste der ehemals reichen Fauna heutiger
Wüstengebiete aufzuspüren, so z. B. im Termit-Gebiet,
das - im Osten Nigers gelegen - mittlerweile eine
Grenzregion zwischen Sahel und Sahara bildet. Moham-
madou versucht in seinem Beitrag zu zeigen, dass und
wie die so genannten Baare-Tchamba unter Einsatz des
sunda-Ponys bereits vor Ankunft der Adamawa-Fulbe
weite Landstriche der Savannengebiete Zentralkameruns
eroberten. Unter der Überschrift “Vom Konflikt zur
friedlichen Koexistenz” beschreibt Arditi rezente Verän-
derungen im Verhältnis zentralsudanischsprachiger Sa-
ra-Ackerbauern zu arabischen Viehzüchtern im heutigen
Tschad, eine Entwicklung, die letztlich im Zusammen-
hang mit klimatischen und ökologischen Veränderungen
in der Sahelzone allgemein zu sehen ist. (Vgl. aber auch
die eher gegenläufige Entwicklung, wie sie Raimond in
seinem Beitrag “Von der Komplementarität zur Kon-
kurrenz: Feldbau und Viehhaltung in den Überschwem-
mungsgebieten des Tschadseebeckens” aufzeigt.) Des
weiteren findet die symbolische Repräsentation der
Tierwelt in Erzählungen, Mythen und Kulten einzel-
ner Gesellschaften der Tschadseeregion eingehende Be-
rücksichtigung. Untersuchungen zur Klassifikation und
einzelsprachlichen Benennung von Tierarten verweisen
schließlich auf strukturelle und lexikalische Gemein-
samkeiten und Unterschiede (Taxonomien, Zoonyme)
sowie die wechselseitige Beeinflussung durch Sprecher
ebendieser Sprachen bzw. Sprachgruppen (vgl. dazu
etwa Brunk, Ibriszimow und Jungraithmayrs Beitrag
zum “L’atlas linguistique d’Afrique sahélo-soudanienne
[ALASS]; à la recherche d’isoglosses intergénétiques
dans le domaine zoonymique” sowie Blenchs archäolin-
guistische Hypothesen in “The Westward Wanderings of
Cushitic Pastoralists: Explorations in the Prehistory of
Central Africa”).
Untergliedert ist das Kompendium in sechs Themen-
bereiche zur Tierwelt des Tschadseebeckens, deren in-
haltliche Schwerpunkte ineinander greifen und sich ge-
legentlich überlappen (1. acteur de l’histoire humaine
[3 Beiträge], 2. dire et classer [3], 3. la littérature orale
[4], 4. l’imaginaire social [8], 5. enjeux sociaux [6],
6. développement durable [7]). Zu der seit je her im
Wandel begriffenen Fauna das Tschadseeraumes (paysa-
ges animaux, 23) zählten und zählen neben Wildtieren
(Antilopen, Gazellen, Affen, Panther und Krokodile)
einheimische wie importierte Nutz- und Haustierarten
(Rinder, Ziegen, Schafe, Esel und Hunde), aber auch
zahlreiche Insektenspezies. Barreteau z. B. ermittelt und
analysiert allein 100 verschiedene Bezeichnungen für
“acridiens” (Acrididae) im tschadischen Mofu-Gudur,
der Sprache einer heute im äußersten Norden Kame-
runs ansässigen Ethnie. Die Mofu-Gudur leben demnach
nicht nur von der Viehzucht und dem Ackerbau, sondern
sie sind ebenso mit dem Sammeln von Insekten vertraut,
wobei “les criquets présentent un intérêt certain, tant
du point de vue alimentaire que sur le plan social
et culturel” (133). Erwartungsgemäß beschäftigt sich
der überwiegende Teil der Beiträge mit dem Aspekt
der Rinderhaltung, ihrer materiellen wie mythologischen
Bedeutung - z. B. bei den Fulbe, die nicht selten als das
Paradebeispiel für expansiven Pastoralnomadismus im
Großraum Westafrika gelten. In anderen Fällen, so wird
verschiedentlich in diesem Band gezeigt, nutzen Gesell-
schaften domestizierte Tiere in ganz unterschiedlichem
Maße für verschiedene Zwecke, und sie gestehen ihnen
dieser Bedeutung entsprechend einen Platz im soziokul-
turellen Wertesystem zu. Für die Tuareg-Gesellschaft, so
führt Bernus in einem weiteren Fallbeispiel aus, spielen
u. a. Kamel (Camelus dromedarius), Pferd und Hund
eine besondere Rolle, wobei gerade diese Tiere “sont
liés à l’historié des Touaregs et que, plus que les autres,
ils possèdent une valeur symbolique” (409).
Hervorzuheben wäre abschließend noch die Illustra-
tion einzelner Beiträge (Zeichnungen, Photographien)
und eine weitgehende kartographische Aufbereitung der
Teilregionen, beides Elemente, die den Textteil des Ban-
des sinnvoll ergänzen. Erwähnenswert sind weiterhin die
lexikalischen Verzeichnisse von Tier- oder Insektenna-
men, die unterschiedlichen Umfang erreichen und z. T.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
613
linguistisch analysiert und/oder naturwissenschaftlich
genauer bestimmt sind. Beiträge, die sich mit der Dar-
stellung von Tieren in der Oralliteratur befassen, enthal-
ten im Anhang vereinzelt Auszüge originalsprachlicher
Texte mit überwiegend freier französischer Übersetzung.
In diesem Zusamenhang wäre etwa Saibous Übertragung
und Kommentar eines floon-Gedichtes zu nennen, das
als Beispiel eines bislang wenig bekannten Genres der
Fulbe-Literatur Adamawas gelten kann. Jeder Beitrag
(inklusive der Einleitung) verfügt über ein eigenes,
nicht selten umfangreiches Literaturverzeichnis. Wurde
dem Band auch kein allgemeiner Index angefügt, so
erleichtern die französischen und englischen Zusammen-
fassungen am Schluss des Bandes den schnellen Lesezu-
gang, zumal sie durch aussagekräftige Schlüsselwörter
komplettiert sind.
Vielleicht hätte eine einleitende Zusammenschau der
einzelnen Fallstudien unter Erwähnung einer genealo-
gischen Zuordnung im Text genannter Einzelsprachen
zum Adamawa (Duupa, Tupuri), Tschadischen (Mafa,
Masa, Mofu-Gudur, Musey = Muzey), Saharanischen
(Teda-Daza, Tubu), Zentralsudanischen (Sara), Ubangi
(Gbaya) und Westatlantischen (Fulbe) die Lektüre auch
für diejenigen Leser erleichtert, die mit der Region
und ihrer ethnolinguistischen Vielfalt weniger eng ver-
traut sind. Dessen ungeachtet hegt aber die Stärke des
Bandes vor allem in seiner konsequenten thematischen
und geographischen Eingrenzung unter gleichzeitiger
Berücksichtigung kultureller und sprachlicher Mannig-
faltigkeit im Tschadseegebiet. So paradox es klingen
mag, es ist m. E. gerade diese räumlich fokussierte und
multidisziplinäre Betrachtungsweise, die das Blickfeld
erweitert und zu allgemeinen und konzeptionellen Fra-
gestellungen führt. Antworten auf diese Fragen zu En-
den, wird im afrikanischen Kontext sowohl die Geistes-
ais auch die Naturwissenschaften weiterhin beschäftigen
(s. Aberlenc und Deguine: “L’entomologiste à l’écoute
du discours des Mofu sur les insectes est ballotté entre ce
qu'il perçoit d’une part comme des observations souvent
fines de la réalité objective, et d’autre part comme
relevant d’une riche mythologie qui lui est étrangère.
Il ne peut s’empêcher de s’interroger: ‘Et si notre
paradigme scientifique était lui aussi une mythologie?’
Mais ceci est une autre histoire ..671).
Gabriele Sommer
Beck, Ulrich (Hrsg.): Perspektiven der Weltgesell-
schaft. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1998. 436 pp. ISBN
3-518-40916-6. Preis: DM 34,00
“Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft” - regenbogen-
farben eingebunden wie er ist, scheint uns der so
benannte Sammelband aus einer besseren Zukunft zu
sinken, hinein ins Zeitalter des Blaugrau der Suhr-
kamp-Theorie und der biederen Deckfarben der wis-
senschaftlichen Verlage. Man kauft, man liest, doch
bann ist beim besten Willen kaum etwas zu finden, was
üns Zukunft verheißt, Ausblicke. Vorherrschend ist ein
naives Erstaunen darüber, daß man heute über Waren
aus aller Welt verfügt, sein Geld bei Automaten abzieht,
die internationalen Konzernen gehören und in Hongkong
hergestellt wurden, daß niemand mehr in die nationalen,
stammesgesellschaftlichen, rassischen Klassifikationen
passen will, mit denen Menschen in den letzten zwei-
hundert Jahren ein Stück Identität gefunden haben, und
daß es wohl so etwas gibt wie internationale Geldmärkte
und Wirtschaftskrisen. Mit seltsamer Erregung registrie-
ren die hier bemühten Soziologen und Philosophen ihre
Einbindung in die internationale Gesellschaft, der sie
als Gelehrte doch schon immer angehört haben wollen.
Das Goethesche Erbe der Weltliteratur wird nur einmal,
im abschließenden Beitrag von Martin Albrow, zitiert.
Der Herausgeber, Ulrich Beck, hält sich lieber an Nietz-
sches Hysterie angesichts der Gleichzeitigkeit des Un-
gleichzeitigen. Die Tradition einer liberalen Kulturan-
thropologie, vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft oder
Universalhistorie, die es ja auch in Deutschland gibt
und gab, wurde bei der Zusammenstellung des Bandes
übergangen.
Dabei fällt einem beim Lesen mit der Zeit die
gebetsmühlenartig wiederholte Behauptung auf, daß wir
doch nun in einem ganz außerordentlichen, sagenhaft
modernistischen oder postmodernen, alles vermischen-
den Zeitalter leben würden. Zur Immunisierung dieser
Gefühlslage gegen andere Erfahrungen von Universalität
hat man als ersten Autor einen prominenten Ethnolo-
gen geladen, Arjun Appadurai, der sich zunächst als
indigener Spezialist aus Indien und Ethnologe der Kon-
sumgesellschaft des Westens empfiehlt, dann aber als
durchschnittlicher amerikanischer Provinzanthropologe
entpuppt wie viele andere, mit der naiven Äußerung,
daß “das Ethno in Ethnographie” heute “nicht mehr
eindeutig umrissen und nicht mehr eindeutig bestimm-
bar” sei. Ansonsten bleibt die Ethnologie außen vor,
das “lokale” wird lediglich in der Form der Anekdote
in die Theoriegebilde der Soziologie und Politologie
eingeflochten. Es war niemals umrissen, das Ethnische,
Ethnologen wissen das schon lange! Der Kazike eines
Dorfes im Mexiko des 16. Jhs., ein sarmatischer Krieger,
der mit seiner römischen Legion im Hunsrück stationiert
war, oder gar ein sumerischer Beamter, der Asphalt
oder Sklaven nach dem Osten verhandelte in den Zeiten
lange vor unserer Zeitrechnung, sie alle dürften kaum
überrascht gewesen sein über das, was Ulrich Beck
im Umschlagtext zum Markenzeichen seines Buches
machen läßt: “Was die Menschen scheidet und unter-
scheidet - religiöse, kulturelle, wirtschaftliche und poli-
tische Unterschiede -, ist an einem Ort, in einer Stadt,
immer öfter sogar in einer Familie, einer Biographie
präsent.” Gegen derlei Aufgeregtheit kann ich nur Adolf
Bastian halten, den Gründer der deutschen Ethnologie
und peniblen Beobachter der Globalisierung, zugleich
Historiker (oder auch Phantast) der Kulturwanderungen
unvordenklicher Zeiten: “Streichhölzer deutscher Erfin-
dung ..., aus Schweden auf den Handelsmarkt gebracht,
mit englischer Übersetzung der Firmen ... haben, bei
Japans Hineinziehung in denselben, dort ihre Fabrication
gefunden, und werden nun mit buddhistischen Legenden
indischer Mythen ... im Innern Javas durch Hausierer
umhergetragen, um in die ethnologischen Museen Euro-
Anthropos 96.2001
614
Rezensionen
pas zurückzugelangen.” Der Mann, der dies schrieb, ist
seit über hundert Jahren tot, und wir leben nicht in einem
Zeitalter, das außerordentlicher und merkwürdiger wäre
als die anderen auch. Die Vermischung soll heute drama-
tischere, folgenreichere, vielleicht schädlichere Formen
angenommen haben, nur weil das Ganze jetzt auf die
Ebene der flimmernden Schirme und Plastikkästen ver-
legt wurde, der Codenummern im internationalen Geld-
geschäft und der allgegenwärtigen tragbaren Telefone?
Das wirklich Neue kommt bei all dem erstaunlicher-
weise kaum zum Tragen, nämlich die seit 1989 ins
Unermeßliche gewachsene Kriegsmacht der USA und
ihre sich über die Welt erstreckende neue Ordnung.
Die bundesdeutschen und nordamerikanischen akademi-
schen Zirkel, so scheint es, sind gealtert, sie haben die
Erschütterungen des Weltkrieges wieder und wieder ver-
daut und dabei den Sinn für die Welt da draußen verloren
und sind nun erstaunt oder auch verängstigt, wenn ein
in Asien lokalisiertes Börsenbeben auch für europäische
Akademiker spürbar wird, zum Beispiel in der Gestalt
von Sparmaßnahmen ihrer Fördereinrichtungen.
Im Grunde ist dieser Sammelband ein Symptom
dafür, daß wir nach dem “Jahrzehnt der Soziologie”
die großen Universalhistorien vergessen haben, den
Spengler, den Durant und all die anderen. Nur wenige
Menschen sind noch in der Lage, ähnliches zu schreiben,
uns zu belehren über die Normalität der Vermischungen,
Evolutionen und Umbrüche in der Weltgeschichte, und
manch einer, der es konnte, muß sich heute hinter einer
Spezialdisziplin verstecken, um überwintern zu können.
Vergessen ist anscheinend sogar Eric Wolfs brillantes
Buch “Europa und die Völker ohne Geschichte” (1982),
wo noch einmal aus der Sicht eines historisch belese-
nen Kulturanthropologen die Universalität und Vermi-
schung aller Völker und Identitäten beschrieben wurde -
die deutsche Übersetzung ist erst vor 15 Jahren erschie-
nen!
Der Herausgeber des Bandes kann erklärtermaßen
nicht einmal ein “Abgrenzungskriterium” im Verhält-
nis zu den übrigen weltbezogenen Zusammenstellungen
derselben regenbogenfarbenen Reihe ausmachen. Kultu-
relle, lokale Begleiterscheinungen und Hemmnisse der
Globalisierung sind immer wieder das Thema, so viel
läßt sich feststellen, und einige klug gestaltete Beiträge
zeigen, daß wir nur im Geiste des Nationalismus der
letzten 120 Jahre in den Irrtum verfallen konnten, jeder
Mensch habe jeweils ein “Ethnos” oder eine Rasse, eine
klar erkennbare Zuordnung. Elisabeth Beck-Gernsheims
penible Aufzeichnung der Verwirrspiele um deutsch-jü-
dische Identitäten in Dritten Reich weisen uns auf eine
Perspektive hin, die immer schon weltgesellschaftlich
sein mußte: woher, wenn nicht aus der “Welt” waren
die Bewohner Berlins im 19. Jh. zusammengeströmt, aus
Rußland und Nordafrika, aus Frankreich, aus Schweden
und aus den neuen Kolonien. Interessant wird es in
diesem Buch vor allem bei den Beiträgen, die nicht in
Verwirrspiele und kartoffelsackartige Zusammenstellung
zur “Globalen Umweltpolitik” und ähnlichem verfallen,
sondern die Entscheidungen der Menschen für eine in-
ternationale oder auch “internationalstaatliche” Zukunft
in den Vordergrund stellen: “So schwach und mangelhaft
das universelle Rechtssystem auch sein mag, Fortschritte
wurden dennoch erzielt” (Charlotte Bretherton) - damit
kann man immerhin etwas anfangen. Und der Meister
der systematischen Säcke, Karteischränke und Spiegel-
kabinette, Niklas Luhmann, steuert Erhellendes zur Ge-
schichte des Staates bei, der in historischer Perspektive
wirkt wie eine Insel der Isolation in einem Meer von
weltweiten Wanderungen. Es ist eben doch auch nur eine
“zweite Moderne”, die in dieser regenbogenfarbenen
Reihe seziert werden soll.
Unsere Konstruktionen sind gefragt, nicht bloß er-
staunte Aufzählungen der multikulturellen Vielfalt in
dicken Sammelbänden. Identitäten müssen wir schaffen,
auch wir, als internationale Menschen und Menschen-
rechtlerinnen, als Rasse Mensch, als Bewohner dieses
Planeten und zugleich als Nachbarn, Freunde und Wesen
mit einem Recht auf Heimat. “Was heißt Gesellschaft
... im ‘Globalen Zeitalter’ ...?” fragt Ulrich Beck
etwas ratlos in seiner Einleitung. Der Fehler, so scheint
mir, liegt darin, die Frage so zu stellen. Nicht vor
einem “riesengroßen Rätsel” stehen wir, sondern vor
riesengroßen Entscheidungen. In diesem Sinne kann das
im Band “Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft” beschwo-
rene Gefühl der Einmaligkeit unserer Situation vielleicht
sogar dienlich sein bei der Bewältigung der heutigen
Krise. Doch der Blick auf die anderen Krisen zwischen
Tradition und Moderne, die, die es schon immer gege-
ben hat, wird uns vielleicht auch vor Aufgeregtheiten
schützen, und vor allzu schnell gestrickten Entschlüssen
und Proklamationen. Thomas Hauschild
Beckwith, Carol, and Angela Fisher: Afrika. Kulte,
Feste, Rituale; 2 Bde. 3. Aufl. München: C. J. Bücher
Verlag, 2000. 384 pp., Fotos; 360 pp., Fotos. ISBN 3-
7658-1243-9. Preis: DM298,00
Diese beiden Bildbände können Begeisterungsstürme
hervorrufen. Beim Durchblättern berauschen die inten-
siven Farben, beeindrucken die sprechenden Gesich-
ter, bestürzen die ausdrucksstarken Masken und Bema-
lungen, bezaubern die wirbelnden Bewegungen. Carol
Beckwith (USA) und Angela Fisher (Australien), beide
in London lebend, bereisten nicht als Ethnologinnen
sondern, wie sie betonen, als Künstlerinnen 26 afrika-
nische Länder: von Marokko bis nach Swaziland, von
Namibia bis nach Eritrea. Ihr Anliegen ist, “die heiligen
Zeremonien zu dokumentieren, ehe es zu spät ist”,
wie Malidoma Patrice Some in seinem kurzen Vorwort
hervorhebt. Die Autorinnen jubeln: “Nach zehnjähriger
Arbeit ist unser Traum mit ‘Afrika - Kulte, Feste,
Rituale’ Wirklichkeit geworden. Mit tiefer Anerkennung
übergeben wir maagani yegitata [‘Medizin gegen das
Vergessen’] [unserem Freund] Mokao, Afrika und dem
Rest der Welt” (Bd. I: 11). Die inhaltliche Bandbreite
umfasst Geburt und Initiation, Liebe und Heirat, König-
tum und Macht, Jahreszeitliche Riten, Religiöse Kulte
sowie Geister und Ahnen, den gesamten afrikanischen
Kosmos eben. Was die Bilder so lebendig macht, ist
die Liebe zum Detail, die Nähe zu den Menschen. Die
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
615
beiden Frauen haben sich Zeit gelassen, bei den jewei-
ligen ethnischen Gruppen anzukommen und vor allem
von den Bewohnerinnen angenommen zu werden. Nur
so konnte es ihnen gelingen, “zu beiden Geschlechtern
enge Beziehungen herzustellen. Frauen luden uns ein,
an ihrem Leben teilzuhaben. Sie verrieten uns Dinge,
die sie einem Mann gegenüber nie geäußert hätten.
Von den Männern wurden wir gleichermaßen akzeptiert.
Sie ... behandelten uns meist wie ehrbare Männer. So
wurde uns erlaubt, männliche Rituale zu fotografieren,
zu denen Frauen oft keinen Zugang haben” (Bd. I: 12).
Wie aber stellen die Künstlerinnen afrikanische Ri-
tuale dar? Ich wähle das Thema Beschneidung: “Für die
Taneka im nördlichen Benin besteht die Initiation der
Männer aus einer achtmonatigen Serie von Ritualen,
deren Höhepunkt die Beschneidung ist. ... Für die
Senufo-Frauen der Elfenbeinküste umfasst die Initiation
nach der Beschneidung noch eine Ausbildungszeit von
bis zu acht Jahren. ... In jeder dieser Kulturen stellt
die Initiation bei beiden Geschlechtern den Mut der
Initianden angesichts eines körperlichen Traumas auf
die Probe” (Bd. I: 54). Können auf diese Weise die
Beschneidung der männlichen Vorhaut und die Kli-
torisexzision der Frauen gleichgestellt werden? Zwar
beweisen die Fotografinnen Taktgefühl, indem sie zwar
die Bescheidung eines jungen Maasai-Mannes detailliert
und mit scharfen Bildeinstellungen veranschaulichen,
während sie die der jungen Frau - in der Mitte lachender
Anwesender und als Schreiende - unscharf zeigen. Im
Begleittext heißt es: “Während des Schneidens schreit
das Mädchen vor Schmerzen und fleht ihre Verwandten
an, sie gehen zu lassen, aber sie halten sie weiter-
hin fest, weil sie alle davon überzeugt sind, dass die
Prozedur zu ihrem eigenen Besten geschieht” (Bd. I:
90). Woher kennen die Autorinnen die Überzeugun-
gen “der” Verwandten? Solch ein Kommentar ist ein
Musterbeispiel für Kulturrelativismus. Gewiss drücken
die Autorinnen Bedauern aus: Wenn “die Beschneiderin
zufriedenstellend gearbeitet hat”, schreiben sie, “kann
sich das Mädchen erholen, sonst sieht sie leider einer
Wiederholung der Prozedur ins Auge.” Jedoch von der
lebenslänglichen Einbuße von Lebensqualität der Frau-
en und von ihren medizinischen Problemen bei jeder
Geburt ist nicht die Rede. Für die Leserinnenschaft
erscheint die Frauenbeschneidung als ein afrikanisches
Exoticum neben zahlreichen anderen wie den rituellen
Trancetänzen oder den Kriegsspielen.
Für Ethnologlnnen kann das Kompendium von 43
Zeremonien zwar zur Veranschaulichung ihrer anderswo
erworbenen Kenntnisse dienen, doch ist es kaum als
ein Nachschlagewerk geeignet. Knapp zehn Prozent der
Seiten sind den erläuternden Texten gewidmet, die sich
an ein breites Publikum richten und die ich als pauscha-
lisierend und gelegentlich als oberflächlich empfinde.
Über die Konzeption des Menschen bei den Aschanti
heißt es: “Die Seele stammt von Gott, und sie ist das
einzige Element, das nicht zusammen mit der Person
stirbt. Überall auf dem Kontinent finden sich Variationen
dieses Themas, und sie alle betonen die Dualität des
Menschen und des Universums, in dem er lebt” (Bd. II:
336). Die Begriffe Gott, Seele und . Dualität sind zu
disputieren. Der Zusammenhang, in den sie hier gestellt
werden, lässt eher ein europäisches als ein afrikanisches
Weltbild durchscheinen.
Die Bilder sind von solch hervorragender Qualität,
von solch berauschender Schönheit, dass sie das leben-
dige Afrika verfremden. Stets ist der Tenor spürbar, die
Kulthandlungen festhalten, so lange sie noch existie-
ren. Der Wandel, der stets in synkretistischer Manier
alte Kultelemente neuen gesellschaftlichen Verhältnissen
anpasst, kommt nur äußerst blass vor: “Während der
letzten vierzig Jahre ist eine neue Kunstform zu den
Begräbniszeremonien der Ga hinzugekommen” (Bd. II:
332). Zur Illustration werden Särge in Form von Autos
oder Schiffen gezeigt. Andere modernisierte Kultformen
werden nicht gezeigt, vielleicht, weil sie weniger ästheti-
sierbar sind. Mein Empfinden ist: Hier wird afrikanische
Gegenwart bereits zur Geschichte exotisiert.
Godula Kosack
Beier, Ulli (ed.): A Dreaming Life. An Auto-
biography of Chief Twins Seven-Seven, the Ekerin-
Bashorun Atunluto of Ibadanland. From Conversations
with Twins Seven-Seven. Bayreuth: Bayreuth African
Studies Breitinger, 1999. 207 pp. ISBN 3-927510-61-0.
(Bayreuth African Studies, 52) Preis: DM 44,95
Vier Jahrzehnte nach der Unabhängigkeit Nigerias
erscheint die Autobiographie eines Zeitzeugens und
Aktivisten der pulsierenden kulturellen Landschaft, die
in der ersten Hälfte der 60er Jahre dort hervorbrach.
Twins Seven-Seven (*1947), der unbestritten zu den
Pionieren Neuer Afrikanischer Kunst gehört, erzählt aus
seinem Leben. In der europäischen Rezeption überwie-
gend als bildender Künstler bekannt, etwa durch die
Teilnahme an der epochemachenden Ausstellung “Les
Magiciens de la Terre” (Paris, 1989), erschließen sich
in “A Dreaming Life” weitere seiner Lebensbereiche.
Die sich auffächemden Themenkomplexe sind reich und
beziehen genealogische Aspekte, Kindheitserfahrungen
oder das Leben mit mehreren Ehefrauen ebenso ein
wie (bildend) künstlerische, musikalische und religiö-
se Auseinandersetzungen. Der in diesen Ausführungen
stellenweise auftretende Erklärungsbedarf wird durch
einen breit angelegten Anmerkungsteil des Herausge-
bers aufgefangen. Teils in der Funktion eines Glossars
werden Begriffe des Yoruba erklärt, aber auch von
Seven-Seven genannte Personen erweiternd vorgestellt.
Die Bezeichnung Autobiographie für diesen in der
Reihe “Bayreuth African Studies” publizierten Band
ist irreführend. Tatsächlich handelt es sich um eine
Zusammenstellung von Gesprächen und Interviews der
Jahre 1977-1985, die neben Gabi Duigu und Georgina
Beier in der Mehrzahl Ulli Beier mit Seven-Seven
führte, wie dies auch im Vorwort dieses Bandes be-
nannt ist. Das deutliche Erkennen von Fragenden und
Befragtem sowie die Unterscheidung zwischen Frage
und Antwort als eine für diese Gattung typische Struktur
wird verwischt. Einzig dadurch, daß Seven-Seven sein
Gegenüber stellenweise in seine Erzählungen einbezieht,
Anthropos 96.2001
616
Rezensionen
etwa “you know, I told you about” (125), wird auf die
zu Grunde liegende Gesprächssituation verwiesen. Die
editorische Arbeit liegt deshalb in der Umformung vom
Dialog zur autobiographischen Erzählung. Die dadurch
implizit vorgegebene Leserichtung wird zusätzlich durch
die Übernahme von Zitaten Seven-Sevens als Zwi-
schenüberschrift zu den einzelnen Themenkomplexen
forciert.
Das Ergebnis ist ein erfrischend unwissenschaftlicher
Text, in dem die Grenzen zwischen Objekt und Sub-
jekt fließend sind zugunsten einer dichten Erzählung,
die allein den Ich-Erzähler als Protagonist kennt. Of-
fen, rasant, ganz und gar unprätentiös und mit einer
immer wieder bis zum Letzten ausgeschöpften Freude
am Detail präsentiert sich “A Dreaming Life”. Die
gestatteten Einblicke verweben sich zu einer tatsächli-
chen Lebensgeschichte, in der die einzelnen Themen-
komplexe nicht nebeneinander, sondern auch als Folge
verstanden und in Bezug zueinander gesetzt werden. Teil
dieser Geschichte ist auch die Begegnung und die über
Jahrzehnte währende persönliche Beziehung zwischen
Seven-Seven und dem Ehepaar Beier. Auch sie sind
gleichermaßen Zeitzeugen und Aktivisten. Seit den 60er
Jahren und über lange Jahre hinweg gestalteten sie in
der südwestnigerianischen Stadt Oshogbo maßgeblich
die Arbeit des Mbari Mbayo Clubs, in dem sich fernab
akademischer Standards Kunst und Leben als Einheit
darstellte. Dazu gehörte auch, neben Theater und Musik,
die Initiierung eines mehrtägigen Art-workshops durch
Georgina Beier, aus dem heraus Seven-Seven seine
Affinität zum Zeichnerischen entdeckte und weiterent-
wickelte. In diesen biographischen Verflechtungen liegt
auch das Kapital dieses Bandes, weil durch sie ursäch-
lich die Intensität der Gespräche bestimmt wurde, die
aus einer distanzierten Außensicht kaum vergleichbar
hätten geführt werden können.
Ergänzt wird dieses erzählte Leben durch Abbil-
dungen von Werken Seven-Sevens. Auf dem Frontispiz
des Bandes zeigt sich kraftvoll und von einer ebenso
wuchernden wie humorvollen Erfindungsgabe zeugend
die “Magical figure in the tribe of the antibird-ghost”.
Diese Wahl ist gelungen, nicht nur weil wesentliche
Elemente der Bildsprache Seven-Sevens beispielhaft
deutlich werden, sondern sie auch neugierig macht auf
den Menschen hinter diesem Werk. Zu dieser enthält
der Band fünfzehn weitere Abbildungen von Werken
Seven-Sevens. Als separater Block gekennzeichnet, sind
sie dem Textteil angehängt und durch den Künstler
kommentiert. Charakteristisch für diese Kommentare ist
das Verschmelzen von Text und Werk zu prosahaften
Bildergeschichten, in denen Seven-Seven seine Wer-
ke auch unter dem Aspekt ihres Entstehungsprozesses
beschreibt und den tradierten Kontext einiger seiner
Figuren erklärt. Diese überwiegend aus dem Fundus
Beier stammenden Arbeiten dokumentieren das Oeuvre
weniger kursorisch als selektiv. Vorrangig wird die Gra-
phik (Strichätzung, kolorierte Zeichnung) als künstleri-
sche Technik berücksichtigt, die Seven-Seven zu Beginn
seiner Karriere in den 60er Jahren intensiv verfolgte
und in den Jahren 1984/85 nochmals aufgriff. Durch
\
diesen begrenzten Einblick wird etwa die Erwähnung
jener das künstlerische Schaffen ebenfalls prägenden
mehrschichtig, reliefartigen Sperrholzbilder ausgelassen
und ein Ausblick auf die künstlerische Entwicklung nach
1985 nicht gestattet. Gleichzeitig wird mit dieser Aus-
wahl eine Lücke geschlossen. Gerade die graphischen
Arbeiten des Künstlers gehören zu dem häufig durch
die Rezeption vernachlässigten Material, wenngleich sie
wesentlich für das Verständnis des Oeuvres sind. Kom-
plettiert werden diese “comments on paintings” durch
eine Auflistung der öffentlichen Sammlungen, in denen
sich Werke des Künstlers befinden, wie beispielsweise
das Völkerkundemuseum Frankfurt am Main.
Insgesamt beeindruckt “A Dreaming Life” als per-
sönliches Dokument und individuell erlebte und erzählte
Geschichte, die gleichzeitig über sich hinaus wächst: In
ihr spiegeln sich die Anfänge und die leidenschaftliche
Verfolgung eines kulturellen Neubeginns im postkolo-
nialen Nigeria wider. Deutlich werden ebenso Aspekte
der großen Erzählungen um Tradition und Moderne,
wie sie sich auch in Fragen nach kultureller Identität
und einer Standortbestimmung der Neuen Afrikanischen
Kunst darstellen. Kerstin Eckstein
Bernard, H. Russell (ed.): Handbook of Methods in
Cultural Anthropology. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press,
1998. 816 pp. ISBN 0-7619-9151-4. Price: £ 55.00
Die Kulturanthropologie (Cultural Anthropology),
die in etwa der mitteleuropäischen Ethnologie (Völker-
kunde) und z. T. der Volkskunde entspricht, konnte in
ihrer verhältnismäßig kurzen Geschichte als selbständige
Disziplin trotz anfänglicher methodologischer Unzu-
länglichkeiten beachtliche Forschungserfolge erzielen,
die verschiedentlich auch anderen Wissenszweigen zu-
gute kamen. Umfangreichere Arbeiten aus dem Ge-
biet der kulturanthropologischen Methodologie bis zur
1. Hälfte des 20. Jhs. gab es nur wenige. Die angewand-
ten Methoden entsprachen gewöhnlich dem konkreten
Forschungsanliegen, was jedoch zu einer Methoden-
pluralität führte. Erst in der 2. Jahrhunderthälfte befaß-
te man sich in wachsendem Maße mit wissenschafts-
theoretischen Voraussetzungen und methodologischen
Problemen der Kulturanthropologie, die zum Teil mit
den Auseinandersetzungen über die Grundfragen der
Völkerkunde, ihren Forschungsbereich, ihre Aufgaben
und Ziele zusammenhingen. Mit der Erschließung neu-
er Forschungsgebiete für die Kulturanthropologie in
den letzten Jahrzehnten nahm die Diskussion über die
anzuwendenden Methoden an Intensität zu, damit die
Datenbeschaffung und -bearbeitung den wissenschaftli-
chen Anforderungen vollauf entspräche. Viele Defizite
gelang es, besonders anfangs, durch die Übernahme oder
Anpassung von Methoden aus anderen Bereichen zu
kompensieren.
Im vorliegenden Team werk, das nebst Vorwort, Bio-
graphie-, Autoren- und Sachverzeichnis aus 19 Beiträ-
gen besteht, befassen sich 28 namhafte Autoren, der
Herausgeber miteingerechnet, mit den Methoden der
Kulturanthropologie. Das Anliegen des Herausgebers
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
617
war, ein möglichst vielseitiges, breitgefächertes Hand-
buch zu schaffen, das von Nutzen vor allem für “aca-
demic anthropologists and practicing anthropologists; to
interpretivists and positivists; to idealists and materia-
lists”, aber auch für Soziologen wäre (8). Dementspre-
chend wurde ein verhältnismäßig breites Methodenspek-
trum konzipiert, das die verschiedenen Bereiche, For-
schungsausrichtungen, Zielsetzungen und Belange der
heutigen Kulturanthropologie berücksichtigen würde.
Im Einleitungsartikel befaßt sich H. R. Bernard im
allgemeinen mit den in der Kulturanthropologie ange-
wandten Methoden, sowohl in diachronischer wie syn-
chronischer Sicht, wobei er auf ihre Wichtigkeit für die-
ses Wissensgebiet, besonders für die Datenermittlung,
ihre Bearbeitung und Interpretation hinweist. Er macht
aber auch mit Recht auf die Tatsache aufmerksam,
daß die Kulturanthropologie bezüglich der angewandten
Arbeitsmethoden zwar eklektisch, aber auch elastisch
eingestellt war. So wurden z. B. seit den 70er Jahren (im
20. Jh.) in zunehmendem Maße besonders Forschungs-
methoden der Sozialwissenschaften übernommen (30).
Von besonderem Interesse für den europäischen Leser
dürfte das fast explosionsartige Anwachsen des Inter-
esses für die Kulturanthropologie in den USA sein:
wurden im Jahre 1950 an amerikanischen Universitäten
in diesem Bereich 22 Doktortitel vergeben, so waren es
innerhalb 1970 - 1998 gegen 11 000. Die Arbeitslosen-
quote in diesem Spezialfach ist dabei erstaunlich niedrig:
1993 waren es kaum 1,6%, da Kulturanthropologen
auch in anderen, nichtakademischen Berufen erfolgreich
tätig sind (17 f.).
Die folgenden Kapitel dieses umfangreichen Ar-
beitsbuches (816 Seiten) gehören vier Themenkreisen
an. Im ersten, etwas enigmatisch als “Perspectives”
bezeichnet (Kapitel 2-7), wurden allgemeintheoretische
Fragen behandelt, u. a. aktuelle erkenntnis- und for-
schungstheoretische Probleme, die Forschungsplanung
und Forschungsstrategien in diesem Fachbereich. Zur
Sprache kamen auch ethische Probleme, die mit der
ethnologischen Forschung Zusammenhängen, wie auch
die zunehmend mehr an Bedeutung gewinnende fe-
ministische Anthropologie mit ihren spezifischen For-
schungsbelangen und -methoden. Abschließend wurden
auch staatsübergreifende Forschungen in methodologi-
scher Sicht besprochen, die der Kulturanthropologie ein
neues, aussichtsreiches Arbeitsfeld erschlossen haben.
Im zweiten Themenkreis, der sieben Beiträge enthält,
wurden theoretische und praktische Probleme der Infor-
niationsermittlung behandelt; sowohl bislang bewährte,
wie auch neueste Methoden der Datenbeschaffung wur-
den erörtert. Eine wesentliche Rolle spielt z. B. seit 80
Jahren die schon klassische Methode der teilnehmen-
den Beobachtung, obwohl sie unterschiedlich verstanden
und praktiziert wird (259—292). Ein kennzeichnendes
Merkmal der heutigen ethnologischen Forschung, deren
Aufgabenbereich, Arbeitsgebiet und Problematik bedeu-
tend größer und differenzierter ist als dies noch vor
Wenigen Jahrzehnten war, ist die Vielfalt der derzeit
angewandten Methoden, z. B. bei der Befragung, Beob-
achtung und Umfrage, der Ermittlung und Auswertung
archivalischer Materialien, wobei die Kulturanthropolo-
gen oft auf methodologische Erfahrungen ihrer Fach-
kollegen von anderen Wissenszweigen zurückgreifen.
Dieser Teil ist für den Völkerkundler von besonderer
Wichtigkeit, da in ihm die derzeitigen Arbeitsmethoden
dieser Disziplin sachgemäß, aufschlußreich und ver-
ständlich dargestellt wurden.
Wesentlich kürzer, nur in drei Beiträgen, kamen
Probleme der Informationsinterpretierung zur Sprache,
wobei auch qualitative und quantitative Prüfverfahren
erörtert wurden. Abschließend wurden in diesem Ar-
beitsbuch in zwei Artikeln methodologische Probleme
der angewandten Kulturanthropologie und die Darstel-
lungsart ethnologischer Belange und Fragen behandelt.
Vorliegendes Handbuch kann sicher als Standard-
werk der Methodik in der Kulturanthropologie bezeich-
net werden, das ein hoher Grad von Kompetenz, kriti-
scher Objektivität und gezielter Erfassung der Grundpro-
bleme kennzeichnet. Erörtert wurden vor allem aktuelle
Probleme der kulturanthropologischen Methodenlehre;
dies ist ein schwieriges Unterfangen, da wir es mit
einer Methodenvielfalt zu tun haben, die jedoch nicht
abträglich sein muß. Sie ermöglicht nämlich eine diffe-
renziertere, sachgemäße Bestandsaufnahme des jeweils
vorliegenden Forschungsmaterials und seine sinngemä-
ße Bearbeitung, zudem den Einstieg in neue Forschungs-
bereiche.
Sicherlich kann in der Methodenforschung im Be-
reich der Kulturanthropologie ein großer Fortschritt fest-
gestellt werden, wodurch die Effizienz, Verifizierbarkeit
und Qualität der Datenbeschaffung und deren Bearbei-
tung wesentlich zunahm. Dies gewährleistet das Presti-
ge, die Glaubwürdigkeit und Genauigkeit der kulturan-
thropologischen Forschungsergebnisse.
In den einzelnen Artikeln wurden die angehenden
Fragen möglichst ganzheitlich bearbeitet, wodurch ge-
wisse Überschneidungen nicht gänzlich zu vermeiden
waren. Inhaltlich sind die Beiträge sehr informativ; doch
manche setzen ein gewisses Fachvorwissen voraus; ein
erläuterndes Glossar schwieriger Fachausdrücke könnte
z. T. behilflich sein. Manche Benutzer dieses Hand-
buches dürften auch eine systematische Besprechung
früherer Methoden und Forschungsrichtungen in der
Kulturanthropologie, wenn auch nur abrißhaft, doch
zusammenhängend, in diesem Handbuch missen. Dies
wäre besonders für Unterrichtende, Studenten und In-
teressierte an dieser Problematik dienlich.
Ausführlich bearbeitet wurde auch das Personen-
und Sachregister, das den Zugang zu Einzelfragen
ermöglicht, die in verschiedenen Beiträgen behandelt
wurden. Die zitierte Literatur ist fast durchwegs neueren
Datums.
Aufgrund der sachgemäßen Bearbeitung, der klaren
und übersichtlichen Darstellung der behandelten Pro-
bleme ist dieses Handbuch eine vorzügliche Informa-
tionsquelle für Wissenschaftler und Studenten, die sich
mit der Methodenproblematik in der Kulturanthropolo-
gie vertraut machen wollen. Es gehört zu den besten
Arbeiten auf diesem Gebiet und wird voraussichtlich
weite Verbreitung finden. Franciszek M. Rosinski
Anthropos 96.2001
618
Rezensionen
Blanc, Ulrike: Musik und Tod bei den Bulsa (Nord-
ghana). Münster: Lit Verlag, 2000. 297 pp. ISBN 3-
8258-4437-4. (Forschungen zu Sprachen und Kulturen
Afrikas, 6) Preis: DM 49,80
Der vorliegende Band zählt zu den bislang spärlich
gestreuten Studien, die Musik und Tod als zentrale
kulturelle Aspekte bei westafrikanischen Bevölkerun-
gen betrachten. Ulrike Blanc gelingt es in einer gut
fundierten und umfassenden Arbeit, sowohl die enge
Verbindung von Musik mit dem Umfeld zeremoniel-
ler Handlungen als auch die kulturell so bedeutsame
Verkettung von Lebenden und Verstorbenen bei den
Bulsa aufzuzeigen. Allerdings, und dies ist zugleich
ein erster Kritikpunkt, erschöpft sich die Schilderung in
einer rein deskriptiven Darstellung, und es ist zu fragen,
ob das aufgenommene sonische Material nicht auch zur
Publikation geführt werden kann, da Musik gerade bei
oralen Gesellschaften nicht “erlesen”, sondern “erhört”
wird. Darüber hinaus ist die Abhandlung zwar als eine
Zusammenstellung exemplarischer Momentaufnahmen
gekennzeichnet, doch gibt es nur wenige Hinweise auf
die Diskurse, die mit der Durchführung von Grab-
legungen und Totengedenkfeiern einhergehen. Gerade
aber Auseinandersetzungen etwa über die Auswahl von
Musikern oder die “richtige” Durchführung von rituellen
Handlungen, durch die sich einzelne Verwandtschafts-
gruppen oder verschiedene Orte voneinander abgrenzen,
könnten weitere Erkenntnisse zum sozialen Kontext
und zur Vorstellungswelt liefern, die über eine reine
Beschreibung hinausgehen.
Ungeachtet der Komplexität der angesprochenen
Thematik bei den vielschichtig zusammengesetzten Be-
völkerungen im zentralen Volta-Gebiet, weist das Buch
eine sehr übersichtliche Gliederung auf und ist ein
profunder Teil der seit den 1960er Jahren in Mün-
ster angesiedelten Bulsa-Forschung. Blanc verdeutlicht,
daß bei den Bulsa Musik mit ihren subtilen semantischen
Ebenen für eine effektive Durchführung von Totenge-
denkfeiern als unerläßlich gilt. Zu solchen Anlässen
erklingt nahezu das gesamte Repertoire, das in die-
sem Zusammenhang detaillierte Einsichten in spirituelle
Vorstellungen und soziale Handlungs- und Denkweisen
gewährt und damit wesentliche kulturelle Praktiken re-
flektiert. Doch spiegelt Musik nicht nur kognitive und
religiöse Konzepte wider, sondern bedeutet zugleich
auch Kommunikation, Austausch und schafft somit Si-
tuationen, die wiederum zur Konstitution sozialer Struk-
turen beitragen. Vor diesem Hintergrund hat sich die
Autorin gleichermaßen der Ethnographie wie der Ethno-
musikologie verpflichtet und die Erforschung der Kultur
einer westafrikanischen Gesellschaft durch Musik in
den Mittelpunkt gestellt. Neben Transkriptionen des
sonischen Materials erweisen sich vor allem Liedtexte
als Quellen, die einen unmittelbaren Zugang zu den
Perspektiven vor Ort gestatten. Vor diesem Hintergrund
verweist Blanc mehrfach darauf, daß ihrer Rekonstruk-
tion eine emischen Sichtweise zugrunde liegt. Der Be-
rufung auf den von der Linguistik geprägten Begriff
der emischen Sichtweise fehlt jedoch eine eingehendere
relativistische Ausleuchtung.
Gleich zu Beginn der Analyse wird deutlich, daß es
im Gegensatz zu generalisierenden Darstellungen über
Musik afrikanischer Bevölkerungen keinen einheitlichen
Habitus im Sinne einer “Musik der Bulsa” (11) - unge-
achtet eines recht einheitlichen Instrumenteninventars -
gibt, sondern vielmehr breite Variationen zwischen
einzelnen Orten, Verwandtschaftsgruppen und sogar be-
nachbarten Gehöften, die in ihrer Unterschiedlichkeit
und Heterogenität immer wieder verdeutlicht werden.
Nach einer kurzen ethnographischen Einführung stellt
sich zunächst das Problem, übergeordnete Begrifflich-
keiten aus der Forschung wie etwa “Musik”, “Gattung”
und schließlich auch “Musikinstrumente” mit den Kon-
zepten der Bulsa zu korrelieren, die nicht auf solche
umfassenden und verallgemeinernden Bezeichnungen
zurückgreifen und mitunter sogar gleiche musikalische
Gattungen entsprechend der jeweiligen Perspektive von
Musikern und Rezipienten unterschiedlichen Rubriken
zuordnen. Blanc orientiert sich weitgehend an den von
ihr dokumentierten Gattungsbegriffen: “Es lassen sich
also auf der sprachlichen Ebene Parallelen zwischen
den Kategorien musikalischer Gattungen einerseits und
sozialen Kategorien andererseits aufzeigen. Bestimmte
Lieder und Darbietungen sind nur zu speziellen sozialen,
wirtschaftlichen, politischen oder religiösen Anlässen
zulässig und werden entsprechend ihres Kontextes ka-
tegorisiert und bezeichnet” (24). Dementsprechend sind
die musikalischen Ausdrucksweisen an einen bestimm-
ten Handlungszusammenhang gebunden, ohne den sie
weder denkbar noch sinnstiftend wären. Terminologisch
werden die Genres zunächst als Unterhaltungs- oder Kri-
senlieder erfaßt und den Bereichen Gesang, akkustische
Signalgebung sowie Tanz zugeordnet und nach ihrem
sozialen Zusammenhang, nach Handlungen und Tätig-
keiten, aber auch nach räumlichen oder geschlechtsspe-
zifischen Kriterien gegliedert.
Die sich anschließende Darstellung der Musikinstru-
mente unterstreicht sowohl die Vorteile als auch einen
Nachteil der an Münster gebundenen Bulsa-Forschung.
Zur Vermeidung von Wiederholungen mit anderen
Studien ist dieser Teil recht bündig gehalten, und so
geht etwa aus dem Kapitel “Kriegstrommel (dundu-
ning)” (77) nicht explizit hervor, um welches Mem-
branophon es sich handelt. Andererseits wirkt sich die
enge Verzahnung mit anderen Arbeiten über die Bulsa
für die vorliegende Studie insgesamt positiv und anre-
gend aus durch eine Vielzahl ergänzender Informationen
und Zitate, die Blancs Datenmaterial ergänzen und ver-
tiefen.
Der Hauptteil betrachtet zunächst das Verständnis der
Bulsa von Tod und Begräbnis als zentralem Übergangs-
ritus, der in den Totengedenkfeiern seinen Höhepunkt
und Abschluß findet und dessen Ausführung darüber
entscheiden soll, ob ein Verstorbener Aufnahme im
Totenreich der Ahnen findet. Stets ist die Ursache des
Todes dahingehend zu ergründen, ob es sich um eine
“gute” natürliche oder eine fremd- bzw. selbstverschul-
dete “schlechte” Todesursache handelt. Die Ausführung
der mit der Grablegung einhergehenden Zeremonien ist
nicht nur an geschlechtsspezifische Varianten gebunden,
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
619
sondern auch an das Konzept der “Angemessenheit”
(93), nach dem neben der Todesursache das Seniori-
tätsprinzip und der soziale Status eines Verstorbenen zu
berücksichtigen sind. In Entsprechung dieser Kriterien
erfolgt auch die Auswahl der Musikinstrumente, die
für die Durchführung der Zeremonien als obligatorisch
gelten.
Im Zentrum des Buchs stehen die detaillierten Aus-
führungen über die Totengedenkfeiern, die bei den Bulsa
häufig für mehrere Verstorbene gleichzeitig durchgeführt
werden. Aufgrund dieser Häufung von individuell zu-
geordneten Zeremonien, aber auch infolge der lokalen
Variantenbreite der damit einhergehenden Handlungen
betrachtet die Autorin das Konzept der teilnehmenden
Beobachtung aus methodologischer Sicht als unzurei-
chend für eine umfassende Dokumentation aller Rituale
und ihrem jeweiligen Kontext. Statt dessen ergänzt sie
eigene Beobachtungen mit Informationen von Drittper-
sonen, um einen einheitlichen Ablauf solcher Vorgän-
ge exemplarisch zu illustrieren. Profane und sakrale
Handlungen samt der damit verbundenen musikalischen
Aktivitäten verlaufen keineswegs strikt voneinander ge-
trennt, sondern greifen mitunter sogar ineinander. Wäh-
rend das bei Grablegungen und Totengedenkfeiern evo-
zierte musikalische Repertoire als unerläßlich gilt, um
Verstorbenen den Übergang ins Ahnenreich zu ermög-
lichen, erfolgt später nach dem Abschluß der Riten die
Darbringung von Opfergaben im Rahmen der Ahnenver-
ehrung ohne musikalisches Geleit. Nicht nur als Über-
gangsritus, sondern auch im Jahreszyklus stehen die
Totengedenkfeiern an zentraler Stelle der Festlichkeiten
bei den Bulsa, bieten sie doch Anlaß für die Lebenden,
ihre verwandtschaftlichen und sozialen Beziehungen neu
zu ordnen. Ein allgemein gültiger Verlauf ist nach der
Autorin nicht zu skizzieren (116), da jede Feierlichkeit
einen eigenen Rahmen besitzt und entsprechend der je-
weiligen lokalen oder situativen Gegebenheiten gestaltet
wird, so daß auch die als verpflichtend vorgeschriebenen
musikalischen Genres einen ausgesprochenen Versions-
charakter aufweisen. Die rituellen Handlungen sind mit
größter Sorgfalt durchzuführen, da jedes Versäumnis
und jede Unzulänglichkeit nach Auffassung der Bulsa
von den Ahnen als Affront verstanden werden könnte.
Blanc betont in diesem Zusammenhang, daß nach den
Vorstellungen der Bulsa nicht nur die Lebenden, sondern
auch die Ahnen an solchen Festlichkeiten teilnehmen
(113). Unter musikalischen Gesichtspunkten sind einige
Genres fest mit der Durchführung spezifischer Riten
verbunden - verpflichtend ist etwa das Spiel bestimmter
Trommelensembles und das Singen von besonderen
Trauerliedern -, während andere Gattungen zur Unter-
haltung zählen und auch bei anderen Anlässen erklingen
können. Neuerdings werden manche Trauerlieder sogar
von der lokalen Radiostation im benachbarten Bolga-
tanga im Rahmen des Buli-sprachigen Programms wie-
^ergegeben, was die Rezipienten angesichts des damit
expliziten Unterhaltungscharakters eher als ambivalent
betrachten.
Die deskriptive Darstellung der viertägigen Toten-
§edenkfeiem ist im Geertz’sehen Sinne eine “dichte
Beschreibung”, und die Autorin läßt nichts unversucht,
in bezug auf spezifische Aspekte des musikalischen
Repertoires und der Handlungsabfolge in und außerhalb
des Gehöfts nicht nur verallgemeinernde, sondern auch
variierende und mitunter widersprüchliche Auffassun-
gen aus ihrem Datenmaterial wiederzugeben. Noten-
beispiele belegen, inwieweit einzelne rhythmische oder
melodische Sequenzen beibehalten oder mit Improvisa-
tionen durchsetzt sind, und verdeutlichen zugleich den
Spielraum und die Breite der Modifikationsmöglichkei-
ten, denen einzelne Gesänge, aber auch Handlungen
und Riten unterliegen können. Aus ethnologischer Sicht
liefern vor allem die aufgenommenen Liedtexte tiefe
Einsichten in profane und sakrale Vorstellungen der
Bulsa, die in zahlreichen Anmerkungen interpretiert und
kommentiert sind. Hier wird offenkundig, daß solche
Texte Einblicke in einen gesellschaftlichen Kontext lie-
fern und Auffassungen offenbaren, die in Gesprächen
oder gar in Interviews kaum jemals in dieser Deut-
lichkeit gegenüber Besuchern formuliert werden. Un-
geachtet der ethnographischen Sorgfalt, mit der solche
Texte vorgestellt werden, wäre es zumindest hinsichtlich
einiger Passagen, die umfassendere Aspekte der Vor-
stellungswelt und Weltanschauung betreffen, sicherlich
interessant, die Inhalte noch intensiver auszuleuchten
und in Bezug zu vergleichbaren Daten aus dem westafri-
kanischen Volta-Gebiet zu setzen. Entsprechende Per-
spektiven vermittelt Blanc, wenn sie etwa mit Blick auf
die Gehöftumschreitung das Haus als “Ausgangs- und
Endpunkt des Lebens”, aber auch als “Symbol für die
soziale Organisation und für die Gesellschaft schlecht-
hin” vorstellt (181). Eine entsprechende Erkundung zur
Symbolik von Kriegstänzen, die im Rahmen von Toten-
gedenkfeiern ausgeführt und formal in der Studie auch
erörtert werden, bleibt hingegen ein Desiderat.
Zusammenfassend weist die Autorin Musik, die in
diesem Zusammenhang nicht allein als sonisch-verbale
Diktion erscheint, sondern zugleich auch als Mittel der
Verständigung und Interaktion, als wesentliche Kompo-
nente für das soziale Handeln im Rahmen von Totenge-
denkfeiern aus. Darüber hinaus gestatten einzelne musi-
kalische Gattungen bei solchen Anlässen, besonders im
Hinblick auf geschlechtsspezifische Reglementierungen,
bestehende Normen und Verhaltensmuster kurzzeitig
entgegen der üblichen Rolle aufzuheben. Mit Blick auf
den kulturellen und gesellschaftlichen Wandel sind die
erörterten Genres einerseits als vergleichsweise stabiles
Repertoire zu betrachten, das andererseits jedoch in
zahlreichen Varianten und Versionen zu dokumentieren
ist.
Die Studie schließt eine zentrale Lücke nicht nur
in der deutschsprachigen, sondern auch in der interna-
tionalen Forschung in bezug auf Afrika und es wäre
wünschenswert, das Werk zumindest in Auszügen einem
anglophonen Leserkreis zugänglich zu machen. Musik
zeigt sich einmal mehr als bedeutsamer Schlüssel zum
Zugang fremder Gesellschaften. Das umfangreiche und
mit großer Akribie erörterte Datenmaterial veranschau-
licht darüber hinaus die Heterogenität und kulturelle
Vielschichtigkeit westafrikanischer Bevölkerungen. Ob-
Anthropos 96.2001
620
Rezensionen
gleich der sonische Aspekt eindeutig im Vordergrund
steht, bietet die Arbeit zugleich auch Einblicke in das
menschliche Verständnis vom und Verhältnis zum Tod,
ein Themenkomplex, der (auch) in der Ethnologie eher
randständig betrachtet wird. Während das Buch inhalt-
lich durchweg befruchtend ist, erscheint hingegen der
Appell an die Herausgeber von Reihen im Lit Verlag
geboten, Sorge für verbindliche formale Richtlinien zu
tragen. Auf diese Weise wäre eventuell den bei diesem
Verlag immer wieder offenkundigen Mängeln im Lek-
torat entgegenzutreten. Michael Schlottner
Brumann, Christoph: Die Kunst des Teilens. Eine
vergleichende Untersuchung zu den Überlebensbedin-
gungen kommunitärer Gruppen. Hamburg: Lit Verlag,
1998. 354 pp. ISBN 3-8258-3732-7. (Kölner ethnologi-
sche Studien, 26) Preis: DM 59,80
Wer als Ethnologin in der Nähe der Berliner Ufa-Fa-
brik lebt wie ich, ist ganz besonders gespannt auf die
Kommunenstudie von Christoph Brumann. Die Ufa-Fa-
brik-Kommune hat vor über 20 Jahren das Internationale
Kulturcentrum ins Leben gerufen. Wie können Kommu-
nen auf Dauer Überlebenserfolg erreichen? Oder wie ist
die Kunst des Teilens zu lernen?
Brumann wählt einen breit angelegten Ansatz in
seiner kulturvergleichenden Studie über 43 kommuni-
täre Gruppen, um zu wegweisenden Aussagen über
die Bedingungen freiwilliger menschlicher Koopera-
tion zu kommen. Dazu stützt er sich neben eigener
Feldforschung in Japan auf veröffentlichte Arbeiten.
Nicht mit Kennzahlen sondern auf implikationslogische
Weise unterscheidet er überlebenswichtige von nicht
überlebenswichtigen Bereichen im Kommuneleben. Als
maßgeblich für Überlebenserfolg zeigen sich Größe, der
Ehe- und Familienkomplex und das Weltanschauungs-
system. Die Dauererfolge sind Hutterer, Kibbuzim und
Bruderhof (www.Bruderhof.org) mit 123+, 87+ und 77+
Jahren Bestehen (86).
Bei der Analyse stellt Brumann fest, daß Bereiche
und Faktoren, die auf den ersten Blick als maßgeblich
für das gemeinsame Überleben erscheinen, keine grund-
legende Wichtigkeit haben. Der Themenkomplex Arbeit
und Eigentum ist in der “Kunst des Teilens” kein Stein
des Anstoßes. Der soziale Kitt aus der Verbindung der
drei entscheidenden Bereiche gibt den Ausschlag. Im
Wechselspiel von Freiheit und gegenseitiger Verbindung
haben sich die Kommunenmitglieder für die communitas
entschieden und nehmen das wechselseitige Geben und
Nehmen in Kauf. Gemeinschaften wie z. B. die Bruder-
hof-Kommunen nehmen herangewachsene Kinder von
Mitgliedern erst als neue Mitglieder auf, wenn sie einen
Beruf gelernt haben, den sie außerhalb selbständig aus-
üben können. Damit sind sie, wirtschaftlich gesehen, in
der Lage, sich frei und alternativ für das Leben in der
Gruppe zu entscheiden.
Der Zweite Weltkrieg ist die Zäsur bei der Katego-
risierung von Fallbeispielen. Während Brumann sozia-
listische Kommunen der Zeit vor dem Zweiten Welt-
krieg zuordnet, folgen später “weltlich-liberale Fälle”
(66-71). Zu den christlich bzw. freireligiös orientierten
Gruppen gehören z. B. Bethlehem, Shakers, Hutterer,
Bruderhof, zu den sozialistischen Kommunen z. B. Ica-
ria und Brook Farm. Der Ort des Teilens liegt häufig in
ländlichen Gebieten, z. B. in den USA, in denen Land
erworben und bebaut werden kann.
Die Einsicht, neue Wege entstehen, indem wir sie
gehen (Franz Kafka), ist ganz praktisch zu verstehen.
Bemerkenswert ist das Thema der Bewegung in Kom-
munen, sei es in der Migration von Menschen aus
ihren Herkunftsregionen z. B. Hutterer, Bethlehem nach
Nordamerika oder Weltanschauungen wie im Fall von
Rajneeshpuram, als US-amerikanischer “Ableger” der
Sanyassin von Bhagwan. Migration gilt insbesondere
für die von osteuropäischen Juden begonnene Einwan-
derung nach Palästina. So entstanden die weltweit ein-
maligen Kibbuzim, die sich in drei unterschiedlichen
Dachverbänden zusammenfinden. Die landwirtschaftli-
che Tätigkeit war für viele städtische Neueinwanderer
ungewohnt. Eine Zweigstruktur charakterisiert zahlrei-
che Kommunen, d. h. sozial und wirtschaftlich sind
Ausgründungen in In- und Ausland positiv angesehen.
Mit wirtschaftlicher Spezialisierung können Märkte er-
schlossen werden, in den neuen Zweigen gibt es soziale
Funktionen zu übernehmen, die Einzelnen sozialen Auf-
stieg bieten können.
Als katastrophales Ende einer Kommune mag der
Peoples Temple unter Leitung von Jim Jones noch in
Erinnerung sein. In der Siedlung Jonestown (64) in
Guyana begingen 1978 nach der Ermordung von Be-
suchern fast alle Mitglieder Selbstmord. Spektakuläres
gelangt schnell auf die Titelseite. Die positiven und
modellhaften Aspekte von Kommunen sind wesentlich
alltäglicher, unauffälliger wie die schlicht wirkende
Kleidung z. B. von Hutterern.
Kultureller und sozialer Wandel ist idealistisch aus-
gerichteten Kommunen nicht fremd. Bei der Frage
des Zölibats, der monogamen Ehe oder Gruppenehe
werden Gewissensfragen ganz deutlich. Kanters Un-
verträglichkeitshypothese von 1972, monogame Ehen
vertrügen sich nicht mit dem dauerhaften Überleben
von Kommunen, widerlegt Brumann (150-158) anhand
der drei Dauererfolge. Den Nutzen von Zölibat und
Gruppenehe sah Kanter darin, daß entweder allen se-
xuelle und familiäre Beziehungen versagt bleiben bzw.
alle mit allen ebendiese Verbindungen zu praktizieren
hätten wegen des strengen Grundsatzes der Gleichheit.
Zölibat ist die Norm in einigen christlichen Kommu-
nen. Folgeprobleme sind ausbleibende Geburten, d. h.
natürliche Kontinuität. In erster Linie wegen des Zöli-
bats und strenger Regeln konnten die Shakers keinen
ausreichenden Nachwuchs finden. Ihre lebenspraktische
Philosophie lebt weiter z. B. in Shaker Möbeln.
Die Gruppenehe wird, von außen betrachtet, eher
mit Anarchie und mangelnder Selbstkontrolle assoziiert,
in der Realität wurde aber z. B. bei AAO genau Buch
geführt bzw. der Führer von Oneida erlaubte sich we-
sentlich mehr Vaterschaften als normalen Mitgliedern
(166 f.). Folgeprobleme können Eifer- und Streitsucht
sein.
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
621
Die alternativ zu den Variablentabellen über die
(nicht) entscheidenden Bereiche erstellten Implikations-
diagramme (231-236) fußen auf Lattices. Es bedarf
einer Vertiefung in das Material, um von der innovativen
Qualität der Visualisierung zu profitieren. Insgesamt
geht es um vernetztes Denken im Gesamtthema und
in der Methode. Der Vemetzungsgedanke findet sich
leider nicht wieder im Anknüpfen an die Diskussion
über Kommunitarismus und den Dritten Sektor. Das
fällt mir mit dem Blick der Organisationsentwicklung
deutlich auf. Ein kleines Manko ist das fehlende Ver-
zeichnis der Tabellen. Besser wäre eine Abbildung auf
der Titelseite, die dem sehr schönen Titel “Die Kunst des
Teilens” mehr entspricht als eine undatierte historische
Aufnahme von Krocketspielerinnen der Oneida in ihrer
Freizeit.
In der Schlußbemerkung (308) seiner 1997 an der
Universität Köln eingereichten Dissertation benennt
Brumann weitere wichtige Themen von kommuni tärge-
meinschaftlichen und kommunitärwirtschaftlichen Stu-
dien. Beim Teilen dieser Aufgabe ist auf Brumann
zu hoffen. Dem Buch ist ein über das ethnologische
Fachpublikum weit hinaus gehende Leserschaft z. B. in
Bildung, Wirtschaft und Kommunen (Gemeinden) zu
wünschen. Elisabeth Schwarzer
Cannell, Fenella: Power and Intimacy in the Chris-
tian Philippines. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1999. 312 pp. ISBN 0-521-64622-7. (Cambridge
Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology, 109) Price:
£15.95
This book is about the Bicolanos in Philippine Eco-
nomic Region Five, the poorest in the nation, which in
academic literature have been described as having no
culture worth the name, because the lowland Filipinos
Were believed to be merely imitative of their Western
colonizers: since 1571 Spain and from 1896 to 1946
the USA. The work is based on fieldwork in Bicol
from March 1988 to December 1989. It focuses on the
concept of power in Bicolano thinking, covering very
disparate subjects. The author eloquently presents her
themes in four parts, viz., women’s stories about forced
marriages (29-76); spirit mediumship and healing (79-
134); saints and the dead, highlighting the cult of the
"Ama,” i.e., the dead Christ (137-200); and, finally,
a transvestite Miss Gay contest (203-226). The con-
cluding chapter (227-254) discusses the findings of the
ethnographic presentations against the background of
contemporary anthropological theories.
Among others, Cannell was inspired by Anderson’s
seminal essay on the idea of power in Javanese culture,
especially his notion of relative or relational power -
power whose balance may be altered in any encounter
between two persons since its quantity is eternally fixed”
(H). For Cannell the interesting point of Anderson’s
aualysis is clearly the idea of potency and reciprocity,
which she further develops by applying it to Bicolano
constructs of power relationships. She does not question,
however, the basic assumption in Anderson’s theory,
Anthropos 96.2001
namely the belief that power constituted a fixed quantity
in the universe, and that a redistribution of power
consequently always implied different persons gaining
and losing power relative to each other. Nevertheless,
Cannell’s own fieldwork observations in the Philippines
undermine this hypothesis: writing about spirit mediums
and their changing relations to the spirit world, she
notes that whereas present-day healers are believed to
use “weaker” techniques than healers in the past, this
does not imply a loss of therapeutic efficacy, and that
“nobody suggests that net healing power in the world is
becoming any less” (110). To my surprise, this important
conclusion did not induce the author to go into some
fundamental theoretical rethinking.
Personally, I liked the author’s treatment of the cult
surrounding the dead Christ best. A central element of
this worship is the recitation session of the “Pasion,”
written in the Bicol language, in verse, and telling the
story of the sufferings of Christ, emphasising his trial,
scourging, crucifixion, and burial (167 ff.). Interestingly,
the performance of the Passion is always by chanting,
known as “reading” (pabasa). Cannell informs us that
the forms this reading takes vary widely regionally as do
the tunes and improvisations (168). The recitations in-
volve an all-night vigil and are performed in a religious
context. The base basa, i.e., “to read”, is in my opinion
probably related to Malay baca or Javanese waca, which
originate from Sanskrit and are cognate with English
“voice.” Because of the striking similarities with Indone-
sian recitation sessions (of Islamic texts), it is a pity that
Cannell did not take account of studies about kindred
literary performances in Indonesia, which would have
enriched her analysis by placing the “Pasion” within a
broader comparative context.
In the growing literature about Southeast Asian ways
of dealing with power relationships, hitherto dominated
by Indonesian court theories, Cannell’s book is a most
welcome contribution as it discusses concepts of power
among a rather subordinated group of people in a less
known part of insular Southeast Asia by means of
several original and well-described ethnographic case
studies. Although primarily of interest for specialists
in Philippine or Southeast Asian ethnography, it may
also be recommended to students in the anthropology
of religion and postcolonial cultures.
Edwin Wieringa
Casajus, Dominique: Gens de parole. Langage,
poésie et politique en pays touareg. Paris: Editions La
Découverte, 2000. 190 pp. ISBN 2-7071-3266-7. Prix:
FF 120,00
Seit jeher kommt Sprache als Kommunikationsin-
strument eine zentrale Rolle in der Erforschung frem-
der Kulturen zu. Selten wird sie jedoch zum Untersu-
chungsgegenstand selbst gemacht, d. h. Sprechen und
Sprachverhalten als Ausgangsmaterial verstanden, aus
dem sich Erkenntnisse über kulturelle und politische
Werte ableiten ließen. Mit seinem Buch “Gens de pa-
role” möchte der französische Ethnologe und ausge-
622
Rezensionen
wiesene Tuareg-Kenner Dominique Casajus auf diesen
vernachlässigten Bereich ethnologischer Forschung auf-
merksam machen. Er nimmt damit eine Sonderstellung
in der französischsprachigen Oralkulturforschung ein,
die sich entweder dem textorientierten strukturalisti-
schen Ansatz (V. Görög-Karady, D. Paulme etc.) oder
einer eher kontextbetonten Rhetorikforschung verpflich-
tet fühlt (B. Masquelier, J.-L. Siran etc.).
Grundlage der Untersuchung sind zahlreiche For-
schungsaufenthalte, die Casajus in der Zeit von 1976
bis 1992 bei den Kel-Ferwan, einer Tuareg-Gruppe
im Norden des Sultanats Agadez im Air-Massiv der
Republik Niger, durchgeführt hat. Empirische Daten
werden durch historische Dokumente und wissenschaft-
liche Untersuchungen ergänzt. Bis auf das letzte Kapitel
besteht das Buch aus zum Teil stark überarbeiteten
Artikeln, die seit 1987 erschienen sind. Mosaikartig setzt
sich so das Bild einer Kultur zusammen, in denen das
gesprochene Wort noch immer von zentraler Bedeutung
ist und auf vielfältige Weise das soziale und politische
Leben widerspiegelt.
Dies wird bereits in den ersten beiden Kapiteln deut-
lich, die sich mit dem Zusammenhang von Sprache und
ethnischer Identität befassen. Die Kel-Ferwan sind Teil
einer Clan-Konföderation, die von offizieller Seite unter
dem Sammelbegriff Tuareg zusammengefasst werden,
jedoch nie eine politische Einheit gebildet haben. Ihre
Zusammengehörigkeit definiert sich allein durch die
gemeinsam gesprochene Sprache, tamascheq. In ihrer
Eigenbezeichnung kel-awal - “gens de parole” - zeigt
sich bereits die große Bedeutung, die das gesprochene
Wort für ihre ethnische Identität hat.
Der bewusste Umgang mit Sprache als Ausdruck ei-
nes kulturellen Selbstverständnisses leitet zum nächsten
Abschnitt über, in dem die Regeln eines adäquaten
Sprachgebrauchs vorgestellt werden. Anhand von Ge-
sprächsaufzeichnungen und Fallbeispielen werden die
Konzepte von takärakit, Scham, und ässhäk, Zurückhal-
tung, Besonnenheit, eingeführt, die von zentraler Bedeu-
tung für angemessenes Sprachverhalten bzw. Verhalten
allgemein sind. Ihre rhetorische Umsetzung erfahren
diese Grundprinzipien in den Techniken von tangält,
indirekte oder verdeckte Rede (parole penombreuse),
sowie samäl, metaphorische Sprache. Die Bedeutung
von tangält geht so weit, dass sie gleichgesetzt wird
mit der Beherrschung von tamacheq.
Die enge Verbindung von Sprachverhalten und kul-
tureller Zugehörigkeit zeigt sich auch im Konzept der
kel-esuf, “Menschen der Einsamkeit”, das in Kap. 3
untersucht wird. Fern aller Zivilisation umherirrend,
sprechen diese Geister nicht nur eine den Kel-Ferwan
unverständliche Sprache, sondern berauben einsame
Wanderer ihres Sprachvermögens und damit ihrer so-
zialen Identität. Provoziert werden die Angriffe der
kel-esuf durch Exzesse im Verbalverhalten wie un-
verhältnismäßig langes Schweigen oder nicht enden
wollende Lobpreisungen.
Die Nähe von Schweigen und Sprache sind eben-
falls zentrales Thema der tesheweyt, “Stücke, die in
Einsamkeit gedichtet werden” (Kap. 4). Diese Form
der Dichtung zählt zu den hochgeschätztesten Genres
in der Oralliteratur der Kel-Ferwan. Bezeichnend für
ihren Stellenwert ist die Institution des enalbad, einer
Art “Herausgeber”, der den Entstehungsprozess eines
Gedichtes kritisch begleitet und sich um die Verbreitung
der Gedichte bemüht. Neben Kriegsgesängen umfas-
sen tesheweyt vor allem Elegien und Liebesgedichte.
Wie die Analyse dreier Textsammlungen aus den Jah-
ren 1925 bis 1992 zeigt, ist das beherrschende Mo-
tiv die Bewältigung “sprach-loser” Einsamkeit durch
Überhöhung einer herbeigesehnten sozialen Wirklich-
keit.
Rhetorisches Können definiert nicht nur die ethnische
Identität, sondern dient auch als Gradmesser für sozialen
Status (Kap. 5). So zeichnen sich vor allem Adelige
durch die vollendete Beherrschung der Dichtkunst aus
und können damit ihre Stellung auch dann bestätigen,
wenn sie an tatsächlichem politischen Einfluss verloren
haben.
Kapitel 6 befasst sich mit Kriegsgesängen aus den
Jahren 1820-1860 und ihre Aussagen zur Politik und
zum Politikverständnis der Kel-Ferwan in vorkolonialer
Zeit.
Die beiden abschließenden Kapitel sind dem span-
nungsreichen Verhältnis zwischen den beiden wich-
tigsten identitätsstiftenden Merkmalen der Kel-Ferwan
gewidmet, der Sprache tamacheq und dem Islam.
Viele Kel-Ferwan stehen dem Arabischen skeptisch ge-
genüber, während die islamischen Schriftgelehrten ih-
rerseits eine entschiedene Abneigung gegen die höchste
Form des tamacheq, die Dichtung, an den Tag legen.
Dies entspricht der zwiespältigen Haltung der aris-
tokratischen Schicht gegenüber dem religiösen Herr-
scher, dem Sultan von Agadez. Interessant ist in die-
sem Zusammenhang die Erwähnung eines spielerisch
verwendeten libysch-berberischen Alphabets, das von
einheimischer Seite jedoch nicht in Zusammenhang
mit der Buchschrift Arabisch oder Lateinisch gebracht
wird.
Der Anspruch, sich dem Wesen einer ganzen Kultur
durch die Analyse seiner sprachlichen Äußerungen
nähern zu wollen, scheint gewagt, bedenkt man den
schmalen Umfang des Buches. Dank seines speziellen
Blickwinkels und einem geschickten Buchaufbau gelingt
es dem Autor jedoch, ein Bild von großer Dichte
zu zeichnen, das dem Leser umfassende Einblicke in
das ethnische und kulturelle Selbstverständnis der Kel-
Ferwan vermittelt.
Gleich zu Anfang definiert Casajus sein Untersu-
chungsfeld: “[Le livre] parlera d’un peuple et de ses
paroles, de sa parole” (5). Ausgehend von einer wech-
selseitigen Durchdringung von Sprache und Kultur und
inspiriert von der Diskussion um das Verhältnis von
“langage - parole”, stellt der Autor den sprechenden
Menschen in den Mittelpunkt, aus dessen Verbalver-
halten sich Inhalte und Wertvorstellungen einer Gesell-
schaft ablesen lassen bzw. sich darin widerspiegeln.
Damit leistet die Studie einen wichtigen Beitrag zur im-
mer noch stark text- bzw. genreorientierten europäischen
Oralkulturforschung.
Anthropos 96.2001
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623
Mit seiner Entscheidung, den Essaycharakter der den
Kapiteln zugrunde liegenden Artikeln beizubehalten,
findet der Autor eine Darstellungsform, die der per-
spektivischen und methodologischen Vielfalt, die sich
aus diesem Ansatz ergibt, gerecht wird. Jedes Kapitel
stellt eine eigenständige Einheit dar, in dem jeweils
ein Aspekt herausgegriffen wird, den der Autor auf-
grund seiner langjährigen Kenntnis für besonders aussa-
gekräftig in Bezug auf das kulturelle Selbstverständnis
der Kel-Ferwan hält. Dem Vorwurf einer willkürlichen
Auswahl von Themen steht eine Fülle von empirischen
Daten entgegen - Selbstaussagen, Gesprächsnotizen,
Fallbeispiele -, welche die kulturelle Relevanz die-
ser Untersuchungsschwerpunkte glaubhaft macht. Ein
Anspruch auf ethnographische Vollständigkeit besteht
jedoch nicht, weder was die Oralliteratur der Kel-
Ferwan, noch ihr politisches und soziales Leben angeht.
So fehlt z. B. jeder Hinweis auf geschlechtsspezifische
Unterschiede im Zugang zu bzw. dem Gebrauch von
Sprachgenres.
In der Stärke des Buches, seiner perspektivischen
Vielfalt, liegt zugleich auch seine Schwäche. So ist
der wiederholte Wechsel der analytischen Ebenen -
Textinterpretationen wechseln sich ab mit semantischen
Betrachtungen und Untersuchungen zu kontextgebun-
denem Sprachverhalten - bisweilen etwas ermüdend,
wenn nicht verwirrend. Ein weiterer Kritikpunkt be-
trifft die Inhaltsanalysen, die mitunter die Gefahr von
Überinterpretationen nahe legen oder an argumentati-
ver Schärfe verlieren wie in der Diskussion um das
Feindbild der Kel-Ferwan (Kap. 6). Seine stärksten Mo-
mente hat das Buch zweifellos in der Analyse von
Sprechereignissen, in denen auf überzeugende Weise
der Bezug zum gesellschaftlichen Gesamtzusammen-
hang hergestellt wird.
Insgesamt handelt es sich um ein äußerst lesens-
wertes Buch, das durch thematische Breite, analytische
Sorgfalt und sprachliche Eleganz besticht. Es kann so-
wohl als wertvolle Ergänzung zu Studien der Tuareg-
Gruppen empfohlen werden wie auch als origineller,
anregender Beitrag zur aktuellen Oralkulturforschung.
Annette Czekelius
Cordeu, Edgardo Jorge: Transfiguraciones simbóli-
cas. Ciclo ritual de los indios tomaráxo del Chaco Bo-
real. Quito: Ediciones Abya-Yala, 1999. 339 pp. ISBN-
9978-04-474-4.
This work is devoted to the ritual cycle known as
debiliibe axmich among the Tomaráxo Indians (Zamuco
linguistic family, Chamacoco or Ishir ethnic group). In
the first place, it discusses the sociological frame of
the ritual, characterised by a morphology of seasonal
variations ranging from simple and nomad bands, during
the dry season, to compound bands concentrated in
semisedentary villages, during the rainy season. The
celebration is held toward the end of the dry season,
when the groups that are scattered throughout the rest
of the year get together. The author states that behind
each ritual manifestation the same dualistic pattern can
be seen, a pattern which upon analysis may be aligned
under the Life/Death opposition. Although in this case
the typical consistency of the dual “classic” societies
is not present because there is no precise regulation
concerning marriage or residence, the dualistic pattern
does, however, preside over the organisation of various
aspects related to social practices, such as the joking
relationships among clans or their division of ritual
tasks, and to their thinking, particularly the cognitive
or the teophanic patterns.
The social framework consists of the combination of
two axes: gender and age. A marked division of roles
and of meanings attributed to both genders is perceived,
both in everyday life and in the sacred contexts. In
the daily routine, female primacy, due to their higher
intelligence, shrewdness, or strength, is acknowledged
by everyone: it is the women, for instance, who are in
charge of trading. However, in the religious life, this
preeminence is reverted, as mythically women stand
for the disvalues of falsehood, deceit, and stubborness.
Concurrently, they have no initiation rituals and must
keep off from the majority of the rites. Men, on the other
hand, are grouped and organised under the tobi'ch orga-
nisation, a secret society of initiated males charged with
performing the religious rites and the legal functions.
At this point, the second axis comes into play, as this
society is structured according to a system of age-classes
comprising four age-groups. Each group stands out for
their own rules concerning behaviour, attire, and eating
habits, through which a sort of reciprocal exchange takes
place: the fact that the young males must provide food
is offset by their greater access to marry the young
females.
With regard to the representations associated with
the celebration, the mythology of the Axnabsero gods
is broken down and classified by Cordeu into various
“thematic cycles”: their cosmogony, the etiology of the
clannish origins, and the like. Among the Tomaraxo
there is no certainty regarding the chronological and
semantic relations of these cycles; it is only known
that the cycle of the Axnabsero gods splits the sacred
history in two stages. Also, in the cycles corresponding
to the primordial ancestors’ stage, a cut in time is
perceived with the establishment of the clannish divi-
sions and exchange. By means of two narratives the
author illustrates the change from an archaic “closed
world” to a subsequent “open world.” The “origins”
are marked by a lack of differentiation, the closed anus
metaphor, a true kin relationship between people and
animals, no differences among the living humans, and
a confusion with the dead. The present time, on the
other hand, is characterised by differentiation, the open
anus, a metaphoric kin relationship between people and
animals, an order in the exchanges between clans, and
the separation of the dead. In a word, both mythical
stages can be, once again, related to the opposition that
dominates the worldview: Life/Death.
Cordeu then presents the Aishnuwehrta saga, where
the establishment of the rites by the Axnabsero deities
is explained, along with their subsequent murder in
Anthropos 96.2001
624
Rezensionen
the hands of mortals and their ritual replacement. The
dual pattern is also applied to these deities, under the
chromatic opposition: there are Axnabsero om (benevo-
lent) and Axnabsero sherwo (hostile), whose opposition
relates to the black/red contrast. As clearly indicated
by this narrative, the Axnabsero are the protagonists of
the celebration. Their replacement is effected through
possession or identification. Hence, it is said that the god
“enters” or “drives into” the officiating person, that the
actor takes on the sacred character, or that the former has
exchanged roles with the latter. To this end, participants
copy the body of gods by wearing ornaments, masks,
and feathers.
The celebration consists of a protracted series of
rituals and numerous characters participate. At least as
far as rules go, there are some criteria which determine
the location of each with regard to the others. There is
a wide variety of objectives set by the Tomaraxo for the
celebration as a whole and for each episode in particular.
Rites take place between the dry and rainy seasons, and
they are accounted for as a means of overcoming the
sadness caused by the frequent death of old people and
children during the dry months. Besides, the need is
seen to reinforce the world’s renewal (eicheraxo), which
begins toward the end of the dry period. Finally the
rite, also known as tchorraxa (“infection” or “swell-
ing”), presupposes a passage from impurity to purity,
from illness to health. Therefore, there is a tendency
to underline the role of the celebration as a rite de
passage between two periods, two states of the powers
of the world, or two religious conditions of the social
group.
However, Cordeu notes that each rite may be as-
signed countless objectives or special meanings, which
only in some cases coincide with the ones just men-
tioned, and that the majority are aimed at meeting
concrete needs of everyday life: the beauty or ugliness
of the babies to be born in the following period is deter-
mined, certain diseases are removed, the contamination
originated by the killing of gods (the true “original sin”
of these peoples) is thrown out, the arrival of rain and
plenty is propitiated, and so forth. The author orders the
ceremonies assigning some “main meanings” to each
and then classifying them into seven semantic axes.
But Cordeu is reluctant to believe that this liturgical
architecture, this order or “ritual logic,” should logically
be “prior to” the celebration and should mechanically
condition its events.
The theoretical values of the work are several. In
the first place, it is an analysis of a ritual cycle un-
dertaken from an “intellectualistic” approach. Hence,
the tendency to underscore the cognitive aspects of
the rites in question. A special interest is therefore
shown in the mental contents perceived in the Indian
theology or metaphysics, rather than in the social func-
tions or the ecological adaptations of the rites. In this
sense, the study brings forth the issue of representation
through concrete notions of highly abstract concepts as
“stagnation,” “dynamics,” “concentration,” or “diffu-
sion.”
As to the methodology, the formal methods of struc-
tural analysis are used when the meaning of actions and
ritual symbols is analysed. However, semantic contents
are not narrowed down to a mere mathematical game;
on the contrary, there is a concern for understanding
the worries and issues the Indians find and reflect upon
through their symbols. Each character and every detail
of each of the rites mentioned is studied as a unit of
meaning. This meaning is investigated as it appears in
various ethnographic contexts, and its symbolic func-
tion is cleared up through complex links based upon
contiguity, similarity, and the like. On the other hand,
the semantic value of these elements is discriminated by
including them in opposition pairs.
The most significant theoretical contribution of this
work may be its way of approaching the relationship
between the celebration and the Axnabsero saga or, in
broader terms, between ritual and myth. Cordeu ignores
the conception that, following Mircea Eliade and his
famous Babylonian festivals, sees the rite as a reiteration
on the behavioural plane of the discursive knowledge
contained in the myths. To this end, he examines the
similarities, differences, and transformations of both
spheres, and thus arrives at an interesting conclusion,
possibly the most interesting one in his work: a “disso-
nance” is detected between the rites of the celebration
and the episodes of the saga. First, because not even one
of these episodes is the object of a liturgical reproduc-
tion. The practice does not recreate the mythical events.
Second, although many of the characters are named after
the mythical beings, in the ritual they acquire different
meanings from the specific objectives of the saga, thus
taking an autonomous meaning. In some cases, these
meanings come from other mythological cycles.
Cordeu, on the other hand, discovers a very dif-
ferent “meaning” in the rite. While myths show the
Tomaraxo’s tendency to keep their identity through
transactions and conciliation with their ethnic enemies,
rites, on the other hand, bring to the scene a conception
of the ethnic group which is outside history; a concep-
tion of a society which is traditional, unchangeable, and
encapsulated in its own limits. This implies a necessary
return to the sociology of the rite. In fact, the reader’s
attention is caught by something that undoubtedly has
attracted the author in the first place: despite being such
a reduced group, the Tomaraxo maintain a protracted
ritual cycle, comprising at least 36 rites and between 120
or 130 different characters. How can this exuberance be
explained? According to Durkheim, and notwithstanding
the pretensions of those who try to discover novel
ideas where there are only novel names, the author
claims that the ritual practices were, and still are, the
“backbone of Tomaraxo culture” and the “safeguard of
Tomaraxo identity.” The celebration, on the one hand,
keeps and brings to the scene the “cultural identity,”
and recreates the group’s ethos. On the other hand, it
remains unchangeable even if its ecological, econom-
ic, or sociological assumptions have disappeared. This
“conservative” nature may be traced in the Tomaraxo’s
ideology: if men forgot this sacred model and the scope
Anthropos 96.2001
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625
of their guilt called for reparation, Aishnuwéhrta’s and
Némourt’s wrath will cause, among other things, the
ethnic group’s dissolution.
Leaving aside theoretical considerations, there is no
need to point out the ethnographic value of this volume.
Those who are familiar with the ethnographic work, and
even more so those who conduct it, are aware of the
arduous and complex task of ordering and systematising
the religious practices and beliefs of a group, since these
come to the observer in a state of total chaos and under
the most obscure forms. In such a task, and despite the
author’s humble efforts to lessen his accountability, the
subtle information provided by the native exegetes is
never a sufficient condition. Considering the subjects
treated and the methods of analysis used, this work
certainly belongs to a class of ethnography that has little
to do with the concerns of the so-called “postmodern”
authors: instead of wasting time enumerating, in hor-
ror, the self-absorbed predicaments of the ethnographic
authority, it embarks on the huge task of reproducing
the complexity of a concrete symbolic system and
undertakes its exegesis, a task which by definition is
never ending. Federico Bossert and Diego Villar
Erny, Pierre: Enfants du ciel et de la terre. Essais
d’anthropologie religieuse. Paris: Editions L’Harmattan,
2000. 345 pp. ISBN 2-7384-9596-6. Prix: FF 180,00
Ceux qui connaissent l’oeuvre de P. Emy sont frap-
pés par la riche gamme de sujets qu’il aborde. L’ouvrage
recensé est un recueil d’essais que l’auteur a écrits entre
1981 et 2000, dix-sept textes consacrés à la probléma-
tique religieuse formant les chapitres du livre. Certains
d’entre eux étaient initialement des conférences, d’autres
des cours, d’autres encore ont été écrits spécialement
pour cet ouvrage. Le champ de recherche de l’anthro-
pologie religieuse étant très vaste, il faut préciser les
lignes d’intérêts que révèle la lecture du livre de P.
Emy. Tout d’abord, il est question de l’Afrique, et en
particulier du christianisme africain. D’ailleurs l’auteur
dédie son livre à un missionnaire au Burundi et en
Tanzanie, le Père Albert Engel, et au groupe Jaama de la
paroisse du chemin de fer à Lubumbashi. L’essai traitant
du mouvement Jaama (le plus ample de l’ouvrage) a
d’ailleurs été repris comme titre de l’ouvrage. Jaama,
mouvement d’inculturation de la religion chrétienne en
Afrique, a été lancé par un missionnaire franciscain, le
Père Placide Tempels, au début des années 50, au Congo
Belge. L’idée principale de ce mouvement consistait à
perfectionner et harmoniser la force de vie humaine (uzi-
ma), l’amour (mapendo) et la fertilité (uzazi)• P- Erny a
pu rencontrer, lors de son séjour à Lubumbashi en 1970,
les groupes représentant ce mouvement, quelques an-
nées avant leur délégalisation et leur excommunication
(1974). Dans l’avant-propos, il écrit: “J’en suis resté très
marqué, et y ferai donc de nombreuses allusions d’un
texte à l’autre. Ce sont les adhérents de ce mouvement
qu’un autre missionnaire qui les connaissait bien, Jésuite
celui-là, a appelés ‘enfants du ciel et de la terre’” (10).
Le témoignage de ce Jésuite - le Père Sommers - a
été soigneusement recueilli et rapporté dans le livre par
l’auteur.
Cette fascination marquée à l’égard du Jamaa, qui est
discernable à plusieurs endroits du livre, s’accompagne
avec une profondeur remarquable d’une réflexion sur
le christianisme en Afrique. Pour l’auteur, l’Africain
est “comme pris en sandwich entre deux paganismes,
celui de ses ancêtres d’un côté, et celui, importé, né
de la désaffection qu’a connue le christianisme” (36).
Mais, comme il le constate à un autre endroit, “les
croyances africaines sont beaucoup plus chargées émo-
tionnellement que tout ce qui a pu s’y superposer par la
suite, parce qu’elles reposent sur un fond d’expérience
personnelle et collective dont il est très difficile de se
détacher” (59). Alors, “quand le christianisme arrive
dans un peuple sous quelque forme que ce soit, il est
perçu, il est reçu et pratiqué en fonction des structures
mentales et sociales de ce peuple” (84).
Le christianisme en Afrique et sa rencontre avec
la religion traditionnelle constituent l’axe majeur de
cet ouvrage: I. De la rencontre du christianisme et de
l’Afrique (11-46), II. Images chrétiennes et africaines
de l’homme. Le conflit des anthropologies (47-66), III.
Problèmes ethniques et christianisme en Afrique Noire
(67-86), XIII. L’impact des missions chrétiennes sur
le paysage au Rwanda (229-240) et XV. “Enfants du
ciel et de la terre”: Placide Tempels et la Jamaa (269-
310). Cependant, l’ouvrage recensé n’est pas un livre de
missiologie. En outre, à côté de plusieurs essais concer-
nant la religion en Europe: VII. La Saint-Martin comme
fête calendaire (147-154), IX. La lumière céleste dans
les visions de saint Nicolas de Flue (169-180), XVI.
La célébration du baptême dans la “Communauté des
chrétiens” (311-332) et XVII. La Sainte Ampoule du
sacre des rois de France (333-345), on y trouve d’ex-
cellents textes de nature générale: IV. A quoi servent
les rites? (87-112), V. Croire: croyance et foi (113—
126), VI. Autour de la notion de salut (127-146), VIII.
Souffle humain/Souffle divin (155-168), X. Liturgie
et coutume populaire (181- 196), XI. Rêve et religion
(197-212), XII. Pour une ethnologie du monachisme
(213-228) et XIV. Le christianisme et les villes (241-
268). Ces textes pris à part forment une sorte de manuel
d’anthropologie religieuse.
J’ai tenu à énumérer les titres des dix-sept essais
de l’ouvrage pour donner au lecteur un aperçu précis
de son contenu, et parce que chacun des textes peut
être lu indépendamment, à la carte. D’ailleurs, l’ab-
sence d’introduction et de conclusion semble donner
l’impression que l’auteur lui-même a eu l’intention de
présenter des textes et non une thèse. Il faut pourtant
souligner que l’ouvrage “Enfants du ciel et de la terre”
possède une cohérence remarquable et peut servir de
source d’inspiration aux ethnologues, aux africanistes,
aux missiologues et à tous les chercheurs dans le do-
maine de la religion. Jacek Jan Pawlik
Anthropos 96.2001
626
Rezensionen
Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim, und Hans Werner
Mohm: Lebensbaum und Kalaschnikow. Krieg und
Frieden im Spiegel afghanischer Bildteppiche. Blies-
kastel: Gollenstein Verlag, 2000. 151 pp., Fotos. ISBN
3-933389-31-3.
Im Herbst 2000 stellte das Völkerkundemuseum in
München eine ungewöhnliche Sammlung aus: Teppiche
mit Darstellungen von Waffen und Szenen aus der Zeit
der russischen Invasion Afghanistans. Es waren meist
kleinere Stücke in der für die Belutschen und Turkme-
nen typischen engen Knüpfung. Sie erlaubt, z. B. Flug-
zeuge, Panzer, Motorräder, Helikopter, Raketen, Hand-
granaten und vor allem das Symbol des Widerstandes,
die Kalaschnikow, schließlich Landkarten und Portraits
präzise wiederzugeben. Überwiegend sind die Teppiche
in der herkömmlichen Weise aufgebaut: Ein Mittelfeld
wird von einer oder auch mehreren Bordüren gerahmt.
Auch die Komposition des Mittelfeldes ist überwiegend
traditionell und zeigt neben diesen martialischen Ge-
genständen die vertrauten Blüten, Kannen, Tiere und
Lebensbäume. Schließlich weicht auch die Farbgebung
nicht von der traditionellen jüngeren Teppichproduktion
ab. Bei flüchtigem Hinschauen nimmt man manchmal
einen Belutschen oder Turkmenen wahr. Erst der zweite
Blick erkennt das erschreckend Neue: Die kleinen, or-
dentlich aneinander gereihten, naiv gezeichneten Panzer
haben wie selbstverständlich von der durch Bordüren
behüteten Welt Besitz ergriffen und die einstige Blüten-
landschaft zum Kriegsschauplatz gemacht. Wenige Tep-
piche brechen in der Zeichnung des Mittelfeldes völlig
aus diesem Rahmen aus, zeigen Landkarten, Kriegs-
szenen und Beschriftungen z. T. in russischer und la-
teinischer Schrift und sind wahrscheinlich Bildern und
Plakaten nachempfunden. Ganz überwiegend handelt es
sich nicht um emotionale Darstellungen. Die Naivität
der Darstellung, die Einordnung in traditionelle Technik
und Zeichnung vermitteln eher einen sachlichen Ein-
druck.
Mitte der achtziger Jahre sollen die ersten dieser
Teppiche entstanden sein. Seit 1995, seit die konser-
vativen Taliban also das Sagen haben, werden bildliche
Darstellungen auf Teppichen immer weniger geduldet,
obwohl es sich dabei überwiegend nicht um die Dar-
stellung von Lebewesen handelt. Die Produktion einer
kurzen historischen Epoche wird also vorgestellt, und
man kann den wenigen bekannten Sammlern nur ein
Kompliment machen, dass sie die Gelegenheit genutzt
haben.
Das kleine Buch von Frembgen, Leiter der Orient-
abteilung am Staatlichen Museum für Völkerkunde in
München, und Mohm, dem Sammler der Ausstellung,
wendet sich nicht nur an den Fachmann. Diesen wer-
den die Belege, eine sorgfältige Bibliographie sowie
der Eindruck zufrieden stellen, dass mit diesem Buch
der derzeitige Stand des Wissens über diese Teppiche
wiedergegeben wird. Der Laie wird mit Gewinn die
knappe Einführung in die Volkskunst Afghanistans so-
wie die Hinweise auf das sog. Bilderverbot im Islam
lesen. Beide werden sich freuen über die Portraits und
Landschaftsfotos, die ohne konkrete Bezugnahme den
Text begleiten. Ausführlicher ist dann die Behandlung
der Bildteppiche selbst, vor allem mit den Kapiteln
“Herkunft der Teppiche”, “Form und Stil”, “Bildinhal-
te”, “Heiliger Krieg im Islam?” und “Gebrauch und
Marktorientierung”. Jedes der 44 Ausstellungsstücke ist
von den Autoren beschrieben und in einer “Bildaussage”
wohltuend vorsichtig interpretiert.
Nicht von ungefähr sind die Teppiche in dieser
Region entstanden. Neben den aktuellen erschütternden
politischen Ereignissen war für ihre Entstehung sicher-
lich eine vorhandene Tradition ursächlich. Bekannt sind
die Jagdszenen auf höfischen safawidischen Teppichen,
aber auch die Darstellungen von Sufis, Derwischen,
Poeten, Herrschern, Helden und Dämonen in Szenen aus
der Dichtung und dem Koran auf den Teppichen des
benachbarten Persien. In jüngerer Zeit zeigen bildliche
Darstellungen auf nomadischen, aber auch dörflichen
und städtischen Teppichen auch die Nähe zu Bildern,
Photographien und populären Farbdrucken. Der Ein-
fluss dieser persischen Tradition ist in den Erzeugnis-
sen Afghanistans unverkennbar. Unabhängig davon hat
die bildliche Darstellung von Vögeln, Vierbeinern und
Menschen auf Teppichen vor allem der Belutschen, aber
auch auf Satteldecken (smalyk) der Turkmenen in Af-
ghanistan eine lange Tradition. In den siebziger Jahren
des 20. Jhs. kamen bei den Belutschen Darstellungen
z. B. von Flugzeugen und Schulgebäuden hinzu. So
gesehen, ist es nur ein kleiner folgerichtiger Schritt zu
den Darstellungen auf den Teppichen der Ausstellung.
Das heißt allerdings nicht, dass alle Fragen nach Zeit,
Ort und Motiv der Entstehung dieser neuen “qalin-e
dschangi” (Kampfteppiche), “qalin-e dschihad” (Kriegs-
teppiche) oder einfach “qalin-e kalaschinkof ’ beantwor-
tet sind. Im Gegenteil. Hinsichtlich des Entstehungs-
zeitpunktes vermutet Frembgen lediglich mit anderen
Afghanistan-Kennern, dass es Mitte der achtziger Jah-
re gewesen sein könne. Er hält ferner eine verlässli-
che ethnische oder stammesspezifische Zuordnung der
“Kriegsteppiche” zur Zeit nicht für möglich, sondern
vermutet lediglich, dass sie zum ersten Mal von Frauen
der Belutschen, Tschahar Aimaq sowie Turkmenen und
Usbeken im Westen und Norden Afghanistans herge-
stellt worden sind. Warum? Um zum Widerstand aufzu-
rufen, um persönliche Eindrücke zu verarbeiten? Auch
diese Frage ist nicht sicher zu beantworten. Die Auto-
ren weisen in diesem Zusammenhang darauf hin, dass
die Teppiche nicht nur für den persönlichen Gebrauch
gemacht wurden. Schon bald seien sie - besonders in
den Flüchtlingslagern Persiens und Pakistans - auch
zum Verkauf gefertigt worden und in den größeren
Zentren Afghanistans und vor allem in Peschawar auf
den Markt und bereits in den achtziger Jahren auch in
den europäischen und amerikanischen Handel gebracht
worden. Das wird zunehmend der Grund für die Produk-
tion gewesen sein, und die Vorstellungen der Abnehmer
haben sicherlich auch die Gestaltung beeinflusst. Auch
zur Musterentwicklung gibt Frembgen lediglich eine
These wieder, wonach die eher traditionell aufgebauten
Teppiche mit Kriegsmotiven als Füllmotiven einer ersten
Phase (etwa Mitte der achtziger Jahre) und die Teppiche
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
627
mit dominierenden Kriegsmotiven einer zweiten Phase
zuzuordnen seien.
Die vielen offenen Fragen zu Teppichen, die kaum 15
Jahre alt sind, stimmen nachdenklich. In den entschei-
denden Jahren der Entstehung der ersten Kriegsteppiche
war eben kein kompetenter Beobachter vor Ort. Hätte
es aber - vom Zufall einmal abgesehen - anders sein
können? Wohl kaum, zu lautlos und schnell scheinen
mir mitunter die Anfänge der Volkskunst und so auch
das Auftauchen der ersten Kriegsteppiche.
Man kann also bei aller Gründlichkeit der Autoren
- sie waren in Afghanistan, haben die vorhandene Li-
teratur berücksichtigt und sich mit anderen Experten in
Gesprächen auseinander gesetzt - nicht sagen, dass mit
dieser Publikation der Schlussstrich unter dieses Kapitel
gesetzt wurde. Als gut lesbare und illustrierte Arbeit, die
den Stand des Wissens wiedergibt, ist sie dennoch sehr
zu empfehlen. Johannes Wolff-Diepenbrock
Halpern, Joel M., and David A. Kideckel (eds.):
Neighbors at War. Anthropological Perspectives on
Yugoslav Ethnicity, Culture, and History. University
Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000.
477 pp. ISBN 0-271-01979-4. Price: $25.00
Vor acht Jahre, im Jahr 1993, haben David Kideckel
und Joel Halpern einen Sonderband der Zeitschrift
Anthropology of East Europe Review (Vol. 11, No. 1 —
2) zum Thema “War in Yugoslavia” herausgegeben.
Der vorliegende Band versteht sich als Erweiterung und
Aktualisierung davon.
Bereits das Thema “Jugoslawien” lässt mutmaßen,
welche Probleme in einem solchen Werk zu bewältigen
sind. Es ist schon für Amerikaner und Westeuropäer
schwierig, eine vermeintliche Objektivität und Distanz
zu bewahren, wenn es um die noch fortdauernden Ereig-
nisse auf dem Balkan geht, aber wenn man die Auffor-
derung, die sich die Herausgeber stellen, ernst nimmt,
Ethnologen aus den ummittelbar betroffenen Nationen
miteinzubeziehen, so steht man vor einigen Problemen.
Dass eine solche Aufsatzsammlung nicht immer jeden
- auch unter den beteiligten Autoren - zufrieden stellen
kann, ist klar. Dies schildern die Herausgeber selbst in
der Einleitung, wo sie von heftigen Reaktionen einiger
Autoren des Vorgängerbandes berichten. Einige davon
haben sich geweigert, neue bzw. erweiterte Texte für
diesen Band bereitzustellen.
Auch ohne diese Beiträge ist “Neighbors at War”
zu einer beachtlichen Sammlung von 22 Kapiteln ge-
worden. Das Buch bietet eine ausgesprochen große
Bandbreite an Themen, Herangehensweisen und Ge-
sichtspunkten. Es ist aus organisatorischen Gründen in
fünf Teilen aufgegliedert, deren bloßes Wiedergeben ich
hier nicht unternehmen will. Jedes der 22 Kapitel hätte
Rtehr als ein paar Zeilen verdient. Ich möchte daher
an dieser Stelle lediglich einige besonders gelungene
Beiträge herausheben.
Die Herausgeber wollen mit diesem Buch alterna-
tive Perspektiven zur üblichen Diskussion über das
ehemalige Jugoslawien darbieten: Die soziokulturel-
len Hinter- bzw. Beweggründe sollen benannt werden.
Diese bestimmen auch den allgemeinen Ton: die Ver-
zweiflung, die man als Wissenschaftler, der sich mit
dem Balkanraum beschäftigt, dabei fühlt, Unmengen
an Information über Kroatien, Bosnien, Kosova, oder
heute Mazedonien zur Verfügung zu haben, ohne dass
dadurch ein Weg aus der heutigen Situation gefunden
wäre, diese Verzweiflung, bei der oftmals Empörung
überwiegt, lässt sich öfters zwischen den Zeilen von
“Neighbors at War” herauslesen. Die Leidenschaft und
Emotionen, die Betroffenheit und der Kampf dagegen
- man will, auch wenn man es besser weiß, immer
noch “objektiv” bleiben - tun aber gut; sie erzeugen
eine gewisse Spannung, die zu Erkenntnissen führt.
Beispielhaft hierfür ist Robert Haydens Beitrag. Ich
habe selten eine derart deutliche Erklärung sowohl vom
Begriff des Anderen als auch des zugehörigen Prozesses
des “othering” gelesen. Die unmittelbare Aktualität des
Themas stärkt nur noch weiter die intrinsische Gewalt
des Konzepts. Der einführende Charakter des Artikels
und der aktuelle Bezug zeichnen diesen Artikel als
idealen Einstieg für Studienanfänger aus.
Für ein Gesamtverständnis der Situation in Jugosla-
wien ist ein Bewusstsein der historischen Umständen
unabdingbar. Die Historiker Hannes Grandits und Chris-
tian Promitzer stellen sich dieser Herausforderung. Sie
zeichnen ein klares Bild der Entwicklung der heutigen
Situation. Am Beispiel der kroatischen Krajina und der
Grenzer beschreiben sie Jahrzehnte der Gewaltbereit-
schaft im Dienste des Staats. Aber mit dem Verschwin-
den des osmanischen Feind(bild)es wurde 1881 beinahe
über Nacht eine ganze Gesellschaft “aufgelöst”. Die
darauf folgende Revolte war vorherzusehen, und die
für die österreich-ungarische Regierung äußerst günstige
Aufteilung der Grenzer in ihre ethnischen Bestandteile
- Serben und Kroaten - ließ nicht lange auf sich
warten. Der Einfluss der “Grenzerkultur” lässt sich, vier
Generationen später, in dem heutigen Konflikt bzw. dem
Krieg zwischen 1990 und 1995 noch erkennen.
Es geht aber auch anders. Robert Gary Minnich
erzählt die erstaunliche Geschichte einer slowenischen
Frau die, 1910 geboren, Bürger von fünf Staaten war,
ohne ihren Wohnsitz je zu ändern. Minnichs Auf-
zeichnungen aus ihrem Leben im Grenzgebiet zwi-
schen Österreich, Italien und Slowenien ist Ethnographie
im klassischen Sinne. Obwohl er hier keine großen
Schlüsse zieht, wird Minnichs Anliegen, das Zusam-
menspiel mehrerer Ebenen von Identität zu erläutern,
deutlich.
Ebenfalls nennenswert ist der gesamte vierte Ab-
schnitt. Hier werden verschiedene Kommunikationsme-
dien und deren meinungsreflektierende bzw. meinungs-
stiftende Rolle im Balkankonflikt dargestellt. Goran Jo-
vanovic untersucht Zeitungskarikaturen, im Balkanraum
sowie im restlichen Europa. Mirjana Lausevic und Lynn
D. Maners analysieren dagegen die Musik, erstere mo-
derne Rockmusik und die Videoclip-Kultur, die zweite
traditionelle Volksmusik und Volkstänze und deren Wan-
del in den letzten 10 Jahren. Zuletzt setzt sich Mirjana
Prosic-Dvornic mit der Entwicklung in politischer und
Anthropos 96.2001
628
Rezensionen
öffentlicher Rhetorik, mit dem internen “othering” in
Serbien auseinander. Diese vier Kapitel sind beispielhaft
für moderne ethnologische Forschung. Comic, Cartoons,
Video, Musik, “Volkskultur” und ähnliches sind die
Kommunikationsebenen, die wir uns heute anschauen
müssen, um einen Einblick in eine Gesellschaft zu
bekommen. Dies sind die Mythen und Rituale von heute.
Nach Lausevic sind Ray-Ban Sonnenbrillen, Marlboros
und fette Knarren oder auch Mercedes mit ausländischen
Zulassungen, “echte” Rolex Uhren, Goldketten und Le-
vis die Rangzeichen, die heute von Bedeutung sind. Auf
dieser Ebene spielt sich Kultur ab.
Im letzten Abschnitt stellt Jonathan Schwartz seine
Arbeit in Mazedonien in Zusammenhang mit dem Kon-
zept der Zivilen Gesellschaft vor. Aber wie es oft
in kürzeren Artikeln passiert, schwebt dieser zentrale
Begriff im Raum. Wer sich noch nicht näher mit der Idee
beschäftigt hat, kann sich nur sehr vage etwas darunter
vorstellen. Schwartz weigert sich, den Begriff enger
zu definieren, lässt nur ahnen, dass der ethnologische
Begriff nicht ganz dem allgemeinen Gebrauch gleicht.
Die Deutung seiner Fallbeispiele leidet dann auch etwas
darunter. Aber dennoch, Schwartz stellt zwei Situationen
vor, wo Menschen es geschafft haben, die alten Katego-
rien hinter sich zu lassen und einen neuen Weg zu gehen.
Am Ende steht ein Plädoyer für die aktive Projektarbeit
von Ethnologen in Ländern wie Mazedonien, wo die
Zivile Gesellschaft noch nicht gefestigt ist. Das Heraus-
ragende an der ethnologischen Untersuchung, im Gegen-
satz zu kurzschlüssigen, unausgereiften Kommentaren
von Journalisten, Politikern, und anderen in der “NGO
Community”, ist “our field experience as ethnographers
[which] has a longer and wider duration, we are more
circumspect in our accounts. It is not merely to present
‘both sides in a conflict,’ but rather to represent the
contexts of that conflict” (399). Es ist dieser Überblick,
der der Lösung gesellschaftlicher Problemen zu Grunde
liegen kann.
Im Frühling und Sommer 2001 kommen wieder
vermehrt Berichte aus dem ehmaligen Jugoslawien
in die Medien. Mazedonien, bisher von der Gewalt
verschont, wird zur Bühne des vorerst letzten Aktes
im Verfall des Balkanbundesstaates. Die U£K oder
eine Splittergruppe davon - diese durchaus wichtigen
Unterscheidungen werden in der Tagespresse z. B. nicht
gemacht - will die albanische Minderheit dort zur
Revolution mobilisieren. Gelder für Waffen fließen aus
Amerika und Europa. Die internationale Gemeinschaft
handelt nicht; als “interne Angelegenheit” wird die
Sache bezeichnet. Politiker reden, ohne genau zu wissen,
was die tieferen Beweggründe sind oder wie ihnen
entgegen zu treten bzw. sie gewaltlos zu befriedigen
sind.
In gewissem Sinne sind die Berichte in “Neighbors
at War” alt, jede üble Prophezeihung der Situation in
Kosova betreffend hat sich bewahrheitet. Die Räder
der Wissenschaft bewegen sich eben langsamer als
das Leben. Das ist auch das Risiko, das man eingeht,
wenn man ein solch aktuelles Thema wie z. B. den
Verfall Jugoslawiens thematisieren will. Andererseits ist
“Neighbors at War” ganz aktuell - nur die Namen haben
sich geändert. Andreas Hemming
Hämmerle, Johannes Maria: Nias - eine eigene
Welt. Sagen, Mythen, Überlieferungen. Sankt Augustin:
Academia Verlag, 1999. 407 pp. ISBN 3-89665-147-1.
(Collectanea Instituti Anthropos, 43) Preis: DM 88,00
Im äußersten Westen des indonesischen Archipels,
120 km vor der Küste Sumatras, liegt Nias. Frühe
Nachrichten über die Kopfjagd und den Sklavenhandel
der Niasser, die Berichterstattung der ersten christli-
chen Missionare und in deren Folge Naturforscher,
Ethnographen und Religionsforscher haben in der Ver-
gangenheit ein von tendenziösen Belangen geprägtes
Bild der Insel entworfen, das erst durch die neuere
Forschung allmählich modifiziert wird. Nunmehr sind
es die vielschichtigen Interessen der Sozialanthropolo-
gie, der Architektur- und Megalithforschung sowie der
Kunstethnologie, die sich mit der kulturellen Vielfalt der
nur 5625 km2 großen Insel beschäftigen. Der externen
und häufig von eurozentrischen Haltungen geprägten
Perspektive der westlichen Wissenschaften tritt hier eine
sehr komplexe und nach außen nicht selten wider-
sprüchlich erscheinende interne Sichtweise der einhei-
mischen Bevölkerung entgegen. Dieser Sichtweise ist
bislang sowohl in der älteren als auch in der jüngeren
Literatur aufgrund bestehender Vorurteile gegenüber
den Potentialen der “oral history” und sprachbedingter
Verständigungsschwierigkeiten nur in Ansätzen Auf-
merksamkeit geschenkt worden. Die Relevanz des anzu-
zeigenden Buches besteht insofern in seinem Bestreben,
so viel wie möglich der mündlich tradierten Selbstbilder
auf Nias enzyklopädisch festzuhalten, um damit nicht
nur der Wissenschaft einen ethnographischen Dienst zu
erweisen, sondern genauso um damit den Niassem ein
Stück ihrer Vergangenheit in schriftlicher Form zu be-
wahren (37 f.). Denn auch auf Nias führt der neuzeitliche
Wandel zu einer fortschreitenden Verdrängung der tra-
ditionellen Kultur, deren Mnemotechniken, wie im Fall
der mündlichen Überlieferung, mehr und mehr durch
moderne Kommunikationsmedien außer Kraft gesetzt
werden.
Der Autor des Buches, Johannes Maria Hämmerle,
arbeitet seit 1971 als Priester der Rheinisch-Westfäli-
schen Kapuzinerprovinz auf der Insel Nias. Seine mis-
sionarische Tätigkeit verbindet er mit dem Bemühen um
die ethnographische Sichtung des kulturellen Erbes auf
Nias. Eine Reihe von Veröffentlichungen in deutscher
und in niassischer Sprache zeichnen ihn deshalb auch
als Ethnologen aus, dessen größter Vorzug in der ein-
zigartigen Kenntnis seines Standortes, der Insel Nias,
liegt. Sein Buch belegt, wie wichtig es ist, über die
mündliche Überlieferung Zugang zu den immateriellen
Konzepten nichtliterarer Gesellschaften im indonesi-
schen Archipel zu erhalten. Dass dabei die Sprache
eine der unüberwindbarsten Barrieren bildet, ist jedem
Ethnologen bewusst und wird vom Autor im Hinblick
auf die besonderen Schwierigkeiten der niassischen
Sprache eigens unterstrichen (32-35). Um so mehr ist
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
629
es ihm, dem sich die fremde Sprache nicht als kom-
munikatives Hindernis in den Weg stellt, gelungen, eine
überzeugende Darstellung mündlicher Überlieferungen
vorzulegen und damit, wie es sein besonderes Anliegen
ist, einer Reihe von Missverständnissen älterer Literatur
über Nias entgegenzuwirken.
Das Hauptaugenmerk dieses Unterfangens bilden 13
mythologische Erzählungen aus dem Norden und der
Mitte von Nias, die in den Kapiteln II und III des Buches
neu übersetzt und interpretiert werden; ein Band über
die Mythen aus dem Süden soll zu einem späteren Zeit-
punkt folgen. Die Erzählungen kreisen um Themen der
Anthropogonie, womit übergreifende Abstammungs-
erklärungen genauso wie die individuellen Stammbäume
der Sippen tradiert werden. Die bisherige, zumeist eu-
ropäisch-amerikanische, Nias-Literatur sichtete in den
Mythen kosmologische Konzepte und eine große Zahl
an Götterfiguren. Wie jedoch der Autor zu bedenken
gibt (30 f.), fand dabei häufig ein von vorgeprägten
Meinungen geleiteter Transfer nicht-niassischer Ideen
über religiöse Konzepte und ihrer personifizierten
Wirkgrößen statt. Ihm geht es deshalb um die “Ent-
mythologisierung des niassischen Götterhimmels”, den
er als ein Konstrukt des externen Nias-Bildes er-
achtet. Bedenken, hiermit könne sich eine aus dem
missionarischen Hintergrund des Autors herzuleitende
Ablehnung jeglicher polytheistisch-animistischer Ten-
denzen in der ursprünglichen Religion der Niasser
ankündigen, werden bei der weiteren Lektüre beiseite
geräumt. Es wird dagegen deutlich, inwieweit die
Mythen mit der realen Lebenswelt verbunden sind und
die darin agierenden Figuren Teil der individuellen
und kollektiven Identität, sprich Abstammung sind.
Fragen der Herkunft des Menschen, seiner Gesetze,
seiner metaphysischen und materiellen Umwelt wer-
den mit dem zentralen Themenkreis von Zeugung,
Schwangerschaft, Geburt und Tod verbunden. Unzählige
Genealogien erinnern an die Herkunft der einzelnen
Sippen und konstituieren somit ein Gedächtnis, das über
viele Generationen währt. Die verschiedenen Versionen
ein und desselben Herkunftsmythos belegen, inwieweit
dieser dem kollektiven Verständnis einer Sippe ange-
passt, aber auch durch die persönliche Interpretation
des Rezitierenden verformt sein kann. Die Tradierung
der Erzählungen auf Nias verläuft demnach nicht nach
starrem Muster, sondern erlaubt den Ein- und Aus-
schluss von Motiven, in denen sich der fortschreitende
Gesellschaftswandel spiegelt. Dabei ist es vor allem die
christliche Bildmetaphorik, welche im letzten Jahrhun-
dert verstärkt Eingang in die mündliche Überlieferung
gefunden hat.
Die Mythen der Stammväter und -mütter sowie die
Stammbäume der verschiedenen Sippen in Nord- und
Mittel-Nias sind mit viel Sorgfalt zusammengetragen.
Häufig kommen mehrere Informanten mit ihrer Ver-
sion des gleichen Mythos zu Wort. Die Syntax der
Erzähltechnik, die individuelle Rhetorik der Vortragen-
den, Eigenheiten der Phonetik und Etymologien bedeu-
tungsschwerer Worte werden sprachverständig erfasst
und in zahlreichen Anmerkungen kommentiert. Somit
erscheinen einige der früheren Übersetzungen von Sun-
dermann, Möller und Thomsen in einem neuen Licht,
andere Erzählungen sind hier zum ersten Mal schriftlich
niedergelegt.
Um der großen Zahl an Mythen, legendären Erzäh-
lungen und ihrer individuellen Ausformungen Herr zu
werden, legt der Autor seinem Buch eine sehr klein-
teilige Gliederung zugrunde. Diese Einteilung ist nicht
immer glücklich, da die Sprünge zwischen den einzelnen
Kapiteln und ihren Abschnitten häufig abrupt erfolgen
und es zuweilen schwer fällt, den nötigen Zusammen-
hang zu erkennen. Der Versuch, ein wenig mehr Struktur
in das Geflecht aus “Sagen, Mythen, Überlieferungen”
(so der Untertitel des Buches) zu bringen, wäre dies-
bezüglich ein verdienstvolles, wenngleich schwieriges
Unterfangen gewesen. Zur Funktion von Genealogien
zum Beispiel hat die “oral history” seit Jan Vansina
wichtige Erklärungsansätze geliefert, die auch im Fall
von Nias dazu verhelfen könnten, die Interaktion der
Genealogien, ihre Intervalle und Zeitsprünge besser zu
erklären. Etwas mehr methodisches Rüstzeug hätte hier
vielleicht zu einer systematischeren Herangehensweise
und einigen neuen Ergebnissen geführt.
Dieses Defizit wird jedoch im letzten Kapitel (IV)
des Buches ausgeglichen, worin der Autor nun stringent
seinem Ansatz zur Entmythologisierung der mündlichen
Überlieferungen durch themenbezogene Abhandlungen
folgt. Das Kapitel beginnt mit mehreren Abschnitten
über die Bedeutung des Baumes und der Winde in der
Mythologie der Niasser (IV. 1.1.-8., 2.1.-4.). Das von
der älteren Literatur aufgestellte kosmologische Konzept
eines Weltenbaumes wird zu Recht in Frage gestellt
(251). Vielmehr erscheint der Baum in den zahlreichen
Beispielen, die zitiert werden, als sinnbildhafte Parabel
für den Stammbaum des Menschen. Seine Artenvielfalt,
die Verästelung seiner Zweige und die Früchte, die
er trägt, werden zur Beschreibung der weit verzweig-
ten Abstammung und Nachkommenschaft der Sippen
benutzt. In ähnlicher Weise werden die verschiedenen
Winde mit Krankheit und Übel verglichen. Die Her-
kunftsmythologien bieten somit ein Klassifikationssy-
stem der natürlichen Umwelt, womit sich - so zumindest
die unterschwellige Ansicht des Autors (vgl. 269) -
eine eher nüchterne Einstellung der Niasser zur Natur
als ein animistischer Glaube offenbart. Die metaphysi-
schen Vorstellungen in den niassischen Überlieferungen
werden in dem nun folgenden Kapitel (IV.3.) kritisch
hinterfragt. Ausgangspunkt ist die Schöpfergestalt Sihai,
hinter der bei genauerer Betrachtung kein Schöpfergott,
sondern ein entmenschlichter Urahn steht. Dieser stirbt
zwar kinderlos, doch entwächst seinem Körper ein
Baum, aus dessen Sprossen die Weltenschichten entste-
hen. In der untersten Schicht leben die Menschen, in den
Schichten darüber die Geister sowie diejenigen Ahnen,
die als Stammväter und Stammmütter der Menschen
angesehen werden. An oberster Stelle schließlich steht
die gottähnliche Gestalt des Lowalangi. Es sind somit im
Wesentlichen keine Götter, die den religiösen Kosmos
der Niasser füllen, sondern die eigenen Ahnen. Zu
einem ähnlichen Fazit kommt bereits der italienische
630
Rezensionen
Forschungsreisende Modigliani, der um 1890 unter dem
Eindruck niassischer Totenverehrung schreibt: “Ich sehe
keinen Unterschied zwischen dem Gefühl, mit dem
sie ihren Vätern und Müttern Opfer darbringen, und
jenem, welches sie anleitet den höchsten Ahnen oder den
ältesten Vorfahren zu opfern. Sie sind geneigt, diese als
ebenbürtige Götter zu Lowalangi, dem einzigen Gott zu
sehen, obwohl diese im Endeffekt nichts anderes sind als
Vorfahren”. Die Frage, ob zwischen Göttern und Ahnen
grundsätzlich zu unterscheiden ist, erscheint demnach
müßig, und dies gilt auch für die Idee einer von dem
Gott Lowalangi angeführten Göttertrias, von der sich
der Autor distanziert (299). Nicht zu übersehen ist, dass
mit der missionarischen Tätigkeit auf Nias theistische
Glaubensbilder in die indigenen Überlieferungsstränge
transferiert wurden. Beispielhaft dafür ist die, wie der
Autor zu verstehen gibt (301 f.), unglückliche Wahl des
Namens Lowalangi als Gottesname für die christliche
Verkündigung. Um der immanenten Bedeutung, die man
den Ahnen sowohl im privaten als auch öffentlichen
Bereich zuschrieb, entgegenzuwirken, wurden von den
Missionaren nicht nur die hölzernen Ahnenfiguren ent-
fernt, sondern auch die Mythologien mit christlichen In-
halten gefüllt. Die mündliche Überlieferung auf Nias ist
nachhaltig von diesem Prozess geprägt. Hervorzuheben
ist die differenzierende Art und Weise, mit der der Autor
dieser Entwicklung begegnet, und sein Versuch, sie als
Teil der niassischen Vergangenheit zu dokumentieren.
Eigentlich ist damit der Schlusspunkt des Buches
gesetzt, wie der Autor am Ende dieses Abschnittes
selbst bemerkt (323). Trotzdem folgen in fünf wei-
teren Abschnitten (IV.5.-9) einige lose aneinanderge-
reihte Themen, in denen es um Aspekte der Ahnen-
verehrung, der magischen Heilpraktiken, der Kopfjagd,
des Sklavenhandels und der Megalithkultur auf Nias
geht. Hierin offenbart der Autor sein Interesse an den
religions- und sozialgeschichtlichen Faktoren des Ge-
sellschaftswandels in der Vergangenheit. Bereits in den
Stammbäumen der Herkunftsmythologien, die in den
vorherigen Abschnitten behandelt wurden, erkennt Jo-
hannes Hämmerle Hinweise auf die Entwicklung von
einer nichtsesshaften Subsistenzweise zur sesshaften
Agrargesellschaft (255). Die Genealogien sind somit
auch Ausdruck des technologischen Wandels. Die sich
dem Autor damit verbindende Idee einer Urbevölkerung
wird im Abschnitt IV.3. weiter verfolgt. Anhaltspunkte
dafür ßnden sich in den Stammbäumen der niassi-
schen Urahnen. Von den zwei zentralen Herkunftsmy-
then dient den Niassern nur eine zur Identifikation
der eigenen Abstammung, während die andere nach
Ansicht des Autors die Erinnerung an eine von der heuti-
gen Bevölkerung ethnisch verschiedenen Urbevölkerung
festhält (288). Durch den an dieser Stelle leider eher ne-
bensächlich eingefügten Erklärungsversuch historischer
Gesellschaftsprozesse gewinnt die genealogische Erin-
nerung eine neue Dimension. Es wäre wünschenswert,
noch mehr über die historischen Einsichten des Autors
in das Material der mündlichen Überlieferung erfahren
zu können, um damit vielleicht auch die Phänomene
der Megalithkultur auf Nias, der Kopfjagd und des
Sklavenhandels, wie sie am Ende des Buches kurz ge-
streift werden, besser verstehen zu können. Erwartungen
dieser Art kommt der Autor mit der Ankündigung eines
zweiten Bandes entgegen (301), in dem neben der zu-
sammenfassenden Darstellung der Mythen von Süd-Nias
auch eine mögliche chinesische Einflussnahme auf Nias
behandelt werden soll. Wir dürfen mit Erwartung diesem
Folgeband entgegensehen. Dominik Bonatz
Heinze, Ruth-Inge (ed.): The Nature and Function
of Rituals. Fire from Heaven. Westport: Bergin & Gar-
vey, 2000. 308 pp. ISBN 0-89789-663-7. Price: £44.95
The editor of this volume, Ruth-Inge Heinze, right-
ly asserts that “only when researchers recognize the
complexity of the nature and function of rituals and
use interdisciplinary approaches can tangible results
be expected” (20). But, the seventeen essays included
in this volume either individually or collectively do
not promote theoretically coherent interdisciplinary per-
spectives, and do not advance significantly our under-
standing of the complexity of the nature and function
of ritual other than repeating the age-old functionalist
explanations and stating the obvious.
In her introductory article, Ruth-Inge Heinze cites
several lengthy quotations from scholarly works, notably
from the writings of the anthropologist, the late Victor
Turner, who formulated some of the seminal ideas
about ritual that are currently used in interdisciplinary
perspectives on ritual. But she has not synthesized the
various ideas to present an interdisciplinary perspec-
tive, or a combination of interdisciplinary perspectives
that shed light on the essays included in this volume.
Even in the discussion of data that she presents in
the introductory essay, there is little evidence of the
application of an interdisciplinary perspective. Her data
deal with a Chinese ritual (which is performed in
Singapore) and a Thai ritual, and she states the obvious
functionalist explanation that rituals seek to connect
the participants and the divine beings through various
techniques for achieving certain goals. She notes: “At
each occasion, spirit mediums and their clients were in
perfect agreement about the purpose of the ritual. Their
goal was to ‘come into the presence of the Divine,’ so
that questions could be asked and assistance elicited for
personal problems, whether there were issues of health,
career, business, or disputes between spouses, parents
and children, or in-laws, or concerns about fertility and
longevity” (11).
In addition to the introductory chapter by the editor,
this book includes a preface by Edith Turner who is cur-
rently associated with the Department of Anthropology
at the University of Virginia where her late husband,
Victor Turner, taught after his tenure at the University
of Manchester and Chicago and at Cornell University.
Over the past decade, Edith Turner has elaborated upon
Victor Turner’s seminal writings on ritual among the
Ndembu of Zambia, and has, in recent times, contributed
to our understanding of the ethnographic representations
of rituals in Africa and elsewhere. It is interesting to
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
631
note how she happened to write the preface: When most
of the papers of this edited volume were presented at
the XIV International Congress of the Anthropological
and Ethnological Sciences (which was held in Wil-
liamsburg, Virginia, in 1998), Edith Turner, who was
in the audience, was invited to write the preface and
address some of the issues that were discussed at the
meeting. Unfortunately, Edith Turner’s preface does not
shed much light on any of the essays included in the
volume but reveals her own perspective. Edith Turner’s
perspective may be called “humanistic spiritualism”
or “spiritual humanism,” and such a perspective has
little in common with what the authors of the papers
have attempted to accomplish. She writes: “Speaking
in the mode of the ritualizing person, I would wonder
whether the functioning of even the most rudimentary
particles was not somehow spirit-operated also - and
from thence to single-cell animals, and on to survival
and mating behavior among mammals, and thence to
human behavior, apparently economic to begin with. But
here, as a ritual person, I would see at once that what
we did in early times was just as consciously spiritual
as now” (viii).
The authors deal with a variety of ritual perfor-
mances, ranging from cyclical, group rituals to healing
rituals and puberty rituals. Anoop Chandola (chapter
2) examines the popularity of a Hindu ritual, and sug-
gests that a ritual’s relevance arises from its fairness.
Vladimir Ionesov (chapter 3) analyzes archaeological
data from southern Uzbekistan to interpret how con-
flict is ritualized in mortuary practices. Victoria Ba-
ker (chapter 4) reflects upon the adaptive significance
of ritual as a genetically evolved mechanism to cope
with uncertainties of life. Deema de Silva (chapter 5)
describes puberty rituals of a Sinhalese village. Enya
Flores-Meiser (chapter 6) identifies Good Friday as a
“liminal event” in the life of the Philippino community.
David Kahn (chapter 7) interprets the different ritual
uses of Tupilaq spirit images or carvings by the Inuit.
Tomo Vinscak (chapter 8) offers a discussion of how
rituals serve as cultural-boundary-maintenance-systems
with reference to Tibetan-Buddhist identity in Nepal.
Susanne Schroter (chapter 9) explores the impact of
modernization and globalization processes on the ritual
life of a group in Indonesia. In the next chapter, Patrick
D. Gaffney describes and interprets the annual “ritual
°f the holy fire” or the ritual miracle of the “fire from
heaven” which is performed in the Church of the Holy
Sepulcher on the Saturday before Easter Sunday.
William Lyon (chapter 11) and Stanley Krippner
(chapter 12) analyze the general, core principles of
shamanic healing principles. In chapter 13, Laurence
Kruckman examines the significance of postpartum rit-
uals for counteracting postpartum depression. Paula En-
Selhorn (chapter 14), Sarah Dubin-Vaughn (chapter 15),
and Cedar Barstow (chapter 16) narrate the historical
developments in the ritual performances of “Rainbow
dorse Dance,” “New Song Ceremonial Sun Dance,” and
the “Earth Song Ceremonial Dance.”
In the last chapter (17), Felicitas Goodman presents
a very short discussion of the relationship between
ritual postures and neurophysiological changes, and con-
cludes: “the nature of the ritual is twofold, consisting
of a manipulation of the body in certain non-ordinary
postures and the excitation of the nervous system by
rhythmic stimulation. The function of the ritual is facil-
itating the entrance into the alternate reality. We might
visualize the nature of the ritual as the door and its
function as the key that opens it” (281).
It is always difficult to create a coherent book with
collected papers. It is all the more problematic when
the authors are from different academic fields and are in
some instances not affiliated with academic disciplines.
Also, it is confusing to include in the same volume
some papers that offer descriptions of emic or native
points of view, and other papers that focus on historical
narratives and analysis. The editor could have organized
the chapters into two or three categories or sections, and
provided some introductory comments and summaries
of why certain papers are anchored in those categorical
classifications.
The book contains some useful information. Some of
the chapters are insightful and they demonstrate the sig-
nificance of rituals in human life, but in the absence of a
clear delineation of the topics, and without providing the
reader with a discussion of what the papers individually
and collectively aim to accomplish, the book will not
help to promote a scholarly discourse and debate on
“the nature and function of rituals.” Jacob Pandian
Karlsson, B. G.: Contested Belonging. An Indig-
enous People’s Struggle for Forest and Identity in
Sub-Himalayan Bengal. Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000.
318 pp. ISBN 0-7007-1179-1. Price: £40.00
In his book Karlsson writes the history of the Ko-
chas/Rabhas. It is the history of a group tied to the
forests and it is the Kocha/Rabhas’ relation with the
forests which provides the continually most effective
condition of their history. Living in the wooded hills
of Northeastern West Bengal they inhabit an area which
had always been regarded as a precious resource by out-
siders, be they British colonial hunters and foresters or
contemporary Indian conversationalists and internation-
al environmentalists. Thus, the different Kocha/Rabha
groups had to cope not only with the special environ-
mental conditions of their region but more significantly
with claims and schemes for exploitation or conservation
extended onto their habitat by such outsiders. Karlsson
most effectively counters ideas of a people living in har-
mony with nature which are still fashionable in certain
romantic sections of the environmentalist movement.
The author frames his analysis within the question
for identity which for the group under study “remains a
largely invisible agenda.” Their dual designation points
to the difference between self-identification and identi-
fication by others, Kochas being the name they use for
themselves whereas Rabhas is the designation employed
by outsiders including, for the greater part of his work,
Karlsson himself. The book is divided into four sec-
Anthropos 96.2001
632
Rezensionen
tions. It starts with “identifying” the Rabhas within the
framework of Indian tribal ethnography. The second part
deals under the title “Tiger, Trees, and Tribals” with the
living conditions of the Rabhas under the impact of the
changing forest policies from British to post-indepen-
dence times. The third section, “Interrogating Identity,”
analyses movements of conversion to Christianity and
ethnic mobilization, and the last part takes the case study
of the book to discuss questions of “Modernity, Agency,
and Cultural Identity.”
About one third of the book deals with the Rabhas’
survival in the forests. After the area’s annexation by
the British great parts of the jungle were converted into
tea plantations. At the same time “scientific forestry”
was introduced in order to enable the extraction (and
replanting) of trees which provided railway sleepers.
Under this regime the swidden cultivation of the Rabhas
was seen as a disturbance that endangered the precious
resources and it was consequentially prohibited in cer-
tain core areas. However, the British had to discover
that the prohibition of swidden cultivation impeded the
regeneration of trees because the reduction of forest fires
caused the spread of creepers which in turn suppressed
the growth of saplings. Subsequently they attempted
to resettle Rabhas in the forest and to induce them
to practice a kind of controlled swidden cultivation.
Thereby the Rabhas were turned from a threat to Brit-
ish resources into an instrument for their preservation.
However, they turned out to be rather disinterested in
becoming part of British schemes. The ambivalence of
being regarded alternatively as a threat to and as an
asset of conservation continued to mark the Rabhas’
situation until today. Their integration into a colonial
economy of forest exploitation did not come to an end
with Indian independence. Until the late 1960s they had
to do unpaid labour in the woods. Only then, after some
political mobilization the Rabhas’ demands for daily
wages were recognized. However, opportunities for paid
labour were subsequently very much reduced by the
forest department. Life became difficult to the extent that
today visions of the past under the British are compared
favourably with the present situation. Now, the goal of
conservation policy is to restore wilderness. This aim
endangers the role of the Rabhas as forest labourers
and again they are regarded mainly as a problem to
be handled.
Karlsson contrasts the experience of the Rabhas with
other cases of imposed forest rules in South Asia and
finds that there has been surprisingly little open resis-
tance by the Rabhas. Instead of directly opposing the
administrative system their favourite strategy of coping
seems to have been avoidance. One of the Rabhas’
strategies of what could be called indirect resistance is
conversion to Christianity which is discussed, together
with political ethnicization, in the third section of the
book. Karlsson speaks about a “cultural resistance”
against the dominant Bengali society which is employed
as a strategy to construct a new sense of self in a
situation of marginalization and increasing alienation
from the life in the forest. The differential conversion to
the various Christian churches shows that conversion is
more a matter of lifestyle than of belief and cosmology.
Thus, the Baptist church has been especially successful
in winning converts because it sustains local lifeways by
using the local language in its services and by organising
on the basis of local village communities instead of de-
manding a thorough reorientation of converts. However,
recently also a political ethnic mobilization has started
to a limited extent, triggered off by similar processes
in the Northeastern Indian states. On the basis of a
larger language community the two names Rabha and
Kocha are equated and it is attempted by an ethnic
organization to weld different sections of the population,
speaking different dialects, into a single, unified cultural
community demanding autonomy. But compared with
other movements in the neighbouring areas the key of
the Rabha movement so far remained rather low.
In the final section of the book Karlsson argues
against disregarding the more “silent” processes in
which a segment of a population emerges as a commu-
nity and collective subject. Referring to debates about
identity politics, the objectification of culture, and sub-
altern agency, he opposes radical constructionism on the
ground that it cannot account for agency. He concludes,
following Craig Calhoun, that “instead of a dualism
between essentialism and constructionism one ought to
move towards a set of different writing strategies that
allow ‘both’ the deconstruction of and the claiming of
identities.”
Karlsson’s book is a very interesting and thorough
account on a case of a population struggling with differ-
ent and at times contradictory policies of environment.
The two main sections of the book are each in itself
convincing but the relationship that connects them is
not very explicit. It is proposed that “identity” provides
this connection. But Karlsson argues that processes of
identity formation among the Rabhas are rather implicit
and that conscious endeavours of identity politics are
very limited. The question remains then why the author
frames his account within the theme of identity.
Martin Sökefeld
Kirch, Patrick Vinton: On the Road of the Winds.
An Archaeological History of the Pacific Islands Before
European Contact. Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2000. 425 pp. ISBN 0-520-22347-0.
Die archäologische und frühgeschichtliche Erfor-
schung des pazifischen Raumes stellt innerhalb der
Ozeanistik ein ebenso umfassendes wie kompliziertes
Teilgebiet dar. Grundlegende Themen wie die Ausgra-
bung pleistozäner Siedlungsstätten im Hochland Neu-
guineas, die Verbreitung der austronesischen Lapita-
Keramik und die Frage nach dem Ausgangspunkt po-
lynesischer Besiedlungswellen sind wohl jedem Ozea-
nisten geläufig, jedoch gestaltet sich die Erkenntnis
größerer Zusammenhänge aufgrund der Vielzahl in un-
terschiedlichen internationalen Büchern und Zeitschrif-
ten publizierten Forschungsergebnisse äußerst mühsam-
Darstellungen, die eine Übersicht über die gesamte
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
633
archäologische Forschung im Pazifik ermöglichen, sind
außerordentlich selten. Da sich zudem der Forschungs-
stand aufgrund des ständig anwachsenden Datenmate-
rials innerhalb der letzten Jahrzehnte stark gewandelt
hat, ist das Standardwerk von Peter Bellwood, “Man’s
Conquest of the Pacific” (New York 1979), längst
überholt. Kirch, der selber seit 1965 archäologische
Forschung im Pazifik betreibt, füllt mit seinem Werk
die entstandene Lücke, indem er den Forschungsstand
der letzten zwanzig Jahre zusammenfaßt.
In seiner Einleitung gibt Kirch zunächst eine
Übersicht über das behandelte Gebiet, indem er sich mit
der üblichen Dreiteilung Ozeaniens auseinandersetzt.
Der eher auf geographischen Kriterien begründeten
Gliederung in die Regionen Mikronesiens, Melane-
siens und Polynesiens stellt er eine Einteilung nach
kulturellen, linguistischen und historischen Kriterien
gegenüber. Gemessen an letzteren, bilden nur die po-
lynesischen Inseln wirklich eine sinnvolle Einheit für
kulturhistorische Untersuchungen. Aufgrund der großen
kulturellen und linguistischen Unterschiede innerhalb
Mikronesiens und Melanesiens bieten diese Regionen
keine Grundlagen für eine einheitliche Analyse ihrer
Besiedlung und Kulturgeschichte. Kirch (5 f.) erscheint
die relativ neue Einteilung in “Near Oceania” und
“Remote Oceania” als sinnvoller, da sie nicht nur
geographische Kriterien aufgreift, sondern sich gleich-
zeitig auch auf die beiden Hauptepochen pazifischer
Besiedlung bezieht: “Near Oceania” umfaßt die Insel
Neuguinea, den Bismarckarchipel und den größten Teil
der Salomonen, ein Gebiet also, das große Unterschiede
in den Bevölkerungsgruppen aufweist und in dem
sowohl austronesische als auch nicht-austronesische
Sprachen gesprochen werden. Alle pazifischen Inseln im
Norden, Osten und Südosten dieses Gebietes gehören zu
“Remote Oceania”, in dem ausschließlich austronesische
Sprachen vorherrschen. Sowohl der linguistische als
auch der archäologische Befund zeigen, daß “Near
Oceania” bereits im Pleistozän (vor ca. 40000 Jahren),
“Remote Oceania” dagegen erst zwischen 1000 und
1500 vor unserer Zeitrechnung besiedelt wurde (4-11).
Diese Zweiteilung Ozeaniens bildet eine Grundlage
von Kirchs Gliederung des Materials, eine andere ergibt
sich jedoch aus den Grundfragen der pazifischen Besied-
lungsgeschichte. Jedes seiner Kapitel ist einer kulturhi-
storischen Fragestellung gewidmet, die man jeweils für
die behandelte Teilregion als spezifisch betrachten kann.
Zunächst gibt Kirch jedoch im ersten Kapitel einen
einleitenden Überblick über die Forschungsgeschichte.
Beginnend bei den drei von James Cook geführten
Südsee-Expeditionen, die die Tradition wissenschaft-
lich orientierter Entdeckungsfahrten der Aufklärungszeit
begründeten, bis hin zu den jüngsten Beiträgen ein-
heimischer Wissenschaftler informiert Kirch über un-
terschiedliche Forschungsansätze, Fragestellungen und
Theorien. Im folgenden Kapitel stellt er natürliche Um-
^eltbedingungen und Ökosysteme der unterschiedlichen
Bazifikinseln dar. Er beschreibt hier die von den er-
sten menschlichen Siedlern Vorgefundenen Bedingungen
ebenso wie die Veränderungen der natürlichen Umwelt,
die von den Einwanderern durch Besiedlung und Bo-
dennutzung ausgelöst wurden.
In den drei folgenden Kapiteln beschäftigt sich Kirch
mit der Archäologie von “Near Oceania”. Er beginnt mit
der Frage nach der frühesten Besiedlung Ozeaniens. Die
Kapitelüberschrift “Sahul and the Prehistory of ‘Old’
Melanesia” (63) läßt schon erkennen, daß es hier vor al-
lem um die Diskussion der pleistozänen Einwanderungs-
wege zwischen den Landmassen Sunda und Sahul sowie
den Ausgrabungen früher Siedlungsspuren in Neuguinea
und auf den melanesischen Inseln geht. Im anschließen-
den Kapitel beschreibt Kirch die Erforschung der Lapita-
Keramik, nach der eine ganze Gruppe archäologischer
Kulturen benannt wurde. Die Interaktionen zwischen der
“alten”, nicht-austronesischen Bevölkerung Melanesi-
ens und den neuankommenden austronesischen Trägern
der Lapita-Kultur führte zu bedeutenden kulturellen
Veränderungen. Das folgende Kapitel über die “Pre-
history of ‘New’ Melanesia” (117) behandelt diese
Entwicklung ebenso wie die Geschichte des Kontaktes
polynesischer und melanesischer Bevölkerungsgruppen
auf den sogenannten polynesischen outliers - Inseln mit
weitgehend polynesischer Bevölkerung, die in Mikrone-
sien und im gesamten melanesischen Randgebiet vorzu-
finden sind. In weiteren Unterkapiteln behandelt Kirch
archäologische Spezialprobleme der unterschiedlichen
melanesischen Inseln. Besonders ausführlich schildert
er dabei die Entwicklung verschiedener Keramikstile
und die Herausbildung unterschiedlicher Anbaustrate-
gien auf Neukaledonien sowie die Zwischenstellung
melanesisch-polynesischer Mischkulturen auf Fiji. Ge-
rade in diesem Zusammenhang wird deutlich, wie not-
wendig die Durchbrechung der üblichen “klassischen”
Dreiteilung Ozeaniens für die Rekonstruktion früher
Kulturkontakte im Pazifik ist.
Der Region Mikronesien ist nur ein Kapitel ge-
widmet, das jedoch recht ausführlich auf die Erfor-
schung mikronesi scher Ursprünge und die Untersu-
chungen frühgeschichtlicher Architekturkomplexe auf
den Karolinen eingeht. Die Vorgeschichte der polyne-
sischen Inseln wird in zwei Großkapiteln abgehandelt,
wobei das erste sich mit der Frage nach dem po-
lynesischen Ursprungsgebiet, dem Ausgangspunkt po-
lynesischer Besiedlung und der Verbreitung polyne-
sischer Kultur beschäftigt. Im zweiten Kapitel wird
dagegen die Entwicklung typischer Merkmale - wie
z. B. Häuptlingstümer und gesellschaftliche Schichtung
- auf den verschiedenen Inselgruppen beschrieben. Es
zeigt sich hier, daß Kirchs eigener Forschungsschwer-
punkt in der Untersuchung von Lapita-Kulturen und
der Entstehung polynesischer Kulturen besteht, da er in
diesem Zusammenhang eigene Modelle und Theorien
erläutert.
Trotz der Masse von nüchternen Daten, die es
aufzuzählen gilt, beschreibt Kirch die komplizierten
Zusammenhänge von Ausgrabungsergebnissen lingui-
stischer, anthropologischer und ethnographischer For-
schung in gut lesbarem - oft geradezu unterhaltsamem
- Stil. Besonders beeindruckend ist dabei, wie es ihm
gelingt, die Fülle des Materials so zu ordnen, daß es
Anthropos 96.2001
634
Rezensionen
dem Leser leicht fällt, Abläufe und Zielsetzungen der
unterschiedlichen Forschungen zu verfolgen und zu
begreifen. Die geschickte Strukturierung des gesamten
Werkes läßt beim Lesen den roten Faden niemals verlo-
ren gehen. Dazu trägt auch das letzte Kapitel bei, das in
einer vergleichenden Darstellung noch einmal die me-
thodischen Hauptprobleme zusammenfaßt und gleich-
zeitig Grundstrukturen in der ozeanischen Vorgeschichte
verdeutlicht. Besonders die Kapitel zur Archäologie und
Frühgeschichte Polynesiens sind auch eine Synthese
eigener theoretischer Ansätze, so daß Kirchs Werk weit
mehr bietet als die reine Aufzählung und Erläuterung
von gesammelten Forschungsergebnissen. Es eignet sich
nicht nur hervorragend als akademisches Lehrbuch, son-
dern regt auch allgemein zur Entwicklung neuer Per-
spektiven in Archäologie und Frühgeschichte Ozeaniens
an. EvaCh. Raabe
Kozak, David L., and David I. Lopez: Devil Sick-
ness and Devil Songs. Tohono O’odham Poetics. Wash-
ington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1999. 190 pp.
ISBN 1-56098-910-6. Price: $ 45.00
Studien über den Teufelsglauben in der Neuen Welt
haben sich seit einiger Zeit zu einem Subgenre der
ethnologischen Literatur entwickelt. Während sich die
meisten Beiträge auf den mittel- und südamerikanischen
Raum beziehen, liegt mit dem Buch “Devil Sickness and
Devil Songs” von David L. Kozak und David I. Lopez
nun ein nordamerikanisches Beispiel zum Thema vor.
Für die Tohono O’odham (Papago) des südlichen
Arizona sind Teufel die Geister verstorbener O’odham-
Cowboys. Als Gebieter über Reichtum und Beschützer
von Pferden und Rindern schützen die Teufel ihr Eigen-
tum, indem sie Menschen, die ihr Vieh mißhandeln, mit
ihrer Krankheit strafen. Andererseits geben die Teufel
Schamanen und rituellen Heilem aber auch die Macht,
die Teufelskrankheit zu behandeln, indem sie ihnen
Heilgesänge beibringen.
Kozak und Lopez haben für ihre Studie einen po-
litisch-ökonomischen und eine strukturalistischen An-
satz gewählt. Den ersten nutzen sie, um Geschichten
über Teufel im Kontext von christlicher Missionierung,
Rinderwirtschaft und Lohnarbeit zu diskutieren, den
zweiten, um die Teufelslieder zu analysieren. Grundlage
dafür bilden vier Lieder von Haw Flying, 1902 von
Frank Rüssel aufgenommen und 1908 publiziert, und
35 Lieder von Jose Manol, die 1977 von Donald Bahr
aufgenommen wurden. Beide Liederzyklen werden in
Tohono O’odham und in (teilweise neuer) englischer
Übersetzung präsentiert. Die Autoren analysieren Struk-
tur und Abfolge der Liederzyklen und bieten - in der
Literatur bisher wenig beachtet - eine Erklärung ihrer
therapeutischen Wirksamkeit.
“Devil Sickness and Devil Songs” vereinigt die
Stimmen eines Ethnologen und eines Tohono O’odham.
Der 1998 verstorbene David I. Lopez arbeitete mit
drei Generationen von Ethnologen zusammen, seine
Arbeit ist jedoch vor Erscheinen dieses Buches nur
wenig gewürdigt worden. (Eine dritte Stimme kommt
in den Liedtexten zum Ausdruck: die Stimme der Teu-
fel selbst.) Die Koautorenschaft des Buches adressiert
die in den vergangenen Jahren viel diskutierte Frage
von Repräsentation und Autorität in der ethnologischen
Literatur. Kozak und Lopez sehen in der von ihnen
gewählten Lösung “a method of subverting the hege-
mony of one-sided, outsider-generated interpretations,
of subverting the representational asymmetries, while
balancing the responsibility for saying something about
the world between two or more authors, indigenous and
anthropological” (165 f.). Besondere Beachtung schen-
ken die Autoren der Frage ihrer Leserschaft - ein Pro-
blem, das in der ethnologischen Literatur bisher wenig
diskutiert worden ist, aber zunehmend mehr Beachtung
gewinnt. Während Kozak vorwiegend für ethnologische
oder zumindest akademisch gebildete Leser schreibt,
wendet sich Lopez in erster Linie an Tohono O’odham,
besonders an die ihrer Kultur weitgehend entfremde-
te junge Generation. Dies spiegelt sich auch in der
Zweisprachigkeit des Buches wider. Obwohl sich die
Autoren überwiegend des Englischen bedienen, werden
bestimmte Teile der Konversation auf Tohono O’odham
wiedergegeben. Wie von den Autoren selbst zugegeben
wird, ist das Ergebnis des Gemeinschaftsprojekts nicht
gänzlich zufriedenstellend. Zwangsläufig werden einige
Abschnitte für manche Leser zu einfach, für andere zu
schwierig sein. Trotz dieses zuweilen “disharmonious
chorus of several voices” (165) verdient das vorliegende
Buch angesichts der nicht unproblematischen Bezie-
hungen zwischen Ethnologen und Indianern, besonders
im nordamerikanischen Südwesten, als Versuch einer
Versöhnung große Anerkennung. Claudia Roch
Lee, Christina: Women’s Health. Psychological and
Social Perspectives. London: Sage Publications, 1998.
238 pp. ISBN 0-7619-5729-4.
Die Reihe “Behaviour and Health”, in der Lees Buch
veröffentlicht wurde, beansprucht für sich, lesbar zu sein
und damit als Einführung in Themen zu dienen, die im
neuen Bereich der Gesundheitspsychologie angesiedelt
sind. Beides kann Lee gut einlösen. Bestechend ist vor
allem, dass sie nicht nur die wichtigste Literatur aus den
USA/Großbritannien/Australien zur Kenntnis nimmt
und diskutiert, sondern auch aus Europa sowie Afrika
und Asien, die hin und wieder zu anderen Schlussfolge-
rungen kommen. Insgesamt stellt das Buch damit eine
gute Einführung in das Thema “Frauengesundheit” dar,
die eben nicht “Frauenkrankheit” meint, wie das häufig
der Fall ist. Genauer geht es um die soziale Konstruktion
von “gender” und wie sich diese auf die W/Leiblichkeit
auswirkt.
Damit werden zugleich einige Themen ausge-
grenzt, die eher in den eigentlichen medizinischen
Werken zu finden sind, wie z. B. Krebs- oder Herz-
Kreislauferkrankungen, die derzeit häufigsten Todesur-
sachen bei Frauen, da deren komplexe soziopsycho-
logischen Zusammenhänge noch nicht gut erforscht
sind.
Vielmehr geht es um Alltag, um Undramatisches,
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
635
das jedoch das Leben zumindest westlicher Frauen
durchzieht, und was Lee als “Mythos” bezeichnet:
den Mythos von den “tobenden Hormonen”, die das
Leben der Frauen aber nicht der Männer durcheinander
bringen; den Mythos der “Mutterschaft”, der Frauen
aber nicht Männer als die besseren “Erzieher” von
Kindern sieht und damit Frauen ans Haus bindet;
den Mythos vom “Hausengel”, der Frauen aber nicht
Männer zur Kinder- und Haushaltspflege vorsieht und
sie damit von Tätigkeiten abhält, die u. U. besser ihrem
Potential entsprächen; und den Mythos von “der Frau als
Objekt” des männlichen Blickes, der je heftiger wird, je
schöner/begehrlicher die Frau wirkt.
Das ist nicht sonderlich neu, es ist aber auch nicht
langweilig: Lee bringt gute und ausführliche Litera-
turübersichten zu den verschiedenen Themen und be-
zieht einen eigenen Standpunkt, der zuerst einmal weni-
ger mit Feminismus - trotz Klappentext - zu tun hat, als
vielmehr mit der Durchsetzung von Menschenrechten,
z. B. auf persönliche Freiheit.
Nach einer Einführung mit dem Titel “The Social
Context of Women’ s Health” gliedert sich das Buch in
fünf Teile, dessen erster die drei wichtigen Themen zu
Hormonen präsentiert, nämlich das sog. prämenstruelle
Syndrom, die Nachgeburts-Depression und die Meno-
pause. Lee arbeitet gut heraus, dass Hormone wenig
Einfluss auf Verhalten und Gefühle haben, und wie
dieser Zusammenhang über die letzten Jahrhunderte
hinweg konstruiert wurde, während es sich doch viel
eher um die sozialen Konstruktionen von Menstruation,
Mutterschaft und Älterwerden handele.
Der zweite Teil betrachtet die Beziehung zwischen
- hart ausgedrückt - der Funktion der reproduktiven
Organe und “der Erfüllung” der Frau, indem einerseits
Unfruchtbarkeit thematisiert wird und Elternschaft, und
zum andern “Fruchtbarkeitskontrolle”, die weltweit nur
relativ selten den Frauen autonom zugestanden wird.
Dagegen werden meist moralisierende Argumente her-
angezogen, die von religiöser und konservativer Seite
benutzt werden, um Frauen zum Kinderkriegen zu bewe-
gen, was einer paternalistisehen Denkweise entspringt
und die persönliche Freiheit von Frauen beschneidet.
Auch hier werden Untersuchungen aus verschiedenen
Teilen der Welt eingeführt und diskutiert und insbe-
sondere dem kontroversen Thema “Schwangerschafts-
abbruch” ausreichend Raum gelassen und gezeigt, dass
erlaubte Verhütung und legaler Abbruch der Gesundheit
von Frauen förderlich sind.
Der dritte Teil zeigt die Beziehung zwischen Arbeit
und Frauen, Hausarbeit, unterbezahlte Arbeit, das Le-
ben in der Doppelschicht von Lohn- und Hausarbeit.
Im vierten Teil geht es um Frauen in einer männlich
geprägten Landschaft, mit den Themen Dicksein, Altern
und Lesbischsein. Im fünften Teil geht es um femini-
stische Ansätze in der Forschung zur Psychologie der
Frauengesundheit.
Auch wenn es sich so anhört, es ist kein feministi-
sches Buch, vielmehr breitet Lee die wissenschaftlichen
Diskussionen so aus, dass sich jeder Leser und jede
Leserin einen guten Überblick über den derzeitigen
Stand und ihres jeweiligen Ausgangspunktes schaffen
kann. Damit sei es jedem empfohlen, der sich wissen-
schaftskritisch mit “Gesundheit” beschäftigt.
Katarina Greifeid
Linke, Uli: Blood and Nation. The European Aes-
thetics of Race. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylva-
nia Press, 1999. 332 pp. ISBN 0-8122-3477-4. Price:
$37.50
Uli Linke has written a timely, provocative, and
extremely interesting book that cuts across various disci-
plines - anthropology of gender, ethnology, linguistics,
folklore, history, sociology. What starts out as an exer-
cise in what the late André Leroi-Gourhan would have
called “prehistoric ethnology,” ends with a pertinent
analysis that is very much welcome in the post-Cold
War, post-nationalist, post-multicultural world where
we live. In the seven chapters, plus preface and epi-
logue, Linke has traced etymologies (and consequences,
especially when it comes to gender and politics) of
the (Western) European obsession with racial purity -
focusing on Germany in particular. She has insisted
on the gendered imagery of blood and body and the
consequences that reconstructions of this imagery have
played in the recent history, but as history likes to
repeat itself, some of her analyses seem to be very timely
today.
Linke traces “a genealogy of European racial aes-
thetics as revealed through metaphors of blood” (xiii).
In doing so, she begins with prehistory, with the “ar-
tifacts of gender,” drawing extensively on the work of
historical linguists such as Paul Friedrich. Through this
form of a “reconstruction of culture” she hopes to gain
“some insights” into the protolanguage that the ancient
Indo-Europeans spoke (9). Language is here taken to
reflect and represent culture, hence her assumption that
we could in this way trace even the prehistoric “rules of
residence,” according to which women were long before
Lévi-Strauss marrying outside their natal homes (20).
This is in my opinion the weak part of the book - recon-
structing cultures could be done only through tangible
data (primarily material artifacts). When dealing with
cultures or peoples who did not bother to leave much
evidence (and long before the earliest written sources),
such as seems to be the case with our Indo-European
ancestors, we should proceed only very carefully, on
the lines of the approach that Leroi-Gourhan (whose
absence from Linke’s bibliography is quite notable) used
in his study of “religions de la préhistoire.” Furthermore,
although Linke is careful to include most of the recent
archaeological research relevant for her topic, she could
have done well without reference to the works of Marija
Gimbutas, which have been completely discredited in
the last two decades.
Despite the claim that her work “is an excursion into
the history of ideas and not an exploration of customs
or social forms” (65), some of the etymologies that
Uli Linke presents (like the one on women “marrying
out”) sound very much explanatory when it comes to
Anthropos 96.2001
636
Rezensionen
customs and social rules, especially when it comes to
the relations between the genders.
But these are minor objections compared to the
wealth of data that the book presents. Linke is at her best
when she delves into the “cultural linkages of gender
and race in European mythology” (65). She offers a
detailed analysis into the Northern European mythology
and folklore (primarily Norse and Germanic), as well
as to the ways in which images of the body were
constructed and used for ideological purposes. Here
she presents links that the specific imagery of body
and blood had with the Nazi anti-Semitic propaganda
(152 f.), continuing with the minute analysis of the
whole set of construction tying Germany of the 1930s
with blood and soil.
In the final, seventh chapter of the book, Linke refers
to several contemporary authors (Bauman, Mommsen)
in trying to refer to the consequences of what Arendt
has labeled “banality of evil.” Realizing how “ordinary”
or “civilized” SS officers were is a kind of a critique
of the whole modernist project, where such atrocities
were seen as mere “hygienic measures” (213 f.). This is
especially pertinent today, as racism is alive and well,
as Western Europe (the EU) builds an impenetrable wall
against the “aliens” and tries to redefine others primarily
in terms of their race or “purity of blood.” Starting from
prehistory and going through the contemporary body
reconstructions defined in the period between the 16th
and the 18th centuries, Linke’s book is a provocative
analysis and a very powerful indictment about these
contemporary policies, and I hope that it will make its
readers rethink and reconsider the consequences of tying
the well-being and progress of a nation with its racial
purity. Aleksandar Boskovic
Mager, Anne Kelk: Gender and the Making of a
South African Bantustan. A Social History of the Ciskei,
1945-1959. Portsmouth: Heinemann; Oxford: James
Currey, 1999. 248 pp. ISBN 0-325-00110-3; ISBN 0-
85255-635-7. Price: £ 15.95
Ausgehend von der These, daß die sozialhisto-
rische Forschung durch Geschlechteranalysen neue
Impulse erhält, zeichnet Anne Mager die Bedeu-
tung der Geschlechterverhältnisse für die Entstehung
der Ciskei auf. Ihre Untersuchung dieses ehemaligen
Homelands, das nach 1994 Teil des Eastern Cape
wurde und noch heute wegen seiner ökologischen und
ökonomischen Marginalität zu den strukturschwächsten
Gebieten Südafrikas zählt, konzentriert sich auf einen
Zeitraum von vierzehn Jahren. Die Darstellung er-
faßt die Situation vor der Verabschiedung der ersten
Apartheidsgesetze 1948 und schließt mit der Bantustan-
Politik der südafrikanischen Regierung Ende der 1950er
Jahre ab. In zwei Teilen und insgesamt acht Kapi-
teln widmet sich die südafrikanische Historikerin den
Wechselwirkungen von politischen Ereignissen mit den
Veränderungen der Geschlechter- und Generationenbe-
ziehungen in der Xhosa-Gesellschaft. Dabei verknüpft
sie auf überzeugende Art und Weise sozialgeschicht-
liche und ethnologische Fragestellungen. Während im
ersten Teil die Rolle von Frauen und Männern in der
jüngeren Geschichte der Ciskei im Betrachtungsmittel-
punkt steht, illustriert der zweite Teil die Auswirkun-
gen politischer und wirtschaftlicher Reglementierungen
auf die Familienformen. Landkarten, historische Foto-
grafien und ein umfangreicher Index ergänzen die
Darstellung.
Neben neuen Verwaltungsvorschriften und der Um-
strukturierung von Ämtern und Entscheidungsprozessen
war vor allem die drastische Beschränkung von Pacht-
und Siedlungsrechten während der 1940er Jahre aus-
schlaggebend dafür, daß die Frauen ihrer gesellschaft-
lich legitimierten Arbeit in der Landwirtschaft nicht
mehr nachkommen konnten und die Wanderarbeit der
Männer die Xhosa-Gesellschaft neu strukturierte.
Ein Rückblick auf die Ereignisse seit der Ankunft
britischer Siedler im östlichen Kap während des frühen
19. Jhs. verdeutlicht, daß die Verwaltungs- und Sied-
lungsgrenzen durch Landgesetze von 1913 und 1936
immer enger gezogen wurden. Anhand von Archivmate-
rial, vor allem von Gerichtsakten, kann Anne Mager sehr
anschaulich aufzeigen, daß die Einsetzung eines Native
Commissioners und dessen 1927 gesetzlich festgelegte
Befugnis, auf der Grundlage des “customary law” Recht
zu sprechen, die Interessen von Frauen in elementarster
Weise berührte. Denn mit diesem veränderten Rechts-
rahmen sollte dem Machtmißbrauch einzelner lokaler
Autoritäten Einhalt geboten werden. Dieser brachte die
Normenverschiebungen zum Ausdruck, zumal viele tra-
ditionelle Autoritäten, ebenso wie die kleine Schicht
der modernen Elite - meist junge Männer, die eine
Missionsschule besucht hatten und von der weißen
Minderheitenregierung mit einem untergeordneten Ver-
waltungsposten betraut wurden -, maßgeblich dazu bei-
trugen, die Handlungsmöglichkeiten von Frauen stärker
zu kontrollieren. Obwohl sich viele Frauen an lokalen
Protesten gegen die Reglementierungen des Apartheid-
staates und dessen Vorboten aktiv beteiligten, eigneten
sich einzelne Männer alle Entscheidungsbefugnisse an.
Im Detail kann dies beim Widerstand gegen die Lohn-
und Siedlungspolitik in den während der 1940er Jahre
errichteten Textilfabriken im Grenzgebiet der Ciskei
nachgewiesen werden.
Indem die Autorin ethnographische Fakten und ge-
sellschaftliche Veränderungsprozesse in ihrer Analyse
berücksichtigt, gelingt es ihr, die Hintergründe dieser
Machtphänomene zu beleuchten. Die mit der Kom-
merzialisierung des Brautpreises verbundenen Bedeu-
tungsverschiebungen spielten dabei eine wichtige Rolle.
Dieser symbolisierte immer weniger Vereinbarungen
und Beziehungen zwischen zwei Familien, sondern
wurde vielmehr zur Meßlatte für den Wert einer Ehe-
frau. Während viele Frauen versuchten, Versorgungsan-
sprüche für sich und ihre Kinder und die Einhaltung
minimaler Respektregeln aus den Brautpreiszahlungen
abzuleiten, eskalierten die als Brautpreis deklarierten
Geldforderungen alter Männer. Zwar brachten nunmehr
die jungen Männer die Brautpreiszahlungen auf, ein
wegen ihrer minimalen Löhne äußerst mühsames und
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
637
langwieriges Unterfangen, dennoch versuchten die Al-
ten, sich an ihre Privilegien und die mit den Brautpreis-
zahlungen verbundene Ressourcenkontrolle zu klam-
mem. Die Apartheidregierung hatte ihnen die traditio-
nelle Machtbasis, nämlich die Kontrolle über das Vieh,
insbesondere über Rinder, entzogen. Landenteignungen
und Beschränkungen der Siedlungsgrenzen leisteten das
ihre, um die Autorität der Ältesten in Frage zu stellen.
Die vorliegende Arbeit ist somit ein Beispiel für
den Erkenntnisgewinn von Geschlechterstudien, die sich
nicht auf das Verhältnis von Frauen und Männern
beschränken, sondern auch die Beziehungsdynamiken
zwischen Männern untersuchen. Anne Magers Interesse
gilt hierbei vor allem den Veränderungen der Jun-
geninitiation, die im Zuge der rapiden gesellschaftlichen
Umbrüche als zentrales Schlüsselereignis die Neudefini-
tion von Männlichkeit spiegelte. Während bis in die er-
sten Jahrzehnte des 20. Jhs. die Initiationsriten eindeutig
der Kontrolle der Ältesten unterstanden, traten nunmehr
auch die jungen Männer als Akteure in Erscheinung,
beispielsweise mußten sie sich die Initiationsgebühren
durch Wanderarbeit verdienen. Die damit verbundene
Verschiebung des Initiationsalters hatte eine Entritua-
lisierung traditioneller Stockkämpfe zur Folge: Weder
die Ältesten, noch die Väter, die während der meisten
Zeit des Jahres außerhalb der Ciskei arbeiteten, konnten
die Jungen kontrollieren, so daß die nunmehr mit Äxten
durchgeführten Kämpfe zum Inbegriff einer “entfessel-
ten Jugend” wurden. Wie Interviews mit Zeitzeugen
belegen, stellte diese Entwicklung die Weichen für die
aufkommenden Jugendbanden in den Wanderarbeiter-
vierteln von East London und Port Elizabeth.
Zu den traurigen Folgen der erhöhten Aggressivität
zählte die steigende Zahl der Vergewaltigungen von
Frauen und jungen Mädchen, wie Anne Mager auf der
Grundlage von Gerichtsakten nachweisen kann. Wenn-
gleich nur wenige wegen der Tabuisierung von Sexua-
lität und sexueller Gewalt in der Xhosa-Gesellschaft be-
reit waren, den ihnen widerfahrenen Greuel anzuzeigen,
sind diese Ausführungen dennoch wichtige Hinweise
zum Verständnis heutiger Gewaltprobleme in den ehe-
maligen Homelands und Townships Südafrikas. Insge-
samt leistet dieses Buch somit einen wichtigen Beitrag
zur Verknüpfung historischer und ethnologischer Frage-
stellungen und ist damit beispielhaft über den regionalen
Bezugsrahmen hinaus. Rita Schäfer
Marshall, Lorna J.: Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs and
Rites. Cambridge: Peabody Museum of Archaeology
and Ethnology, Harvard University, 1999. 361 pp. ISBN
0-87365-908-2.
“Nyae Nyae !Kung” is a book with an unusual his-
tory, written by a very unusual and indeed exceptional
author. Loma Marshall has published this book on San
(Bushman) religion at the age of 101 based on field
research that she did almost 50 years ago. Consequently,
it is difficult to compare this book with any other work
currently produced in this field and “Nyae Nyae !Kung”
is best characterized in the context of Lorna Marshall’s
earlier work. It is a companion volume to her earlier
“The !Kung of Nyae Nyae” (Cambridge 1976) and de-
spite the similarity in title the two volumes are genuinely
distinct and complementary. The new volume focuses on
“beliefs and rites” and like Marshall’s 1976 ethnography
it brings together articles that were previously published
(mostly in the journal Africa) with new chapters of pre-
viously unpublished work. “Nyae Nyae !Kung” is divided
into six parts. Part I on religious beliefs consists largely
on an article on “The Gods” previously published in
Africa, Part II also contains a previously published con-
tribution (on the ritual healing dance) but also three new
chapters on “Rites for the Protection of Life and Health,”
namely one on concepts of sickness and healing, one on
food avoidance and the Tshoa rites, and one on concepts
of childbirth and the rites for the protection of children.
Part III (“Rites for Subsistence”) brings together the
republished article “Rain Rites and N!ow” and a new
chapter on “Hunting Rites.” Part IV (“Rites of Passage”)
consists of altogether unpublished material, chapters on
“Death and Burial,” “The Menarcheal Rite,” and “Tsho-
ma” (the male initiation ritual). The chapter on sorcery
and the chapter on “Millipedes, the mantis religiosa, and
the Supernatural Peoples” which make up Part V are also
previously unpublished, while the final chapter (Part VI)
on star lore has been published before. A few alterations
have been made to the previously published articles but
conveniently for the reader these alterations are indi-
cated in the endnotes of the book. The volume also con-
tains the genealogical charts of Nyae Nyae local groups
(“band charts”) already published in the 1976 volume
as an appendix, underlining the fact that the two books
really constitute a single monograph in two parts. For
the new volume, Marshall has updated the bibliography,
written an introduction which gives an overview on the
subjects of beliefs and rites, and a short epilogue dealing
with developments in the Nyae Nyae region since the
time of the Marshall expeditions. This matter is further
developed in a short foreword by J. D. Lewis-Williams
and an afterword written by Megan Biesele.
“Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs and Rites” will be very
welcome not only by specialists but also by many
lecturers in anthropology and in neighbouring subjects
who have used the !Kung ethnography in their teaching
but who may have felt that the literature was skewed
towards questions of ecology and social organization.
The Nyae Nyae !Kung (or Ju/’hoansi as they now
commonly call themselves) are already entrenched as
the paradigmatic “San” case study and there is little
doubt that the new volume will inadvertently add to
this tendency which has its problems for academics
and “San” people alike. However, it may also indirectly
point to the value of other more recent work in “San”
studies because Marshall’s vivid account underlines
the practical difficulties of doing field research in the
Nyae Nyae area half a century ago as well as the
specificity of the situation she describes. Although the
five Marshall-Expeditions between 1951 and 1961 add
up to the average amount of time spent in the field by
more recent researchers conditions were clearly different
Anthropos 96.2001
638
Rezensionen
then. In her description of rites of passage (Part IV),
for example, Marshall had to rely largely on interviews
and on reconstruction since no burials took place (178),
no menarcheal rite was observed (187), and no Tshoma
(male initiation) rite was held during the expeditions
(203). Given these limitations Marshall’s attempt to
create a comprehensive account of !Kung beliefs and
rites seems even more admirable and welcome. Despite
her use of the ethnographic present Marshall leaves no
doubt about the fact that her account refers to particular
people living at particular places at a particular point in
time. Other field researchers have carried out their work
without the limitations of the expedition-framework
but given the rapidly changing conditions in southern
Africa some features, such as male initiation, on which
Marshall reports have virtually disappeared and can
now only be reconstructed with great difficulty. Fur-
thermore, given the changing interests in anthropology a
considerable “secondary industry” - as Lewis-Williams
(xii) calls it - has grown up around “San” ethnography
which now preoccupies anthropologists working in the
field but which was not in place when Marshall did
her field research. All these conditions taken together
form the unique situation that provides the framework
for this long-awaited publication by this outstanding
author. Thomas Widlok
Maud, Ralph: Transmission Difficulties. Franz Boas
and Tsimshian Mythology. Burnaby: Talonbooks, 2000.
174 pp. ISBN 0-88922-430-7. Price: $ 12.95
“Transmission Difficulties” ist Ralph Mauds zwei-
tes Buch zu den im Auftrag von Franz Boas auf-
gezeichneten Tsimshian-Texten. Während er 1993 in
“The Porcupine Hunter and Other Stories” zunächst
eine Auswahl von Texten anhand der Manuskripte des
Tsimshian-Mitarbeiters Henry Tate herausgab, setzt er
sich in seinem neuen Buch mit der von Boas 1916 pu-
blizierten “Tsimshian Mythology” kritisch auseinander
(Maud 2000: 9): “I am dismayed - no, outraged, really -
at the charade that passes for scientific truth.”
Die Einleitung (9-15) beginnt Maud mit der Fest-
stellung, dass bei Boas so gut wie keine Informationen
über die Entstehung der Texte zu finden sind. Indem
Maud die Person hinter den Texten, Henry Tate, aus dem
Dunkel zu holen versucht, will er den Leser dafür sensi-
bilisieren, welche interpretativen Möglichkeiten bislang
vergeben wurden, weil Boas sich mit derartigen Fragen
nicht auseinander setzte.
Im ersten Kapitel (16-34) legt Maud dar, warum
seiner Ansicht nach Tates englische Fassungen der
Tsimshian-Erzählungen die “Original”-Texte sind: Die
Manuskripte zeigen, dass Tate zunächst den englischen
Text schrieb und erst in einem zweiten Schritt die
Tsimshian-Sätze in frei gelassene Zwischenzeilen ein-
gearbeitet hat. Es wird deutlich, wie stark die von
Boas später veröffentlichten englischen Übersetzungen
von Tates Fassungen abweichen. Auch das zweite
und das dritte Kapitel (35-43; 44-56) behandeln
die verfälschende Übersetzungspraxis. Maud zeigt, wie
Boas einerseits sexuelle Motive, andererseits aber auch
offenkundig christlich inspirierte Formulierungen herun-
terzuspielen versuchte.
Im vierten Kapitel (57-72) belegt Maud, dass viele
der englischen Manuskriptfassungen - im Gegensatz
zu den 1916 von Boas veröffentlichten - fast wörtlich
mit dem englischen Wortlaut früher veröffentlichter
Textsammlungen übereinstimmen, was allerdings be-
reits Boas (Tsimshian Mythology. Washington 1916: 31)
selbst andeutete: “A few of the taies ... indicate his
familiarity with my collection of taies from Nass River.”
Im fünften und sechsten Kapitel (73-83; 84-91) geht
Maud auf die Auswirkungen von Boas’ Erhebungs-
technik ein, Material zu bestimmten Themen per Brief
anzufordern. Gerade das hartnäckige Nachfragen nach
bestimmten Erzählungen veranlasste Tate zur kreativen
Neubearbeitung von Material aus der Textsammlung von
1902. In Beantwortung der Fragen reicherte Tate die
Erzählungen mit ethnographischen Zusatzinformationen
an, die so in traditionellen Tsimshian-Erzählungen nie
explizit erwähnt worden wären - was Tate in der dop-
pelten Schlussformel einer Erzählung auch konzedierte:
“This is the end of the story of Gauo and part of the cus-
toms of the Tsimshian” (Boas 1916:225). Erzählungen
erhielten dadurch eine andere Ausrichtung, was in eini-
gen Fällen bis hin zum Gattungswechsel reichte.
Im siebten Kapitel (92-117) beschäftigt sich Maud
mit der - von Boas in nur wenigen Zeilen eher nebenbei
formulierten - “Wertung” der Texte, nach der sich
die Tsimshian-Texte Tates im Vergleich zu George
Hunts Kwakiutl-Texten als im Plot differenzierter und
kohärenter charakterisieren lassen. Um zu zeigen, wie
wenig diese Einschätzung den Texten gerecht wird,
greift Maud auf die Geschichte von Asdiwal zurück,
die mit Abstand bekannteste Tsimshian-Erzählung, und
bescheinigt ihr u. a.: “Far from unification, what we have
here is awkward répétition” (108) oder “the Asdiwal
story’s paradoxical nature” (113). Zum Schluss des
Kapitels wendet er sich noch kritisch Claude Lévi-
Strauss und dessen Deutung der Erzählung zu.
Im achten Kapitel (118-127) geht Maud auf Boas’
ethnologische Auswertung der Erzählungen ein. Einer-
seits extrahierte Boas ethnographische “Fakten” aus den
Erzählungen, um sich einer Ethnographie aus indigener
Sicht anzunähem. Dabei kam er nach Maud über Pla-
tituden und zweifelhafte Generalisierungen kaum hin-
aus. Andererseits nutzte Boas das Material, um anhand
der Erzählungen bzw. Motive und deren Verbreitung
kulturelle Zusammenhänge aufzudecken, z. B. dass die
Erzähltraditionen der Tsimshian ein Indiz für die Zuwan-
derung der Ethnie aus dem Inland an die Nordwestküste
darstellen. Maud problematisiert, dass Tates Texte für
die Tsimshian-Kultur kaum als repräsentativ angese-
hen werden können und dass Erzählungen meist über
einzelne Individuen von anderen Ethnien übernommen
wurden, weshalb anhand weniger Belege keine Gene-
ralisierungen möglich sein können (127): “Anecdotes
like this puncture the hot-air balloon by which laputan
scientists might propose to see patterns of dissémination
of myths.”
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
639
Im Epilog (128-134) wird noch einmal Boas’ grund-
legendes Versagen als Herausgeber resümiert: Er ver-
suchte den Charakter der Texte und ihrer Entstehung zu
verschleiern, um sie als scheinbar objektives Datenma-
terial präsentieren zu können. Eine Facette dieser Ziel-
setzung ist, dass Tates individuelles literarisches Talent
in keinster Weise berücksichtigt wurde (131): “Boas’s
‘Tsimshian Mythology’ has deadened these lively stories
and ruined them for readers ..Im Anschluss an die
Anmerkungen werden als Anhang (145-165) noch ei-
nige der Texte reproduziert, auf die Maud Bezug nimmt,
darunter Tates Originalmanuskript von “The History
of Porcupine”. Der Band wird von einer Bibliographie
(167-174) abgeschlossen.
Viele von Mauds Beobachtungen illustrieren Schwach-
punkte in Boas’ Umgang mit Daten. Ihr gemeinsamer
Kern liegt in dem in der Suche nach objektiven Daten
begründeten Übersehenwollen der komplexen Textge-
nese, das Maud zu Recht kritisiert. Die Stärken von
Mauds Buch liegen in der detaillierten textnahen Arbeit.
Es wird deutlich, wie hilfreich es sein kann, sich dem
Verständnis von Boas’ Tsimshian-Materialien auf einer
literaturwissenschaftlichen Grundlage anzunähern. Dass
dennoch das Buch nicht befriedigen kann, liegt an
den Schwächen, die entstehen, wenn dabei anekdotisch-
partikular und methodisch undifferenziert vorgegangen
wird, weil der ethnologische Diskurs außer Acht gelas-
sen bzw. mit wenigen Sätzen beiseite gewischt wird.
Eine solche Oberflächlichkeit und überspitzte Formulie-
rungen wie “an intellectual chimera called ‘anthropolog-
ical data’” (9) oder die Charakterisierung der Asdiwal-
Erzählung als “He’s a great hunter. OK. He has a few
tricks up his sleeve. This seems to be enough for the
traditional Native audience ... We have to know what
happens, whether the characters are finely drawn or not”
(105) bringen in der ethnologischen Methodendiskus-
sion um Textdaten nicht weiter und zeigen, wie wenig
Maud sich um die Fachdiskussion schert. Es hilft dabei
auch nicht, wenn der Autor seinem Werk selbst den
“polemical tone of this book” (8) bescheinigt und die
Aussagen durch die Erklärung etwas relativiert, dass
sein Buch (15) “can only begin the process, which
will of course have to be completed by scholars in full
command of the Tsimshian language”.
Diese Herangehensweise lässt Mauds Urteil oft unge-
recht hart ausfallen. Vor allem muss der an Boas gerich-
tete Vorwurf des verfälschenden Übersetzens relativiert
werden. Maud übersieht, dass Boas seine Übersetzungen
nicht als legitimen Zugang zu den Texten verstan-
den wissen wollte, sondern nur als Arbeitshilfe für
das Verständnis der Tsimshian-Fassungen. Außerdem
ist das Verhältnis zwischen den unterschiedlichen Fas-
sungen sehr viel komplexer als es Mauds Analyse
nahe legt, da durch den Tsimshian-Text eine mit Ta-
tes englischen Fassungen nur lose zusammenhängende
eigenständige Textdimension eröffnet wird. Boas’ Ent-
scheidung, die Tsimshian-Fassungen als Ausgangspunkt
für seine Übersetzungen zu wählen, ist genauso - bzw.
in ihrer Einseitigkeit genauso wenig - gerechtfertigt wie
Mauds Entscheidung zu Gunsten der englischen Fas-
sungen Tates als vermeintlich allein gültige “Original”-
Texte. Abschließend sei noch wenigstens ein Beispiel
dafür gegeben, dass Mauds Einschätzung der Textgenese
auch in anderer Hinsicht zu kurz greift. Wenn Maud
auf die von Tate umgearbeiteten Familiengeschichten
eingeht, handelt er ihre Vorzüge gegenüber den Fas-
sungen der rechtmäßigen Besitzer auf einer allgemein
menschlichen Ebene ab: “When a property-owner gets
going on a narrative whose only purpose is to prove what
a bigwig he is ..., good storytelling fades into vanity”
(91). Hier entgeht ihm ein entscheidender kulturspezi-
fischer Grund für die zu einem Gattungswechsel der
Erzählungen führenden Umarbeitungen, nämlich Tates
Dilemma, dass er als Boas’ Mitarbeiter Geschichten
aus dem Besitz anderer Familien sammeln sollte, er
diese Geschichten als Angehöriger der Tsimshian-Kultur
aber nicht selbst erzählen hätte dürfen. Auch Mauds
Arbeiten werden also der Komplexität des sowohl in-
terkulturellen wie auch intertextuellen Diskurses nur
bedingt gerecht, der durch die Auftragsethnographie
Boas’scher Prägung zwischen Boas und seinen indige-
nen Mitarbeitern eröffnet wurde. Ich verweise in diesem
Zusammenhang auf meine früheren Aufsätze zu Boas
und seinen Mitarbeitern, zu Henry Tate insbesondere auf
“Warum man sich Stachelschweinen vorsichtig nähern
sollte” (.Anthropos 91.1996: 230-236). Michael Dürr
Miller, Daniel, and Don Slater: The Internet. An
Ethnographic Approach. Oxford: Berg, 2000. 217 pp.
ISBN 1-85973-389-1. Price: £ 14.99
Although the Internet has existed since the late
1960s, its takeoff can be dated to the early 1990s.
The World Wide Web was introduced only in late
1992, and E-mail emerged as a common means of
communication between Western academics around the
same time. During the phenomenal early growth period
of the Net, which coincided with a growing academic
interest in globalisation, there have been frequent calls
for ethnographies of the Internet, many anthropologists
sensing that the assumed “virtualisation” of social life
that the Net seems to entail, along with its deterri-
torialisation, disembedding, and decontextualisation of
social relations, would pose particular challenges for
a discipline which still largely models itself on the
achievements of the likes of Malinowski. With this
jointly written monograph, Daniel Miller and Don Slater
set a standard for later ethnographies of the Net. While it
is far from the first Internet study based on ethnography,
it is arguably the first book of its kind, that is an
ethnography of the Internet seen as embedded in local
life. The book amounts to a bold and detailed analysis of
Internet use in Trinidad, drawing on many kinds of data
and continuously affirming the potential of ethnography
in correcting common assumptions.
The setting is as unlikely as one might imagine
for a wholehearted defence of ethnographic fieldwork.
Trinidad, a sprawling, complex, fast, in many ways
loosely integrated society, seems to be the antithesis of
the classic ethnographic field site; the Internet seems to
Anthropos 96.2001
640
Rezensionen
be the antithesis of social life. Yet the authors - Miller is
a specialist on Trinidad, Slater a specialist on the Internet
- succeed in demonstrating the continued importance of
traditional ethnography in a postmodern world.
Trinidad has been connected to the Internet only
since 1995, but usage is already very widespread. As
the authors admit at the outset, Trinidadians seem to
have a “natural affinity” for the Internet: Their society is
extremely modern (in a cultural sense), individualistic,
with positive attitudes to change; it is also relatively
wealthy, and deeply diasporic in both main meanings of
the words: Trinidadians themselves belong to diasporas,
and most Trinidadian families have members living
abroad. Finally, the flair for exhibitionism and role
play traditionally expressed both through Carnival and
in a variety of less spectacular activities, gets many
easy outlets on the Internet - the authors’ favoured
concept in describing motivations for Internet activity,
expansive realization, fits the Trinidadian ethos very
well. In other words, findings on Trinidadian Internet use
are not likely to be representative of global Internet use,
as the authors readily admit. Their study nevertheless
offers the first full-scale ethnography of Internet use in
a definite ethnographic setting, and calls both explicitly
and implicitly for comparative work.
Many of Miller and Slater’s findings oppose con-
ventional views on the Internet. They argue that the
virtual/real distinction favoured in much of the literature
is largely irrelevant to the people in question; that the
Net has not alienated people from their cultural or
local identities, but has on the contrary strengthened
Trinidadian identity; that it also does not lead to social
fragmentation, but has strengthened traditional family
values by facilitating continuous contact between mem-
bers of transnational families; and that the Internet has
proven a particularly powerful medium for religious
revitalisation, especially among Trinidadian Hindus.
Given the sprawling and multifaceted nature of Inter-
net use, the authors have employed a variety of methods:
formal interviews with Internet providers and other busi-
ness leaders, direct participant observation on the Net
(chat/IRQ, World Wide Web, Usenet, E-mail), a large
household survey, and “liming” (the Trinidadian term
for hanging around or, simply, participant observation)
in cybercafes, in addition to informal conversations.
Internet use is thoroughly demystified in Miller and Sla-
ter’s study, which depicts it as a seamless extension of
preexisting structures of relevance. The peculiar nature
of Trinidadian society (Miller has formerly described
it as “the most modern society in the world”) makes
it impossible to generalise from these findings, but the
authors succeed superbly in demonstrating that facile
assumptions about the “effects” of Internet use on cul-
ture, society, and identity need to be tested against lived
realities.
In spite of the mass of data collected and Miller’s
long-term involvement with Trinidad, the rendering of
ethnography occasionally becomes very general and
abstract; for example, on p. 39, the authors remark
that Internet access is “extremely widespread” without
specifying just how widespread. This shortcoming in
the presentation of the ethnography is to a great ex-
tent compensated through the authors’ website (http://
ethnonet.gold.ac.uk), where tables, illustrations and
other enhancements of the book (including discussion
lists) are available.
On p. 114, at the end of the chapter on Trinidadian
national identity and the Internet, Miller and Slater state
that, “One of the delights of ethnography is finding
out just how wrong one can be.” This statement could
serve as a motto for the whole book. While it is
doubtful whether detailed studies of Internet use from
other societies will reproduce the Trinidadian findings,
this important book offers strong arguments against
technological determinism and is destined to become
a benchmark in later ethnographies of information tech-
nology use. Again, this is not because of the authors’
substantial findings - they cannot be generalised, and the
Internet of the present is unlikely to last - but because of
their methods of enquiry. Malinowski might have been
pleased. Thomas Hylland Eriksen
Mir-Hosseini, Ziba: Islam and Gender. The Reli-
gious Debate in Contemporary Iran. Princeton: Prince-
ton University Press, 1999. 305 pp. ISBN 0-691-01004-
8. Price: $ 18.95
Die Verfasserin dieses hoch interessanten Buches war
mir bisher durch ihre familienrechtliche Untersuchung
“Marriage on Trial: A Study of Islamic Family Law. Iran
and Morocco Compared” (London 1993) und mehrere
Artikel zur Situation von Frauen und dem Familienrecht
im Iran aus den Jahren danach bekannt.
Sie stellt sich im Vorwort (xiiif.) als zu den vielen
Iranerinnen ihrer Generation gehörig vor, deren geistiges
und persönliches Leben durch die Iranische Revolu-
tion von 1979 stark betroffen war. Einer iranischen
Saiyid-Familie entstammend, also einer der schiitischen
Elitefamilien, die sich auf den Propheten Muhammad
zurückführen, habe sie immer an die Grundlagen des
schiitischen Islams geglaubt, auch eine entsprechende
Ausbildung genossen. Religion sei jedoch für sie eine
Privatangelegenheit, nichts Aufgezwungenes gewesen.
Der Geist und die Werte des Glaubens zählten mehr
als Regeln und Rituale. Seit der Revolution gelte der
Glaube allein nichts mehr, hätten Frauen ihren Glauben
in Form des Hedschab, der Verhüllung, Männer in Form
ihres Bartes zu “tragen”. Die Schari'a, das islamische
Familienrecht, wurde reinstituiert. Die familienrechtli-
chen Reformen des Schahs von 1967 und 1975 waren
damit hinfällig. Die Verfasserin sei zwar weder während
ihres Studiums in Teheran in den frühen 70er Jahren
noch später als postgraduale Studentin in Cambridge an
Politik sehr interessiert gewesen, sie habe aber die Ira-
nische Revolution unterstützt. Als sie 1980 zurückkehr-
te, Ende zwanzig, promoviert, jung verheiratet, in der
Hoffnung, Anthropologie lehren und mit ihrem Mann
ein glückliches Familienleben führen zu können, mußte
sie feststellen, daß sie wie viele andere Iranerinnen
von der neu gegründeten Iranischen Republik bei ihrer
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
641
Umstrukturierung der Gesellschaft abgelehnt wurde. Die
Kulturrevolution von 1980 führte zu einer Schließung
der Universitäten. Nach deren Wiedereröffnung zwei
Jahre später waren sie “islamisiert”, d. h. es gab keinen
Platz mehr für Frauen mit westlicher Bildung wie sie
an ihnen. Ihre Ehe bröckelte, und sie merkte, daß der
Ehevertrag, den sie nach dem islamischen Familienrecht
abgeschlossen hatte, sie völlig ihrem Mann unterwarf,
der weder einer Scheidung zugestimmt, noch ihr erlaubt
hätte, das Land zu verlassen. Sie arbeitete sich also in
die Schari'a ein und erkämpfte schließlich vor religiösen
Gerichtshöfen ihre Scheidung und 1984 die Erlaubnis,
das Land zu verlassen. Zwischen 1985 und 1989 un-
tersuchte sie als Forschungsstipendiatin der Sozialan-
thropologie aus Cambridge in Familiengerichtshöfen in
Teheran und den marokkanischen Städten Salé, Rabat
und Casablanca Ehestreitigkeiten und die Strategien der
Streitführenden. Sie konzentrierte sich schnell darauf,
wie Frauen die Widersprüche der Schari'a, das Gericht
und das Gesetz als Arena nutzten, um ihre persönlichen
oder ehelichen Ziele durchzusetzen (stärkere Reformen
des Islamischen Familienrechts im arabischen, sunniti-
schen Marokko wurden erst in jüngster Zeit durchge-
setzt, W. W.).
Als sie im April 1992 in den Iran zurückkehrte, habe
sie, vier Jahre nach dem Ende des Iranisch-Irakischen
Krieges, eine entspanntere Atmosphäre vorgefunden, ein
größeres Spektrum an Zeitschriften, mehr Toleranz, eine
lebendige Debatte über die Rechte der Frau im Islam.
Davon angeregt habe sie dieses Projekt über offizielle
(staatliche) und inoffizielle Diskurse, d. h. solche der
Frauen selbst (die natürlich immer der Kontrolle des
Ministry of Guidance unterlagen, W. W.), über die
Rechte von Frauen vorbereitet, das sie schließlich 1995
in den Iran zurückführte. Sie konzentrierte sich auf
zwei 1992 gegründete Zeitschriften mit ganz konträren
Positionen, obwohl beide ihre Geschlechterdebatten im
Islam begründeten: Die von männlichen Theologen im
religiösen Zentrum, der Houzeh, von Qum publizierte
Zeitschrift Payam-e Zan (“Die Botschaft der Frau”),
die die Schari'a und die in ihren gesetzlichen Be-
stimmungen verwurzelten Ungleichheiten zwischen den
Geschlechtern verteidigt (oder schön redet), und Zanan
(“Frauen”), in Teheran von Frauen ediert, die sich
für die Gleichberechtigung der Frau auf allen Gebie-
ten einsetzt. Sie fand hier eine Serie von aufeinander
aufbauenden Artikeln, die auch westliche feministische
Standpunkte aufgriffen, um zu einem neuen Verständnis
der Scharia'a und der Rechte der Frau zu gelangen.
Ihr Verfasser war, wie sie schließlich 1993 von der
Chefredakteurin von Zanan erfuhr, ein Theologe aus
Qum, Sayyid Mohsin Sa'idzadeh. Durch die Vermittlung
einer iranischen Rechtsanwältin und einer Verlegerin
lernte sie ihn persönlich kennen. Er führte sie im re-
ligiösen Zentrum von Qum ein und vermittelte ihr dort
die Gesprächspartner, deren Ansichten sie hier darlegt,
begleitete sie auch zu ihnen. Seine 10jährige Tochter
war ihre Gefährtin bei allen Gesprächen mit männli-
chen Theologen unterschiedlicher Position dort (eine
muslimische Frau darf sich nach orthodox-muslimischer
Auffassung nur in Begleitung wenigstens einer anderen
Muslimin in eine solche Gesprächsrunde begeben, also
die strengen Schranken der Geschlechtertrennung durch-
brechen).
Sie habe während ihrer Aufenthalte im Iran Frauen
ganz unterschiedlicher Standpunkte kennengelernt, aber
immer wieder erfahren, daß Feminismus im weiteren
Sinn der Bewußtwerdung der Benachteiligung von Frau-
en in Familie, Gesellschaft, Recht und Politik ledig-
lich auf Grund ihrer Geschlechtszugehörigkeit 15 bis
20 Jahre nach der Gründung der Republik Iran, also
sozusagen des real existierenden schiitischen Islams als
vom Staat verfügter Gesellschaftsordnung, eine große
Rolle spielte. Bei einer Kurzbesprechung der seit der
aufkommenden Dominanz des politischen Islams seit
den 70er Jahren von Autorinnen muslimischer Herkunft
zum Thema “Frau(en) im Islam” publizierten Literatur
sieht die Verfasserin zu Recht ebenfalls unterschiedliche
und in jüngster Zeit sich wandelnde Standpunkte: Von
der Aufdeckung der Unterdrückung der Frau etwa durch
Satzungen des Islamischen Rechts wie denen zu Ehe und
Scheidung, generell des patriarchalischen Geistes des
Islams, z. B. durch Autorinnen wie die Marokkanerin
Fatima Mernissi oder die Iranerin Haleh Afshar zur
Strategie der Neuinterpretation der Schari'a im gegen-
wärtigen Kontext, wie sie z. B. die seit längerem in
den USA lebende Pakistanerin Riffat Hassan oder Ami-
na Wadud-Muhsin, ebenfalls pakistanischer Herkunft,
schon länger vertreten. Daß alle diese Autorinnen durch
verschiedene Sprachen, eine unterschiedliche national-
ethnische Herkunft und dementsprechend differierende
Ausformungen des Islams geprägt sind, hat zunächst
Diskurse zwischen ihnen nicht gefördert. Die Verfas-
serin gibt zu, daß sich ihre eigenen Ansichten von
denen von Iranerinnen, die seit der Revolution von
1979 im Iran gelebt haben, ebenso unterscheiden wie
von denen mancher Exiliranerinnen. Sie fühle sich,
obwohl in England lebend und inzwischen mit einem
britischen Anthropologen verheiratet, als Muslimin, als
Insiderin.
In ihrem Buch stellt sie drei unterschiedliche Stand-
punkte schiitischer Theologen aus Qum zur Geschlech-
tersituation im Islam, bzw. im Iran, vor: In Teil 1 die von
Theologen, die aus dem vorrevolutionären Iran bekannte
Ansichten vertreten, in Teil 2 die solcher Theologen, die
zwar ein neues System erarbeiten wollen, es aber nicht
wagen, tradierte Meinungen deutlich in Frage zu stellen.
In Teil 3 stellt sie den sich entwickelnden neuen Diskurs
über Frauen vor, der von muslimischen Intellektuellen
außerhalb der religiösen Seminare getragen wird, aber
stark in der Schari'a wurzelt.
Die Verfasserin betont und bedauert, daß alle Ansich-
ten zur Position der Frau im Islam aus dem schiitischen
Iran, die sie hier vorstellt, von Männern stammen.
Es gibt zwar das 1986 gegründete Theologicum für
Frauen in Qum, nach einem Beinamen der Tochter
des Propheten Fatima az-Zahra' (d. i. “die Leuchten-
de”) College genannt, das seine Wurzeln in weiblichen
Aktivitäten an den religiösen Ausbildungsstätten von
Qum in den 60er Jahren hat. Doch habe sie zu ihm
Anthropos 96.2001
642
Rezensionen
trotz all ihrer Bemühungen keinen Zugang gefunden,
nur hohe Mauern mit männlichen Wächtern vor den
Eingängen (wie ich sie z. B. 1983 bei einem Besuch von
Studentinnenwohnheimen in Tripolis in Libyen erlebte.
Allerdings gestattete man ihr dort den Zugang und die
Besichtigung. Es ging schließlich nicht um theologi-
sche Positionen, sondern um mögliche Studienplätze
für DDR-Studentinnen). Generell erlaubt der orthodoxe
Islam Frauen die Koraninterpretation (heute! Früher
vorwiegend die Überlieferung von Traditionen, weil
diese auf dem Gedächtnis basiert, nicht auf der eigenen
Ratio, W. W.), und das Zahra-College ist heute autark,
d. h. es verfügt über genügend weibliche Lehrkräfte
für weibliche Studenten. Vorher betraten die benötigten
männlichen Lehrkräfte die Räume über einen unterirdi-
schen Gang und wurden ihrer Hörerinnen nie ansichtig.
Das Zahra - College lehnt auch die Zusammenarbeit mit
der Zeitschrift Payam-e Zan ab, weil dies gegen die
Regeln der Geschlechtertrennung verstieße. Seine Re-
präsentantinnen vertreten nach Aussage der Verfasserin,
jedenfalls bis zur Fertigstellung dieses Buches, einen
völlig traditionalistischen Standpunkt. Eine der Gründe-
rinnen des Za/zra'-College, das erste weibliche Mitglied
des Revolutionsrates, Munir Gurdschi, die zunächst die
Frauen betreffenden Interpretationen der Schari'a durch
orthodoxe Theologen teilte, publiziert seit 1989 eigene
Koraninterpretationen, mit denen sie gegen die Benach-
teiligung der Frau durch patriarchalische Deutungen an-
geht, und ist Direktorin des Zentrums für Frauenstudien
und -forschung in Teheran, in dem sie eigene Kurse
abhält.
Die Untersuchung ist folgendermaßen gegliedert:
Dem Vorwort der Herausgeber der Reihe “Princeton
Studies in Muslim Politics”, Dale F. Eickelman und
James Piscatori, über die zentrale Bedeutung der Ge-
schlechterdebatten im Islam, die in europäischen Län-
dern sich häufig auf die Kopftuchfrage fokussieren, aber
viel weiter zu fassen sind, nämlich das Transforma-
tionspotential muslimischen Denkens und muslimischer
religiöser Praxis einschließen müssen, folgen “Preface”,
“Acknowledgements” und Bemerkungen zur Termino-
logie der Verfasserin (ix-xxiv). In ihrer “Introduction”
(3-20) spricht sie über den Werdegang ihrer Untersu-
chung (s. o.). Daß vor ihrem Rückflug mit ihrem Mann
nach England 1995 ein beim Zoll wartender Mann alles
Material konfiszierte, das sich in ihrem Gepäck befand,
von umfangreichen handschriftlichen Aufzeichnungen
auf Persisch, Tonbandkassetten bis zu Zeitungs- und
Zeitschriftenartikeln, die ihr z. T. von iranischen Frauen
und deren Organisationen ausgehändigt worden waren,
mit der Begründung, sie als Iranerin habe zwar das
Recht, im Iran zu arbeiten und zu forschen, nicht aber ihr
britischer Mann, geht aus ihrem Vorwort hervor. Trotz
des Hinweises, daß es sich hier um ihre Materialien,
nicht die ihres Mannes handele, bekam sie diese nie wie-
der. Sie erhielt lediglich Wiedergaben ihrer Interviews
mit den Theologen, so überarbeitet, wie sie in Payam-e
Zan abgedruckt worden waren.
Teil 1, “The Traditionalists: Gender Inequality” (21-
79), gibt Interviews zu Rechten und Pflichten von
Männern und Frauen im Islam, u. a. zu Heirat, Ehe
und Scheidung, auch zur Frage des Hedschab, so-
wie zu neueren sozialen Phänomenen wie Familienpla-
nung, Schwangerschaftsunterbrechung, Geschlechtsum-
wandlung, mit den Theologen Großayatullah Madani,
geb. 1928, (“Women Ignored”) und Ayatullah Azari-
Qumi, geb. 1925, (“Women Politicized”), auch Ansich-
ten aus Publikationen beider zu diesen Themen, wieder.
Die Überlegungen und Kommentare der Verfasserin zu
ihren eigenen Formulierungen und den Antworten, die
sie erhielt, sowie zur Atmosphäre, in der die Gespräche
stattfanden, zur Atmosphäre von Qum generell, geben
dem Ganzen eine sehr lebendige Note. Die Kapitel
schließen mit kürzeren Bemerkungen über ihre Wieder-
begegnung mit beiden Theologen im Jahr 1997. Den
ersteren charakterisiert sie als schiitischen Theologen
der alten Schule, der die sozialen Realitäten der 90er
Jahre nicht wahrnehmen wolle und Frauen lediglich die
traditionelle Rolle der (dem Mann stets gehorsamen)
Hausfrau und Mutter zuerkenne. Azari-Qumi hielte zwar
an den alten Interpretationen fest, wollte Frauen aber
doch eine politische Rolle zugestehen, allerdings ohne
die volle soziale Gleichberechtigung. 1997 hatte er sich
aus politischen Gründen von seinen früheren Freunden
getrennt und betonte seine Unabhängigkeit von ihnen,
war auch offen für eine gewisse Lockerung der Ge-
schlechtertrennung. Ende 1997 entnahm sie der Presse,
daß er mit seiner Familie unter Hausarrest stand.
Teil 2, “The Neo-Traditionalists: Gender Balance”
(81-209), zerfällt nach einer kürzeren Einleitung über
die Ansichten der Theologen, die sie als “Neotraditio-
nalisten” charakterisiert, und über die Zeitschrift Pay-
am-e Zan, mit Hilfe derer sie die Position der Frau
im Iran zu dirigieren suchen, in vier Teile. Drei von
ihnen geben die Diskussionen mit dem Herausgeber
dieser Zeitschrift, dem Theologen Saiyid Mortazawi aus
Qum, ebenfalls mit persönlichen Kommentaren wieder.
Ein Teil (“Women Reconsidered”, 144-169) zeichnet
eine Debatte der schon vorher an den Diskussionen
Beteiligten mit Ayatullah Yussuf Sane'i auf, der, geb.
1937, als Theologe und enger Vertrauter von Khomeini
nach der Gründung der Iranischen Republik General-
staatsanwalt, Mitglied des Wächterrats und des Obersten
Juristischen Rats, also der beiden höchsten juristischen
Körperschaften der Iranischen Republik, war, aber 1984
in das Religiöse Zentrum von Qum zurückkehrte und
als Mardscha', als eine der höchsten religiös-rechtlichen
Instanzen der iranischen Schia, anerkannt ist. Hier ist
für den Laien zu erklären, daß die Schia den Bab des
Idschtihad, “das Tor der freien Meinungsfindung” (auf
Grund der vorhandenen religiös-rechtlichen Quellen und
in der Auseinandersetzung mit der jeweiligen Realität),
nie für geschlossen erklärt hat im Gegensatz zur Sun-
na, der Mehrheit der Muslims, die das um das Jahr
1000 tat. Progressive Vertreter des sunnitischen Islams
allerdings forderten seit der 2. Hälfte des 19. Jhs. aVaql
qabla n-naql, “Verstand vor Überlieferung”, vielleicht
dem Kantschen “Ausgang des Menschen aus seiner
selbstverschuldeten Unmündigkeit” zu vergleichen. Die
Schia hatte also stets die Möglichkeit, auf zeitgenös-
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
643
sische Notwendigkeiten zu reagieren, allerdings sind
hierfür jeweils anerkannte religiös-rechtliche Autoritäten
notwendig. Ein wichtiger Grundsatz der Schia als der im
Lauf der Geschichte meist von der Mehrheit der Sun-
niten dominierte Teil der Muslims ist der der Taqiyya,
das zum Selbstschutz gestattete oder sogar geforderte
Geheimhalten der eigenen Meinung, auch des persönli-
chen religiösen Bekenntnisses, ein Terminus, der auch
in diesem Buch eine Rolle spielt, obwohl der schiitische
Islam Staatsreligion des Iran ist. Aber Meinungen zu
äußern, die von der Mehrheit der religiösen Autoritäten
als Verstoß gegen die Sozialordnung des (schiitischen)
Islams gewertet wird, kann gefährlich werden. Es bedarf
immer einer geschickten Taktik.
Basis der Geschlechterdebatten sind für die “Neo-
traditionalisten” die Bücher der Theologen Tabataba'i
und Motahhari über die Rechte der Frau im Islam aus
den Jahren 1972 und 1974. Das letztere erlebte nach
der Ermordung seines Verfassers, Mitglied des Revolu-
tionsrats, im Mai 1979 bis 1995 über 20 Nachauflagen.
Seine Ansichten wurden, wenn auch mit veränderter
Argumentation, von Ayatullah Dschawadi-Amuli 1993
neu dargeboten.
In ihren einleitenden Kapiteln hebt die Verfasserin
hervor, daß sie mit den “Neotraditionalisten” ebenso
wie mit den Modemisten zwar, bei aller von ihrer Seite
gewahrten Vorsicht, auch der Taqiyya der Gesprächs-
partner, gelegentlich konträren, aber doch insgesamt zu
produktiven Debatten kam. Sie meint, sie habe vielleicht
mit ihren Fragen auch anregend gewirkt und auf spätere
relevante Publikationen ihrer Partner einen gewissen
Einfluß gehabt. Nach der Lektüre solcher Publikatio-
nen kommt sie ebenfalls zu dem Schluß, daß eine
lebendige, gelegentlich sogar scharfe Debatte über die
Geschlechterrollen in vollem Gange ist, die das Ab-
rücken von früheren, weniger toleranten Standpunkten
einbegreift.
Teil 3 schließlich, “The Modemists: Toward Gender
Equality” (211-272), stellt, wiederum nach einer Ein-
leitung, in zwei Kapiteln die Ansichten von Abdalkarim
Sorush, geb. 1945, Pharmazeut mit einem Studium
in Teheran und einem M.A. in analytischer Chemie
aus London, sowie einem anschließenden Studium der
Geschichte und Philosophie am Chelsea College, und
des Religionsrechtlers Hudschatul-Islam Saidzadeh, geb.
1958, dar. Dieser, ihr Vermittler und Begleiter bei fast
allen ihren Gesprächen, war nach einer Tätigkeit als
Richter Mitarbeiter der Kulturabteilung der Houzeh in
Qum und ist seit 1995 Berater und Forscher beim
Iranischen Justizministerium.
Die Einleitung zu diesem Kapitel gibt Einblick in
mentale Entwicklungen nach dem Golfkrieg 1980-88,
dessen Ende dem Tod von Khomeini 1989 vorausging.
Die Zeit danach ist durch wachsende Spannungen zwi-
schen Vertretern divergierender Meinungen über den
Islam, auch zum Thema Frau im Islam, gekennzeichnet.
Für die Modernisten sei Ali Shari'atis Buch “Fatima ist
Fatima”, das den Standpunkt religiöser Intellektueller
zur Frauenfrage am Vorabend der Revolution darlegte,
immer noch maßgeblich und faszinierend. Muhammeds
Tochter Fatima, die Frau seines Schwiegersohns und
Vetters Ali und Mutter seiner Enkel Hasan und Hussain,
die für die im Iran herrschende Zwölferschia bis heute
die wichtigsten historischen Persönlichkeiten, sozusagen
die Gründerväter sind, wird hier als liebende, aufopfe-
rungsvolle, kluge, arbeitsame, asketische und kämpferi-
sche Tochter, Ehefrau und Mutter, aber auch als Symbol
der Gleichheit der Rechte von Mann und Frau und der
moralischen Integrität, zum Idealbild der Iranerinnen er-
oder eher verklärt (vgl. W. Walther, Die Frau im Islam
heute. In: W. Ende und U. Steinbach [Hrsg.], Der Islam
in der Gegenwart. München 1996).
Aus Sorushs mehr als 20 Werken (bis zum Ab-
schluß dieses Buches), von denen keines explizit der
Frauenfrage gewidmet ist, und Vorträgen, die er 1995/96
in London hielt, auch aus einem persönlichen Gespräch
mit ihm, schließt die Verfasserin und belegt es durch
Zitate, daß er sich jeder Debatte über das Familienrecht
entziehe, im persönlichen Gespräch mit der Begrün-
dung, dies gehöre generell in die Menschenrechtsde-
batte. Außerdem praktizierten die Frauen selbst bereits
diesen Diskurs. Er könne auch nicht zu denen gezählt
werden, die sich für die Gleichberechtigung von Mann
und Frau einsetzen, sondern sehe, basierend eher auf
Idealen der islamischen Mystik und Philosophie (aber
auch dem Koran), die Aufgabe der Frau darin, Ru-
hepunkt und Gefährtin für den Mann zu sein, damit
dieser seinen schwierigen Aufgaben für die Gesellschaft
gerecht werden könne. Sein von der islamischen Mystik,
speziell dem persischen Dichter Rumi (gest. 1273) und
dem spanisch-arabischen Mystiker Ibn Arabi (1165—
1240), ausgehendes Verständnis des Islams eröffne aller-
dings generell weitere Horizonte als strikter Legalismus.
Schon wenn er, entgegen herrschenden Vorstellungen,
das islamische Recht zur in der Bewertungsskala nie-
drigsten der islamischen Wissenschaften erklärt, das
nicht zum Zentrum religiösen Denkens und religiöser
Debatten gemacht werden dürfe. Ansonsten aber sei, so
äußerte er im persönlichen Gespräch mit der Verfasserin
in London, die soziale Rolle der Mütter seiner Genera-
tion, die “(herunter-)brannten wie Kerzen, um anderen
Licht zu geben”, doch eine schöne und bemerkenswerte
gewesen.
Sai'idzadeh gehöre zu den Theologen und Religi-
onsrechtlern, die mit der Revolution heranreiften. Er
unterschied im Gespräch mit ihr 1995 strikt zwischen
“dem Islam” als dem Wort Gottes, wie es der Prophet
den Gläubigen überbrachte (d. h. im Koran, W. W.), und
allen späteren Interpretationen, zu denen auch viele, die
Frau benachteiligende, Bestimmungen des islamischen
Familienrechts gehörten (von denen allerdings einige,
etwa das Erbrecht und das Scheidungsrecht, im Koran
fixiert sind, W. W.), vor allem Frauen degradierende Äu-
ßerungen in der sog. Traditionsliteratur (Literatur über
das, was der Prophet gesagt, getan oder stillschweigend
geduldet haben soll, deren früheste 6 Werke zur zweit-
wichtigsten Quelle des Islamischen Rechts wurden, die
aber tatsächlich Bräuche und Ansichten der Zeit enthält,
in der sie systematisch gesammelt und aufgezeichnet
wurde, von etwa 100 bis 150 Jahren nach Muhammeds
Anthropos 96.2001
644
Rezensionen
Tod an, W. W.). Hierzu gehörten auch quasi Verbote,
eine Frau als Richterin oder als Staatsoberhaupt ein-
zusetzen, etwas, das seit einigen Jahren auch im Iran
zu den Forderungen feministisch orientierter Frauen aus
Elitefamilien gehört. Sa'idzadeh hielt 1996 einen Vor-
trag in Toronto über die Korrespondenz zwischen Islam
und Feminismus. Wenn die Verfasserin meint, daß er
hier sich nicht der Zensur des Ministry of Guidance
unterworfen gefühlt habe, so ist das allerdings m. E.
naiv. Gerade bei solchen Auftritten und der späteren
Publikation dürfte er Rücksicht zu nehmen gehabt ha-
ben, auch wenn man ihm möglicherweise im Sinne
eines außenwirksamen Balanceakts etwas mehr Freiheit
zugestanden haben könnte. Generell sähe er in der real
existierenden Ungleichheit zwischen den Geschlechtern
kein religiöses Prinzip des Islams, sondern spätere Kon-
strukte männlicher Theologen und Juristen.
Die “Conclusion” (273-279), hebt hervor, daß die
iranische Gesellschaft in den 20 Jahren seit der Revolu-
tion “gender”-bewußt geworden sei. Eine junge Genera-
tion von Frauen ist herangewachsen, deren Forderungen
nicht mehr übergangen werden könnten. Auch wenn
die Interpretation des islamischen Rechts weiterhin in
den Händen von Männern liege, hätten diese auf soziale
Entwicklungen zu reagieren. Im April 1998 wurden laut
gesetzlicher Verfügung mehr Richterinnen als früher
zugelassen, seit September 1998 rekrutiere die Polizei
auch Frauen. Wenn im Parlament seit den Wahlen von
1997 13 (statt vorher 9) Frauen als Deputierte säßen und
diese mehrheitlich konservativ seien, so griffe doch z. B.
die Frauenzeitschrift Zanan jedes von einem männlichen
Theologen in frauenkritischer Weise zitierte Koranwort
auf, um dagegen anzugehen. Für die Wahlen von 1997
nominierten sich 8 Frauen selbst, aber der Wächter-
rat billigte keine von ihnen. Die Frauenzeitschriften
Payam-e Zan und Zanan, um deren Standpunkte (oder
die ihrer wichtigsten Vertreter) es hier ging, seien sich
darin einig, daß Veränderungen notwendig seien, doch
gingen sie diese von unterschiedlichen Standpunkten
aus an.
Wenn keiner der Gesprächspartner bereit war, auf
das Hedschab-Gebot, also das Verhüllungsgebot, ein-
zugehen, so erklärt die Verfasserin dies damit, daß die
Verhüllung (wie dies ebenfalls progressive Musliminnen
aus anderen islamischen Fändern betonen) Frauen auch
soziale Kraft geben könne, ihnen das Auftreten in der
Öffentlichkeit und somit das Vorbringen ihrer Forde-
rungen möglich mache. Daß Frauen in patriarchalischen
Systemen sich zunächst deren Gesetzen beugen oder
doch anpassen müßten, um etwas zu erreichen, betont
die Verfasserin an anderer Stelle. Auch dies gilt nicht
nur für den Iran oder andere muslimische Länder.
Ein Glossar (281 f.), ein bibliographischer Essay
(283-285), die Bibliographie größtenteils persisch- und
englischsprachiger Titel (287-301) und ein kurzer Index
(303-305) beschließen den Band.
Er macht deutlich, welch hoher Stellenwert der De-
batte über die Geschlechterrollen im nachrevolutionären
Iran zukommt. Aber auch, welche Vielfalt von Meinun-
gen bei aller Rücksicht auf Zensur und selbstauferlegter
Taqiyya oder Selbstzensur, wie sie autoritäre Regime
überall in der Welt notwendig machen, existiert, und
welcher Wandel nach und nach möglich war.
Wiebke Walther
Pickering, W. S. F. (ed.): Durkheim and Represen-
tations. Eondon: Routledge, 2000. 182 pp. ISBN 0-415-
19090-8. (Routledge Studies in Social and Political
Thought, 22) Price: £55.00
In Emile Dürkheims Werk und bei den Durkheimi-
anem nehmen “soziale Repräsentationen” (représenta-
tions sociales) einen zentralen Platz ein: Als Ausdruck
der mentalen Ordnung wie der ihr vorgelagerten sozialen
Verhältnisse sind sie auf einen rationalen, universalen
Kern zurückzuführen. Dieser Kern, zunächst in Gestalt
religiöser Anschauungen, tritt einerseits hervor in “kul-
turellen Codes”, andererseits in verbindlichen Ideen,
Bildern, Reflexionen, Gedanken, m.a.W. in wirklich-
keitsprägenden Vorstellungen bzw. identitätsstiftenden
“Institutionen” wie Familie, Recht, Moral, Religion
und Wissenschaft. Den historischen Umständen ent-
sprechend unterschiedlich ausgeprägt, wird ihr Wesen
bestimmt durch Gruppen- und Glaubensbezüge, weshalb
sie als gesellschaftlich geteilte Anschauungen anzusehen
sind, die auf dem individuellen Bewußtsein (conscience)
aufbauen und es zugleich übersteigen. Dementsprechend
verschaffen sich in ihnen Wertbindungen Geltung, indi-
viduelle Bestrebungen werden fokussiert und durch den
Repräsentationscharakter, den moralische Verpflichtun-
gen annehmen, integriert.
Ausgehend von den frühen Beiträgen des Schulgrün-
ders, verdeutlicht der Aufsatzband Dürkheims Konzep-
tion von “Kollektivbewußtsein” und “Repräsentationen”;
er räumt terminologische Mißverständnisse aus, auf
die übrigens zuerst René König 1961 in einer langen
Einleitung zur deutschen Neuübersetzung der “Règles de
la méthode sociologique” (1895) aufmerksam gemacht
hatte. Richtigstellungen erfolgen in den Beiträgen von
William Pickering (Kap. 1, “Representations as Under-
stood by Durkheim”, und Kap. 6, “What Do Representa-
tions Represent?”) sowie von Warren Schmaus (Kap. 2,
“Representations in Durkheim’s Sens Lectures: An
Early Approach to the Subject”; Kap. 8, “Meaning and
Representation in the Social Sciences”). Des weiteren
wird die Begriffsverwendung auf philosophische Inhalte
hin untersucht; verwiesen wird dabei auf die zwei
Vorbilder Kant und Renouvier (Sue Stedman Jones,
Kap. 3-4, “Representation in Durkheim’s Masters”;
Giovanni Paoletti, Kap. 7, “Representation and Belief:
Durkheim’s Rationalism and the Kantian Tradition”).
Ausweitungen erfahren hat Dürkheims Konzept in mo-
dernen “Repräsentationsstudien”, zumindest in solchen,
die von der “sozialen Bedingtheit” von Ideengeweben
ausgehen; in dem Buch kommt darauf David Bloor, ein
Vertreter des sozialen Konstruktivismus, zu sprechen
(Kap. 9, “Collective Representations as Social Institu-
tions”). Alle bereits genannten Beiträge des Bandes
belassen es bei der Primäranalyse, so auch Dénes
Némedi in einem Nachdruck über Dürkheims frühe
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
645
Anschauungen (Kap. 5, “A Change in Ideas: Collective
Consciousness, Morphology, and Collective Represen-
tations”). Hiermit sind die Voraussetzungen für einge-
hende Untersuchungen im englischsprachigen Bereich
geschaffen, denn es wird die Verbindung hergestellt zwi-
schen Dürkheims Anschauung und seiner soziologischen
Religions- und Erkenntnistheorie. Kaum ausgelotet wur-
den hingegen Weite und Grenze des Durkheimschen
Ansatzes. Einige Zusätze hätten den schmalen Band
bereichert.
Dürkheims Begriffs Verwendung impliziert soziale
und mentale Matrizen, vom einfachsten Stammeswe-
sen bis zum modernen Staat. Indem Repräsentationen
an tradierte Einstellungen anknüpfen und zur geistigen
Haltung anleiten, bilden sie ein der Gesellschaft im-
manentes Erklärungssystem, dessen Rationalität nicht
nur spezifische Denkvoraussetzungen reflektiert, son-
dern jedweder zivilisatorischen Leistung zugrunde liegt.
Der Begriff beinhaltet “Mentalitäten” (ab 1904 taucht
er als Sektionsüberschrift in der Année Sociologique
auf und wird später von der Annales-Schule propa-
giert), worunter ganzheitliche Vorstellungen, Geistes-
haltungen, richtungsweisende Denkfiguren oder kultu-
relle Leitbilder zu verstehen sind. Damit sind wir bei
einem Kernproblem der soziologischen Analyse: Da
Durkheim und sein Kreis sowohl den Traditionsbe-
griff wie auch den Kultur- bzw. Zivilisationsbegriff
unter den der (sozialpsychologisch einzuordnenden)
Repräsentation subsumierten, wurde zwar eine uralte
philosophische und staatsrechtliche Diskussion umgan-
gen (vgl. Hasso Hofmann, Repräsentation: Studien zur
Wort- und Begriffsgeschichte von der Antike bis ins 19.
Jahrhundert. Berlin 1974), es wurden allerdings auch
allerlei Bestimmungsunschärfen in Kauf genommen, die
der vorliegende Band durch Analyse und Exegese der
Termini auszuräumen unternimmt, wobei jedoch nicht
vergessen werden darf, daß Durkheim ganz entgegen
seinen Neigungen eine elastische Begriffsführung be-
vorzugte, was darauf schließen läßt, daß das Angedachte
zu keinem Abschluß gekommen war. An die Suggestiv-
formel mentaler Gebilde und ihre Unklarheiten haben
die spätere Mentalitäten- und Konfigurationsgeschichte
sowie nahezu die gesamte historische Anthropologie
französischer Provenienz angeschlossen; auch die sozi-
alanthropologische Kognitionsforschung lehnte sich an
Durkheim an. Aufgrund der inhärenten Problematik hat
die Kognitionswissenschaft hiervon jedoch Abstand ge-
nommen (siehe den Übersichtsartikel von Dan Sperber
and Lawrence Hirschfeld in R. A. Wilson and F. C. Keil
[eds.], The MIT Encyclopedia of the Cognitive Sciences.
Cambridge 1999: cxi-cxxxii).
Repräsentationen - der anfängliche Terminus hierfür
lautete “soziales Bewußtsein” (conscience collective) -
stellen den höheren Zusammenhalt in dem Maße her,
wie sich aus der “Synthese” der Einzelbewußtseine
gemeinsame Überzeugungen und soziale Verantwortung
herausbilden, psychische Dispositionen überlagert und
individuelle Einbildungen überspielt werden. Analog
zur Sprache entfalten objektivierte Vorstellungen ein
Eigenleben. Damit sind für Durkheim Repräsentationen
nichts anderes als internalisierte soziale Tatbestände
(faits sociaux), die sich zu Denk- und Deutungsmustern
ausbilden und gewissermaßen zu vorstellungsgesättigten
Leitbildern entwickeln, wenn nicht verselbständigen.
Laut Dürkheim haben sie ihren Ursprung im Religiösen,
das selbst wiederum aus der Überhöhung der Gesell-
schaft, gewissermaßen aus ihrer Selbstdarstellung, ja
Selbstverwirklichung, hervorgegangen ist. Daher die
fundamentale Bedeutung der Religion, vor allem ih-
rer elementarsten Formen wie im Totemismus, der als
Natur- und Weltanschauung zwar natürlichen Katego-
risierungen (insbesondere von Raum und Zeit) unter-
liegt, indes als gesellschaftliche Erscheinung seinerseits
bewußtseinsprägend ist und damit ganz wesentlich zur
Verhaltenssteuerung und rituellen Erneuerung des sym-
bolisch unterlegten Ganzen beiträgt (dies der “Funk-
tionalismus” Dürkheims). In seiner Religionssoziologie
zieht Dürkheim aus dem Repräsentationsgedanken die
erkenntnistheoretischen, aber auch die moralsoziologi-
schen und letztlich pädagogischen Konsequenzen. Somit
läuft die Frage nach den Urformen auf die Vorausset-
zungen und das gegenseitige Wechselspiel von Handeln
und moralischer Integrität, von Einsicht, Wissen und Er-
kennen hinaus. Ziel ist, Vorgänge in komplexen arbeits-
teiligen Gesellschaften über den Umweg traditionaler
Gesellschaften transparent zu machen.
Dürkheims ganzes Argument ist in zwei Sätzen
enthalten. Erstens: Wie das menschliche Individuum
für die Psychologie, bilde für die Soziologie die Ge-
sellschaft als Ganzes einen Gegenstand für sich; aus
der ihr eigenen Existenz ergebe sich eine ihr eigene
Denkweise (“Sprache”), der tatsächlich beobachtbare
gesellschaftliche Haltungen entsprächen. Zweitens, so
die These, gehe Gesellschaft als Gesamterscheinung
aus der Synthese fusionierter einzelner Bewußtseins-
zustände hervor. Soziologischer Gegenstand ist also
der Gesamtzustand, sozusagen die geistige Verfassung
eines Landes oder Volkes (hier greift Dürkheim die
seinerzeitigen Gedanken der Völkerpsychologie auf).
Jede genuine Kulturordnung fände demnach zu einer
ihr gemäßen Darstellung, die sich in Stammeskulturen
bildhaft-totemistisch, im modernen Staat hingegen in
Nationalvorstellungen oder nationalen Symbolen äußere
und Erwartungen ebenso bediene wie kanalisiere (Dürk-
heim schwebt Patriotismus, nicht Nationalismus vor).
Kurzum, in Repräsentationen verbinden sich Einzelbe-
wußtseine zum Kollektivbewußtsein, zu einem Geflecht
von maßgeblichen Anschauungen und Wertvorstellun-
gen. Aus Verantwortungsbewußtsein und Pflichtgefühl
ergeben sich normative Erkenntnisse und schließlich
das, was Maurice Halb wachs das über Tradierungen ver-
mittelte “kollektive Gedächtnis” nennt, d. h. die sozial
anerkannte, unter Umständen topographisch und my-
thisch geprägte Erinnerung mit Wegweiserfunktionen.
Dieses im eigentlichen Sinne kulturelle Gedächtnis, von
dem die heutige Gedächtnis- und Erinnerungsgeschichte
spricht, hat seine Entsprechung in Dürkheims früher
Konzeption von sozialer Kohäsion und Solidarität.
Weil Dürkheim mit scheinbar vertrauten Termini
hier Neuland betrat, wird bei ihm der Vermittlungs-
Anthropos 96.2001
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prozeß zwischen Einzelpsychen und kollektiver, mit
Gedächtnisfunktionen ausgestatteter Überpsyche ledig-
lich Umrissen, aber nicht eingehend abgehandelt, denn
die Erläuterungen anhand der australischen Ethnogra-
phie und vermeintlich religiöser Urkonzepte wirken
trotz ihrer Originalität aus heutiger Sicht doch etwas
herangetragen, abgesehen davon, daß so manche analyti-
sche Unterscheidungen, die Durkheim treffen zu müssen
glaubte, an Haarspaltereien grenzen und die ethnologi-
sche Realität verfehlen (die gedankliche, synthetische
Leistung Dürkheims, der gewissermaßen von außen
Maß anlegte, um zur kulturendogenen Sichtweise vor-
zustoßen, bleibt indes unbestitten). Nicht minder proble-
matisch erscheint in der daraus abgeleiteten Religions-
und Erkenntnistheorie (Wissen als Repräsentation) die
antinaturalistische These von den Klassifikationen, in
denen Geist und Gesellschaft korrespondierten. Diese
zur “Korrespondenztheorie” ausgebaute These, von der
ein Teil der Forschung über Denken und Sprache, Dua-
lismen und Klassifikationen bis in die 1970er und 1980er
Jahre fasziniert war, erscheint nachgerade trivial, setzt
sie doch eine Geschlossenheit voraus, die allenfalls die
Ausgangsprämisse von der Gesellschaft als einem eige-
nen Sujet, einem “selbstreferentiellen” System, bestätigt
(vgl. N. J. Allen, W. S. F. Pickering, and W. Watts Miller
[eds.], On Durkheim’s “Elementary Forms of Religious
Life”. London 1998; sowie die Einschätzungen von A.
Testart, C. Rivière und R. Boudon in L'Année sociologi-
que 1998: 163 ff. und 1999: 131 ff., 149 ff.).
Selbst wer von der Gesamtkonzeption wenig hält,
kommt nicht umhin, den Hauptbeitrag Dürkheims, der
um das Thema Repräsentationen kreist, angemessen und
positiv zu würdigen. Jedenfalls gab Durkheim Anstöße
für die Institutionenlehre, sodann für die kultursozio-
logische Tiefenforschung. Selbst der Konstruktivismus
könnte sich auf ihn berufen, tragen doch Dürkheims
Repräsentationen die Züge einer permanenten Selbst-
schaffung der Gesellschaft mit all ihren Symbolen,
Überhöhungen und Kompartimentierungen; dieser Ge-
sichtspunkt wurde von frühen Kritikern anerkannt. Auch
Dürkheims oft mißverstandener “Soziologismus” hat
insofern der Zeit vorgegriffen, als er den platten Ma-
terialismus jener Zeit vergeistigt hat und einen Beitrag
zu seiner Überwindung leistete. Überdies brachte es
die - erst nach seinem Tod rezipierte - Hervorkeh-
rung der geistigen Grundlagen der Gesellschaft mit
sich, daß Dürkheims mitunter rasterhafte, nie zum Ab-
schluß gekommene Interpretation sich als postmarxi-
stische Alternative anbot. Gleichwohl bleibt Durkheim
mit seinem temperierten Determinismus einer der frühen
Vertreter der globalisierend-rationalen Soziologie, die
insofern auf dem Rückzug begriffen ist, als eben nicht
alles auf die “Logik der Verhältnisse” reduziert wer-
den kann. Aber dies ist nur der eine Durkheim. Der
andere ist der Vorreiter der kultursoziologischen Menta-
litätsforschung, der in dem Sammelband von Pickering
von der Entstehungsgeschichte her behandelt wird (der
Folgeband ist die zuvor genannte Aufsatzsammlung von
Allen, Pickering und Miller).
Die Verwendung des Begriffs “soziale Repräsen-
tationen”, mit der Durkheim an den Sprachgebrauch
seiner Zeit anknüpfte, ist wie seine Soziologie insge-
samt permanenten Mißdeutungen ausgesetzt gewesen,
und das eigentliche Ziel der Bestrebungen wurde lange
Zeit gründlich verkannt. Es ist das Verdienst des Her-
ausgebers und Gründers des Zentrums für Durkheim-
Studien in Oxford, hier Klarheit geschaffen zu haben.
Über viele Jahre um Dürkheims Oeuvre bemüht, hat
er als Verfasser wie als Übersetzer das Werk Zug
um Zug ausgelotet und plausibel gemacht. Er hat
Vergängliches und Beständiges erfaßt, aber nicht mit
Sekundärüberlegungen überfrachtet.
Gerade deshalb stellt sich die Frage, ob Durkheim
stets aus der nötigen Distanz betrachtet worden ist, hat
doch sein “sozialer Realismus” (Robert Alun Jones, The
Development of Durkheim’s Social Realism. Cambridge
1999) zu ebenso vielen wie kurzatmigen Gelegenheits-
studien von neubekehrten Durkheim-Adepten geführt,
auf die Pickering überhaupt nicht zu sprechen kommt.
Wenigstens ein paar Sätze hätten über das gewandelte
Durkheimbild fallen müssen. Nach der “Durkheim-
Industrie” (Steven Lukes) wäre ein kritischer Rückblick
vonnöten, den am besten Pickering selbst vomähme.
Bei allen Vorbehalten an der Denkschule käme er der
Inwertsetzung Dürkheims zugute. Friedrich Valjavec
Pike, Sarah M.: Earthly Bodies, Magical Selves.
Contemporary Pagans and the Search for Community.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. 288 pp.
ISBN 0-520-22086-2. Price: $ 19.95
The author of this volume is a Professor of Religious
Studies at a branch of the California State Universities.
Her work represents a new trend in American Religious
Studies, actual ethnographic fieldwork employing the
methods of participant observation valued by socio-
cultural anthropologists. Pike’s work is based on over
eight years’ attendance at many Neopagan festivals held
over many parts of the United States. It is also based
on interviews and chat-groups which Neopagans have
established on the Internet. Figures remain unreliable,
but it is estimated that as many as 200,000 Americans
may claim membership in such Neopagan groups.
Beliefs held by Neopagans vary greatly, but general-
ly they reject contemporary institutionalized religions,
especially Christianity and Judaism. They claim these
religions have fostered a harmful sense of bodily (es-
pecially sexual) guilt, homoophobia, misogyny, a lack
of social tolerance, and a destructive disregard of the
natural environment.
Implicit in Pike’s study is the assumption that in-
vestigation of Neopaganism may suggest ways that
contemporary, mainline religious congregations may
have failed to address the concerns of some modem
Americans. Pike asks what main themes in Western
religious culture may have served as sources for this
countermovement and what are the problems which may
impede the growth and success of such groups. Pike uses
her study to ask questions about changing values and
beliefs among a new generation of alienated Americans,
Anthropos 96.2001
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647
mostly White, educated, and middle-class. To do so she
makes use of many anthropological, sociological, and
historical studies.
Pike’s work is divided into an “Introduction,” a
brief “Conclusion,” and six descriptive chapters. In her
opening chapter Pike describes the various Neopagan
festivals as the key events which define Neopagan
identity. This is not only her view but the view of
most Neopagans. It is at such festivals that Neopagans
gain some sense of community, both by relation with
other Neopagans and by emphasizing their estrangement
from conventional American beliefs and practices. Pike
likens contemporary Neopagan festivals to the evangel-
ical camp-meetings and spiritualist gatherings of nine-
teenth-century Protestant America. Because Neopagans
see themselves as protesting against more organized and
established religious groups, they are tom between the
need to cooperate to bring off orderly and workable fes-
tivals while still emphasizing the freedom and individu-
alism that supposedly separate them from wider society.
They emphasize dressing and behaving in ways different
from, even defiant of, convention. The festivals are held
in wooded and secluded areas facilitating nonconformist
expectations and behaviour. “Neopagans say that self
and community are more fully realized in a place safely
bounded and metaphysically removed from the everyday
world” (37). Neopagan emphasis upon nature and a state
existing before modernity fits a wilderness environment.
In chap. 2 Pike describes the layout and activities
at a typical festival site. Neopagans try to establish
sacred spaces at festivals and endow them with rich
and continuous stories and recollections of their past
experiences there. Neopagans establish altars, shrines,
and assembly spots for sacred fires, congregating areas,
and places where rituals may be enacted, sometimes for
most of those assembled, sometimes for small groups of
believers, sometimes for individual shrines or for rites de
passage such as baby blessings (namings), handfastings
(weddings), and memorial services (funerals). Altars
can be endowed with the attributes of lost loved ones,
supernatural beings, or nostalgia for past festivals. In her
accounts and photographs Pike reveals the extreme het-
erogeneity of the objects assembled at Neopagan altars
and shrines which derive many religions, mythologies,
and cultures, past and present.
In chap. 3 Pike recounts the negative stereotypes that
outsiders hold about Neopagan festivals which are often
described, especially by conservative, fundamentalist
Christians, as satanic gatherings and orgies. Some festi-
vals were prosecuted or harassed by local citizens. This
increased Neopagans’ secretiveness and their intent on
holding festivals in isolated areas. “Casting themselves
as the persecuted victims of ignorant and zealous Chris-
tains, Neopagans identify themselvess with history’s
marginal and oppressed populations. In this way they
establish a tradition and history for their religion that
make sense of their own experiences of persecution and
legitimates [sz'c] their opposition to conservative Chris-
tians” (107-108). Neopagans try to write themselves
into history as preservers or revivers of older religious
traditions suppressed by Judeo-Christian societies. Some
describe themselves as witches, and many take views
similar to those of the British anthropologist Margaret
Murray who considered current negative stereotypes
about witchcraft derived from Christian condemnation
and suppression of more ancient and indigenous pagan
European beliefs in fertility and natural forces.
In chap. 4 Pike examines the manifold ways Neo-
pagans employ a wide range of beliefs and practices
from other cultures. Neopagans consult literature on
other religious beliefs and practices from Africa, Tibet,
India, Taoism, Native America, Norse, Celts, astrology,
tarot, druidism, and Greek and Roman mythology. These
are combined in ways that would probably offend and
bewilder traditional believers. This transcultural and
ahistorical eclecticism is defended by Neopagans as part
of their individualism and freedom. Any Neopagan can
put together a set of beliefs and practices to suit his
or her unique needs. Consequently whatever Neopagan
congregations that may emerge are mainly due to some
common sense of difference from mainstream society
or due to the transient leadership of individuals rather
than any subscribed dogma. Yet many Neopagans are
concerned with authenticity. Reading the right scholarly
sources matters; even more important is receiving direct
training from those who are physically descended from
original practitioners as though religion were “in the
blood.” Other Neopagans claim that all beliefs are facets
of one great system and therefore open for all to use as
they please. Such aggrandizing Neopagan claims prompt
criticism and hostility from outsiders, especially Native
Americans, who claim that their beliefs and practices
are misappropriated and misused by outsiders.
Some Neopagans disclaim responsibility for their
choice of beliefs, arguing that their beliefs chose them.
They claim to be destined for such ideas. Their beliefs
are disembodied from the social networks essential to
the societies in which traditional religious beliefs were
held and practised. Instead, Neopaganism represents
a modern age of individual, personal expression un-
trammeled by broader social constraints or obligations,
especially any that might seem confining or onerous.
In chap. 5 Pike shows how Neopagans construct nar-
ratives of childhood and spiritual becoming that explain
how they became Neopagans and how such beliefs have
saved and supported them. They construct “a landscape
of childhood” that pictures them as misunderstoood
victims but constructive survivors of an unsympathetic
society. They stress the wonder and purity of childlike
imagination and naturalness in producing Neopagan
sensibilities, qualities they see as inimical to modern
social constraints and deconstructive rational analysis.
In chap. 6 Pike describes how Neopaganism fosters
a new freedom and acceptance for individuals seek-
ing more unconventional definitions of sexuality and
gender. In this quest drugs, alcohol, dance, drumming,
chanting, nudity, exotic apparel, and close physical
mingling are often viewed ambivalently. Their bodies
are said to be put back in touch with both natural
rhythms and supernatural forces. Neopagan festivals
Anthropos 96.2001
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Rezensionen
provide potentially safe places for experimenting with
unconventional and untested presentations of self which
might prove liberating. Yet these festivals are also seen
as dangerous since such behaviour may be misunder-
stood by others, especially strangers, who might respond
in unwelcome and unpredictable ways. The exciting
congeries of strangers which festivals involve bodes
danger as well as adventurous and anonymous freedom.
Pike points to the fragile and contradictory sense of self
held by many Neopagans as well as to the ill-defined
and tenuous social bonds and controls that Neopagans
bring to such gatherings.
Neopaganism arises from profound dissatisfactions
with many mainstream religious views on gender, sex-
uality, expressivity, and freedom, but it provides no
coherent solution to this discontent. It contains no social,
only an individualistic, agenda. The very liberty and
myriad forms of expressivity and belief that Neopagans
endorse undermine any social cohesion and control
that might protect the diverse behaviours Neopagans
seek. To Neopagans science and rationality lack the
poetry and mystery that seem essential for religious
meaning and self-expression. Modern societies merit
considerable criticism, but emphasis on extreme individ-
ualism and cultural anarchy seems unlikely to provide
any workable bases for meaningful, orderly, long-term
social interaction. Yet many mainline religions appear
inadequate since they seem cut-off from modern views
about sexuality, personal freedom, self-expression, and
even a moral concern about the natural environment.
Neopagans are unwilling to accept the high price that
contemporary societies exact for the rewards of safety
and orderly interaction. Their motives appear laudable
but muddled, their methods disorganized but sincerely
felt and rooted in a troubled sense of purposelessness in
a world seemingly out of control. Durkheim raised many
of these questions a century ago when he pondered the
breakdown of French social order and moral responsi-
bility; Neopagans indicate that the malaise and anomie
that troubled him have not gone away. Pike’s useful,
suggestive, and sympathetic study raises more questions
than it provides answers. Neopaganism remains an odd
and exotic set of beliefs, but Neopagans’ concerns
should remain legitimate and pressings concerns for all
of us. T. O. Beidelman
Rapport, Nigel, and Joanna Overing: Social and
Cultural Anthropology. The Key Concepts. London:
Routledge, 2000. 464 pp. ISBN 0-415-18156-9. Price:
£ 12.99
This is one of the volumes in the series “Key
Guides” edited by Routledge. It contains some sixty
essays of varying length, many of them subdivided
into one or more paragraphs. The selection of the key
concepts reflects the apparent interests of the authors.
Besides a few conventional entries like community,
culture, society, kinship, myth, and worldview many
new ones appear of rather recent and very recent interest
in anthropology as alterity, cybernetics, interpretation,
postmodernism, and the unhomely. A detailed index
refers to many other issues discussed in the essays. In
that way a wide diversity of subjects is covered and can
easily be identified. It should be understood, however,
that this book is not a kind of encyclopedia touching
all matters anthropologists are interested in. It rather is
concerned with the question of what anthropology is or
should be about. In that respect it reminds one of another
“key-book,” i.e., “Key Debates in Anthropology” edited
by Tim Ingold with Routledge (1996), reviewed in
Anthropos (93.1998: 617 f.). The difference is that in
the Ingold book the discussion is restricted to a few
themes which are discussed by several debaters (one of
them Joanna Overing) whereas the book under review
is written by two authors only and contains a greater
diversity of subjects.
As will have become clear from the foregoing the
authors pay most attention to recent developments in
the field. This means that many of the precursors like
Kroeber, Lowie, Boas, Frazer, Tylor, Rivers, Fortes,
Schmidt, Koppers are not or are scarcely mentioned
in the book. Only Durkheim, “the key exponent of a
collectivist narrative” (179) is considered worth more
than a passing attention.
Former key concepts like evolution, function, social
structure, tribe, lineage, etc., are not found among Rap-
port/Overing’s list or only in the index. Marxism and
structuralism seem to belong to the past but it must
be admitted that Lévy-Strauss is often discussed and
marxism is sometimes mentioned. British authors of
an older generation most cited are Leach and Bateson,
typically both mavericks in British social anthropology,
as well as “transactionalists” like Barth and Paine.
On the other hand, culture is in the centre of interest
in the book with Geertz as the hero and with the
book “Writing Culture” (1986, edited by J. Clifford
and G. Marcus) continuing to be the one seemingly
raising most critical issues of the moment. Many of
the discussions in the book are addressed therefore
at postmodernism, the “literary turn,” and the recent
self-criticism of anthropologists. The Rapport/Overing
duo apparently agrees with most of the criticisms but do
justice to diverging opinions.
When reading all these highly abstract and theoretical
essays of a philosophical/epistemological nature one
wonders what will happen to what is still to be con-
sidered as an essential part of the craft of anthropology:
fieldwork. Though the authors do not dedicate a special
essay to this subject, they discuss it in several places.
Their position seems to be that though the anthropologist
must continue to respect the “rigour of research, method,
theory, and presentation” (242), they also think that
he/she should combine it with the quality of deep
understanding into the behaviour of others which great
novelists also display (after Leach cited on p. 243).
One also wonders how the new developments can
be presented to a wider public. Rapport/Overing raise
this question in connection with the political use of
authenticity and identity by indigenous peoples. One
could also ask to what extent and how long ethnographic
Anthropos 96.2001
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649
museums can continue to present in their showcases the
colonialist construction of native identities like Kuba,
Kwakiutl, and Nuer and how the presentations can do
justice to the new insights as regards the questionable
notions of communities and tribes.
The Dutch historian Peter Geyl used to say long ago
that history is an endless discussion, a statement that
is not much different from Ingold’s remark in “Key
Debates in Anthropology” (1996: 3), that anthropologi-
cal theory best can be seen “in an ongoing process of
argumentation.” This is what Rapport/Overing amply
show, giving no final answers but by presenting in a
profound way solid material for further discussions.
Albert Trouwborst
Rubinstein, Raechelle: Beyond the Realm of the
Senses. The Balinese Ritual of kekawin Composition.
Leiden: KITLV Press, 2000. 293 pp. ISBN 90-6718-133-
1. (Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor
Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 181). Price: hfl 60.00
This book claims to be about the Balinese ritual of
the composition of kekawin, i.e., Old Javanese poetry
in Sanskrit metres. Taking her cue from Zoetmulder’s
studies about the religious context of kekawin composed
in Java, Rubinstein is determined to demonstrate that
“kekawin composition has been considered a religious
activity in traditional Bali - a ritual performed primarily
by pedanda [Brahmana priests, EW] as a means of
attaining mystical union with the Divine” (223). While
Zoetmulder has already convincingly argued this point
for Java, Rubinstein’s treatment of the subject in Bali
remains rather shallow and unconvincing.
The first part sets the tone for the rest of the book:
on the basis of two esoteric and highly abstruse texts,
viz., the “Tutur Aji Saraswati” and “Swarawyanjana,”
we are told that “[t]he Balinese believe letters to be
a divine creation, in which the Divine is immanent.
Letters are, therefore, considered to possess supernatural
properties and are utilized as a medium for the sup-
plication of divine and netherworldly forces. Because
of the power inherent in letters, they must be treated
with deference, to which end numerous ritual practices
elaborated around literate activity exist” (65). Hence,
the author suggests, “kekawin composition is a highly-
skilled, religious activity ... involving the manipulation
of letters, which are the symbol and embodiment of the
Divine” (65). This claim, however, is highly suggestive
and nowhere substantiated. It seems that letter magic
was primarily used in a medical context and in my
opinion the alleged connection between this lore and
kekawin composition only involves a manipulation on
the part of the author.
The second part, dealing with priest-poets and divine
inspiration, is mainly based upon the “Dwijendratattwa,”
narrating Nirartha’s biography, a legendary Javanese
priest and poet who is regarded as the ancestor of the
Balinese Brahmana. Finally, the third part about the
poet’s craft discusses kekawin prosody (based on the
“Canda”), kekawin poetics (based on the “Bhasaprana”)
and kekawin orthography (based on the “Swarawyanja-
na”). This study, then, is mainly textual, but based upon
a rather small selection of written texts. Most of the
selected sources, furthermore, originate from Java, not
Bali. Their contents are more often than not far from
comprehensible. About one text, for example, which the
author has entitled the “Bhasaprana,” she writes that
“[i]t is not clear from the manuscripts, owing to their
poor condition, whether the ‘Bhasaprana’ is in prose,
kekawin metres, or a combination of prose and metres.
It is possibly interspersed with sloka” (177). In other
words, this text is hopelessly corrupted. But despite
its elusiveness, Rubinstein manages to wring a whole
chapter out of it (175-189).
The poor condition of the manuscripts in general
raises questions about the religious significance of letters
to which the author constantly refers. If the Balinese
believe that spelling is of the utmost importance, being
associated with life and death (194), I wonder why the
spelling in the manuscripts happens to be such a mess.
According to the author it is imperative that syllable
quantity may not be violated, because this “can bear dire
personal consequences” (221). And yet, in the fragments
she quotes in her book (never indicating the metric
pattern), the quantity of each syllable, i.e., whether it
should be long or short, seems to have been the last thing
the copyists had on their minds. Do we perhaps have to
draw a distinction between the original composers on
the one hand who had to proceed very carefully and the
scribes on the other hand who were not bound by strict
religious rules, producing such sloppy copies?
In a book about Balinese kekawin, it is remarkable
that the author primarily draws upon secondary sources
instead of Balinese kekawin. The substantial corpus
of Balinese kekawin is, apart from some incidental
remarks, virtually left untapped (for a recent overview,
see Helen Creese, “The Balinese kakawin Tradition:
A Preliminary Description and Inventory.” Bijdragen
tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 1999: 45-96, which
probably appeared too late to be included in this book).
A study of kekawin composition in Bali, as Rubinstein
herself duly notes, “may have much to offer [to? EW]
our understanding of kekawin composition in Java”
(225). In the beginning of the book, Rubinstein in
fact proves her point by taking evidence from twen-
tieth-century Balinese kekawin to argue that the terms
kekawin, lambang, palambang(a), etc., are synonymous,
thereby refuting earlier hypotheses by Zoetmulder and
Robson (8). This is a very interesting thought and it is
a pity that after this promising start the author does not
return to the Balinese kekawin again for support of her
suggestions.
What, then, is the difference between Old Javanese
and Balinese concepts of kekawin composition? An
important difference, at least according to the author,
is the sexual imagery of the sea and the mountains.
Time and again Rubinstein refers to the image of
sexual intercourse of the sea and the mountains (see
index under the headings eroticism, imagery, sea, sexual
intercourse, etc.). On closer examination, however, she
Anthropos 96.2001
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adduces no more than three quotations to back up her
argument, all three deriving from a single source (the
“Dwijendratattwa”), and, more importantly, all three of
a highly questionable character. The first quotation on
p. 107, Pasangyoga langening pasir lawan wukir. Kadi
pasangyoga ning [but spelled on p. 114 as pasangyogan
ing, EW] pradhana lawan purusa kahidepanya, which is
translated as “The beauty of the sea and the mountains
was as if they were making love together, like the
love-making of a woman and a man, so he thought,”
is wrought with problems. Grammatically, I haven’t
been able to make much sense of it. Furthermore,
the author doesn’t mention its metre and I haven’t
been able to detect one. It is unclear to me how she
arrived at the translation of “woman” for pradhana; an
explicative footnote would have been helpful here. And
why are pasir (lawan) wukir interpreted as “the sea and
the mountains” (also in the other two quotations, and
throughout the book)? This is not the only possible
interpretation; one could also translate pasir wukir as
“rocky (mountainous) coast”. On pp. 180 f. the author
suddenly comes up with another possibility, i.e., “the
sea and rocky coast”, incorrectly combining both inter-
pretations.
The second quotation, viz., Irika sir a araryan aling-
gih, manonton langening pasir wukir. Kadi masangyoga
is translated as: “There he took a rest and sat down,
observing the beauty of the sea and the mountains. They
were as if engaged in sexual intercourse” (116), but this
is incorrect: the subject belonging to kadi masangyoga
cannot be pasir wukir, because it isn’t preceded by the
conjunctive particle n, so its subject is still the person
mentioned at the beginning. Therefore the translation
should be: “There he took a rest and sat down, observing
the beauty of the pasir wukir. It was as if he was engaged
in sexual intercourse”. Finally, in the third example
the text reads apürwa, the meaning of which, i.e.,
“incomparable, extraordinary,” makes perfectly good
sense. There is no need, as the author does, to change
this word into amürwa “to deflower, to have sexual
intercourse with a virgin” (108). Manipulating word
forms or meanings this way, one can arrive at almost
any kind of interpretation.
The kekawin composed in Java were steeped in
religion, as Zoetmulder has ably demonstrated. It is
highly probable that the same holds true for their
later Balinese counterparts. But whereas Zoetmulder’s
theory is well-founded on primary source materials,
focusing on the introductory and concluding parts of
Old Javanese kekawin, Rubinstein’s thesis is not based
upon Balinese kekawin, but upon a limited number of
corrupted, secondary sources, mostly originating from
Java. Rubinstein furthermore moulds the preselected
material in such a way as to suit her preconceived ideas.
Although this book contains interesting information on
different topics such as the mystical journeys of Nirartha
or the esoteric lore pertaining to letters, its title is
deceptive, leaving us little wiser about the practice of
kekawin composition in Bali. Edwin Wieringa
Sillitoe Paul: Social Change in Melanesia. Devel-
opment and History. Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2000. 264 pp. ISBN 0-521-77806-9. Price:
£ 14.95
Cultures and societies by their very nature are dy-
namic. They change and adjust, sometimes successfully,
sometimes less so. New elements are continuously being
added while other elements are blended, substituted, or
lost. Usually the changes that take place in societies
are in response to the demands of the time and place.
This is the stuff of anthropology. Sillitoe’s book is a
study of sociocultural change in Melanesian societies.
As is his earlier book, “An Introduction to the Anthro-
pology of Melanesia” (1998), the present volume is “an
anthropological introduction to the post-contact history
of these intriguing societies” (xvii). After reading the
first few chapters the reader will learn that the book
is not only a superb integration of anthropological and
historical scholarship but it goes further and draws on
other disciplines such as human geography, sociology,
political studies, and economics. In short, the present
volume and the earlier one go together like a canoe and
an outrigger, both forming a stable “vessel” to allow any
reader smooth sailing through Melanesian cultures and
societies.
The volume consists of fourteen chapters and is
organized primarily around the major issues that have
occupied scholars studying social change in the Pacific:
internal and external agents of social change, techno-
logical innovation, cargo cults, migration, urbanization,
and missionaries.
Issues related to development and social change as
well as the role of anthropology in this process are dealt
with on many pages of the book. From the time an-
thropology emerged as scientific discipline Melanesian
cultures have contributed a great deal to its development.
The author makes an important point by indicating that
now anthropology can reciprocate by creating a mean-
ingful awareness of respect and appreciation for other
cultures. The chapter on “Forestry and Focal Knowl-
edge” is an excellent example of how anthropology
can assist in critical evaluation of many developmental
projects. The discipline “should play a central role in
development, promoting a genuinely beneficial two-way
flow of ideas and practices” (147).
Many readers will find chapter 12 on “Missionar-
ies and Social Change” particularly interesting. In the
course of mutual interactions of anthropologists and
missionaries, both being “brothers under the skin,” there
have at times been misunderstandings, especially in the
context of change and cultural preservation. The author,
however, treats the work of missionaries in Melanesia
objectively, recognizing their contributions especially
in the fields of education and health. The former he
considers “among the most potent of all forces of social
change” (22). Because of the importance which the
author ascribes to formal education, one might expect
an entire chapter devoted to this topic. However, it
is treated briefly in chapter 12, in which the author
credits the work of the missionaries in education and
Anthropos 96.2001
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651
health. Sillitoe also notes that an estimated 95 percent
of the population of Melanesia are members of various
Christian churches and, thus, being “more Christian
than Europe” (217), the people of the Pacific Islands
may in their turn send missionaries to the old world.
In fact, this “prophecy” has already been fulfilled, as
a number of Melanesians, among them some Divine
Word Missionaries (SVD) from Papua New Guinea, are
serving outside of their region.
The single best outline of social change, devel-
opment, and history in Melanesia, Sillitoes’ book is
interesting, informative, and insightful. Each chapter is
accompanied by a concise bibliography and titles of
films containing the most important sources for further
research. I consider the book a worthwhile contribution
to scholarship in Melanesian studies and its history.
Those interested in social change, anthropology of de-
velopment, missionary work, and identity issues will
find this book very useful. Moreover, scholars searching
for insights to forge a new identity for “present-day
anthropology” will find a stimulating empirical explora-
tion of the issues involved in the relation between rapid
social change, development, and globalization.
StanislawA. Wargacki
Stott, Philip, and Sian Sullivan: Political Ecology.
Science, Myth, and Power. London: Edward Arnold
Publishers, 2000. 276 pp. ISBN 0-340-76166-0. Price:
£ 17.99
Stott and Sullivan identify two central aspects of
political ecology. First, the problems of using ecological
ideas in the wrong place and the questions these raises
about justice, science, and the operation of power; sec-
ond, the challenge of establishing alternative ecological
interpretations. All the essays in this collection are
concerned with the authority environmental narratives
derive from using the “Big Talk” of science. In ad-
dressing this they consider how scientific findings and
authority are socially and politically situated, but do not
descend to relativism. There is a conscious attempt in
many chapters to establish which environmental inter-
pretations may be more accurate.
Eleven essays are offered with an introduction from
the editors. They cover diverse issues and places, four
concern Africa, two the Indian subcontinent, one the
Middle East and another combines the UK and Japan.
Three chapters concern globally common environmental
concepts - biodiversity, environmental refugees, and en-
vironmental security. The collection is based on a sem-
inar series at the School of African and Oriental Stud-
ies (SOAS) in London. Nine of the fifteen contributors
were based at SOAS when the book was compiled.
The introduction provides us with a useful intro-
duction to the history of political ecology and the
development of its central themes. In characteristic style,
Stott finds its roots in a classical author (Virgil) before
jumping seventeen centuries to Rousseau. There then
follows more useful material concerning the use of
utopian environmental myths and their political impli-
cations, and an account of political ecology’s preoc-
cupation over the last twenty years. The editors set a
demanding but necessary agenda for political ecology.
It needs to provide a platform to excluded voices, and
it needs to grapple with science on its own terms. If
it is to be political ecology not political science then
it will need good data and sophisticated interpretations
to offer an alternative to the dominant environmental
narratives which can be so instrumental in excluding
local interpretations in the first place.
The subsequent chapters, as the editors recognise,
do not all meet these expectations. Sullivan comes
closest with a rich account of the ecology of Namibian
deserts, and the political marginalisation of some of their
residents, combining ecological data and oral testimony
to challenge current notions of desertification. Potts
looks at the politics and occurrence of land degradation
in Zimbabwe showing how allegations of degradation
derived from political agendas rather than good research.
Her observations about the (positive) ecological and
economic consequences of land redistribution would be
particularly helpful to students wishing to understand
recent events in Zimbabwe. Bradnock and Saunders
examine sea level change and subsidence in Bangladesh
and conclude that no clear conclusions can be drawn
about what is happening or how, in sharp relief to the
claims made about it. Jewitt and Kumar give a feminist
political ecological interpretation of forest management
in India, advocating a more nuanced gender analysis
sensitive to the differences of people and place.
The second section of the book concerns water. Allan
and Turton look at the politics of water distribution in
the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region and
Southern African region respectively. These chapters
are principally concerned with politics. The ecology
is limited to the straight forward absence of water in
these regions. They draw attention to the importance
of “virtual water” - water used in the production of
goods which, when the goods are imported, effectively
boosts the water budget of the importing country. Virtual
water is, Allan observes, politically and economically
invisible and not yet properly considered in politicians’
deliberations. Turton argues that it should be included
when accounting for the water budgets of Southern
Africa, and could potentially ease some of the difficulty
of current deliberations.
The final section considers global environmental
power relations at different scales. Baker looks at the
gendered impact of structural adjustment in Gambia.
Horta considers biodiversity issues in the rhetoric and
programmes of the World Bank and Global Environmen-
tal Facility and illustrates their multiple political pur-
poses. Wiltshire, Crouch, and Azuma, in an interesting
piece, look at the place of allotments (shimin noen in
Japan) in peoples’ and town council’s response to Local
Agenda 21. They argue that the rise of environmentalism
has given the allotment movement the teeth to challenge
the pressure on these green spaces from commercial
interests. Saunders looks at the evolution of the term
“environmental refugees” from Malthus on in a highly
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structured paper in which every other paragraph has its
own heading. Finally, Warner examines environmental
security and its increasing prominence and importance
amongst more general conceptions of security.
The collection is useful for its geographical breadth
and the diversity of issues it covers. It offers a chal-
lenge to anthropologists and an important role for
them in developing political ecologies. The challenge
is that political ecology would require anthropologists
to engage with science. It requires a way of thinking
about environments, resources, and ecosystems which
other scientists would listen to. Part of the strength
of scientific statements is that they can be falsified -
however, much their acceptance or rejection ultimately
depends on their social, political, and cultural milieu.
This volume asserts that facts are relevant and that
it is useful to replace poor explanations with stronger
theory.
The role is that if other voices are to be engaged
and listened to anthropologists are well able to do
so. Critiques of ethnography mean that this cannot
be undertaken naively, but greater awareness of the
pitfalls and politics of engaging with “other” voices
are precisely what political ecology requires. I would
suggest that this could include a more careful look
at institutions and organisations. Throughout the book
there is a tendency for institutions to be dealt with
as distant, excessively united actors producing policy
and taking stances as almost sentient beings. We know
that instead they are made up of multiple practices,
structures, and agents. Surely a more sensitive political
ecology would need also to unpack the anatomy of the
institutions the analyses deal with. More institutional
ethnography would be a welcome addition to political
ecology’s arsenal.
Overall this is a useful introduction to the topic
and could be a fruitful guide to undergraduates and
postgraduates interested in political ecology per se and
looking to identify research programmes of their own.
Dan Brockington
Strathern, Andrew, and Pamela J. Stewart: Arrow
Talk. Transaction, Transition, and Contradiction in New
Guinea Highlands History. Kent: The Kent State Uni-
versity Press, 2000. 216 pp. ISBN 0-87338-661-2. Price:
$ 19.00
This monograph falls into the genre of political
anthropology. It does so, however, historically, as it
traces how the local political and economic situation
in the Melpa area of the Western Highlands of Papua
New Guinea has changed as the result of independence
and the introduction of capitalism and large-scale par-
liamentary national and state government. Also efforts
at economic development and the pressures this has put
on local politics have resulted in rather dramatic change.
The authors are well-equipped to address these issues in
all their complexity for they have spent many months
and years since 1964 to the present doing intensive
fieldwork in the Western Highlands. The consequences
of these efforts have found their way into many books
and articles. As observers they have personally shared
in much of the history of these critical political and
economic changes.
The road to successful political and economic change
has certainly not been a straight or level one in Papua
New Guinea. This book is basically a description and
explanation of the twists and turns the path has taken
to a merging of the local culture and society with the
outside world that was introduced by the first colonial
powers making contact in the early 1930s. Nor is the
struggle to successfully effect this merging over yet.
The title of the book, “Arrow Talk,” comes from the
stylized political oratory used to recall the history of
some significant event, typically at the conclusion of
one of the exchanges that were conducted to mark a
compensation payment of some kind. The book comes
in three parts plus a conclusion. The general contents
and titles of the body of the book are summarized
by the authors themselves: “Transaction refers to the
debates about the character of exchange and its role in
historical terms. Transition points to discussions about
putative directions of change that are in turn tied up
with the evaluation of the significance of exchange
itself. Contradiction refers to the theory that dialectical
processes are at work in the production of history and
identity over time” (1).
The first part of the book (chapters one through
four) goes with some detail into the theories developed
on the basis of studies of the New Guinea situation
(and elsewhere) revolving largely around the notions of
person, self, and individual. Here the impact of social
relations in defining the individual and the role of the
individual’s influence on the direction and importance
of exchange as a premier form of social relations in
New Guinea take on importance. The authors opt to
give importance to both in the way history proceeds,
indicating this by using the term “relational-individual.”
They also accept that people act out of a network of
cultural meanings that must also be taken into account
to understand the move of change over time.
For me, part two (Transition) and three (Contradic-
tion), each made up of three chapters, were the most
interesting and useful, possibly because these parts were
also the most ethnographic. They addressed some of the
concrete problems New Guinea faces today: “rascals”
and gangs, alcohol consumption, the spread and use of
firearms in situations where before arrows and spears
were the weapons of choice. Here also the authors
address the relationship between law and custom, es-
pecially in the context of control over what seems to
be a general breakdown of social morality. Part of this,
without doubt, is a consequence of the expansion of
social contacts beyond the local group with its clearly
recognized traditional network of relatives, allies, and
enemy groups. Because of this expansion, traditional
ways of ending conflict by means of compensatory
exchange are stretched beyond their limits to adapt. This
system of exchange seems to have gotten fairly out of
control and no more suffices as a mechanism of nego-
Anthropos 96.2001
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653
dating peace, whatever the cause of conflict. National
politics and the patronage system this has introduced
have also contributed to the spread of contacts and have
upset the customary equilibrium between groups.
Part four, which is titled “Conclusions” and com-
prises two chapters, highlights two items. In the first
set of conclusions, related to “Money, Politics, and
Persons,” the authors link the concepts of capitalism,
democracy, the state with its bureaucracy, and na-
tionalism and how these have affected and changed
the understanding people have of themselves. In this
chapter the authors also suggest that Christianity and
the churches are beginning to have a significant impact
on how people conceive of themselves and how relations
between individuals and groups are being modified by
Christian religious ideology.
The final chapter, “Resolutions and Revolutions,”
is really a summary of what the book intended to
accomplish with further hints at the role Christianity
is beginning to play. If the authors were to pursue this
engine of change in future research, they would have
to control, I would suggest, for the different kinds of
Christian churches.
In this book the authors certainly achieve one of their
own stated goals which they take from the theorists
“such as George Marcus, who sees the ethnographic
task as that of delineating in contemporary societies the
co-occurrence of the global in the local” (169). The book
is well-produced; there are pictures scattered throughout
the book, most of them relevant to the text. Some editing
here and there would have helped the readability of the
book; some sentences stretched on forever and, for me
at least, became difficult to follow (for example, page
4, 60 words long; page 5, 84 words long; page 44, 96
words long!).
Overall, the book is a good example of the way
political anthropology should be done. It would be
helpful for people working in Papua New Guinea. It
would give them insight and a better understanding
of why the system has taken the directions it has. It
would also be useful for other anthropologists working
in these same areas. For its purpose, it is also a good
ethnography.
The political and economic future of the Melpa, not
to mention other parts of Papua New Guinea, does
not present a rosy picture (137 and passim). Whatever
happens, this part of the highlands of Papua New Guinea
has been fortunate to have such dedicated ethnographers
as these authors are to follow events so carefully over
so many years. They are prolific writers to boot.
Ernest Brandewie
Streck, Bernhard (Hrsg.): Wörterbuch der Ethnolo-
gie. 2. und erw. Aufl., red. von K. Bemdt. Wuppertal:
Edition Trickster im Peter Hammer Verlag, 2000. 431
Pp. ISBN 3-87294-857-1. Preis: DM 59,80
Quatorze années séparent cette seconde édition du
“Wörterbuch der Ethnologie” de la première. Dans
un souci de coller au plus près à l’actualité, une re-
fonte complète fut entreprise dans le cadre de l’Institut
d’Ethnologie de Leipzig, un des plus anciens établisse-
ments de ce type. L’ouvrage comporte 80 entrées, une
rapide présentation des ethnologues les plus illustres
et de leurs œuvres, avec une galerie de portraits, un
glossaire, une bibliographie très étendue et des index.
Chaque article comporte en moyenne quatre pages.
Quand dans un volume aussi restreint il faut traiter
de sujets comme “l’ethnologie appliquée”, “le travail”,
“la fête”, “la sorcellerie”, “le sacrifice”, “la musique”,
“la race”, “l’Etat”, “le symbole”, etc., cela conduit à
des textes tellement denses que la lecture en devient
parfois difficile. Mais on est toujours très largement
récompensé de sa peine: pour chaque thème on assiste
à d’utiles clarifications conceptuelles, à un recadrage
théorique, puis à un parcours bibliographique allant
des premières mentions aux dernières parutions. Les
différentes théories et écoles de pensée ne sont pas
traitées en des articles distincts, mais on les retrouve à
l’intérieur de chacun des textes, principalement de ceux
voués à des notions comme la diffusion, la structure,
l’anthropologie culturelle ou sociale. Comme on pouvait
s’y attendre, les références allemandes et américaines
prédominent largement. Faut-il suivre Gerholm et Han-
nerz quand ils ne voient plus en l’ethnologie allemande
qu’un petit îlot scientifique (11)? L’observateur extérieur
que je suis est plutôt impressionné par sa richesse et sa
vitalité, même si la dépendance vis-à-vis de l’Amérique
est évidente. La conception d’un tel ouvrage implique
des choix et une sélection qui ne vont sans doute
pas sans pleurs ni grincements de dents. Mais si j’en
juge à l’empressement avec lequel je me suis jeté sur
les nombreux articles qui me concernent de plus près
et du fruit que j’en ai immédiatement retiré, ce diction-
naire restera pour longtemps à portée de main.
Pierre Erny
Trenk, Marin: Die Milch des weißen Mannes. Die
Indianer Nordamerikas und der Alkohol. Berlin: Diet-
rich Reimer Verlag, 2001. 232 pp. ISBN 3-496-02492-5.
Preis: DM 48,00
Seit die Euro-Amerikaner den nordamerikanischen
Ureinwohnern den Genuß von Alkohol beigebracht ha-
ben, wird bis in Kreise der Wissenschaft hinein darüber
spekuliert, weshalb die Indianer in einem solch starken
Maße diesem Rauschgetränk verfallen waren. Denn, so
gemeinhin die Überlieferung, durch den Alkohol sind
ganze ethnische Gemeinschaften ausgerottet worden.
Vor allem jedoch erlaubte der Alkoholgenuß - und die-
ser Feststellung wird auch vom Autor nicht widerspro-
chen - den Europäern eine Erleichterung des Landraubs.
So manche Verhandlungsrunde zwischen Indianern und
Euro-Amerikanern wurde durch den Alkoholgenuß zu-
ungunsten der Indianer beendet.
Nach dem bekannten amerikanischen Ethnohistoriker
W. Washbum neigen betrunkene Indianer auffallend
dazu, sich genau umgekehrt wie im nüchternen Zu-
stand zu verhalten. In dieser nur scheinbar banalen
Feststellung des renommierten Wissenschaftlers steckt
Anthropos 96.2001
654
Rezensionen
ein Schlüssel zum Verständnis des sogenannten “Indian
drinking”. Die nordamerikanischen Indianer haben den
Alkohol der Europäer übernommen und damit eine in
deren Augen besonders liederliche und verwerfliche Art
des Trinkens entwickelt. Sie haben Gelage gefeiert, bei
denen die gewöhnliche Ordnung aufgehoben war und
eine “verkehrte Welt” ausgelebt werden durfte. Indianer
der unterschiedlichsten ethnischen Einheiten haben ei-
nen Trinkstil praktiziert, der als Ausnahmezustand und
Umkehrung des Gewohnten sowie periodische Befrei-
ung von den Beschränkungen des Alltagslebens angelegt
war. Die Trinkgelage der Indianer seien, so der Verfas-
ser im Vorwort, “rauschhafte Gegenwelten zum Alltag,
ihre schrankenlos scheinende Lust an der Berauschung
war Ausdruck einer dionysischen Festkultur” (6). Mit
Alkoholismus habe das nichts zu tun, auch wenn die
Liebe vieler Indianer zum Rausch zweifellos eine ihrer
gefährlichen Leidenschaften war. Der Autor möchte mit
seinen Ausführungen den Mythos des “Feuerwassers”
bei den nordamerikanischen Indianern “etwas zurecht-
rücken”, denen zufolge die Indianer ausnahmslos und
ausschließlich Opfer des Branntweingenusses waren.
Stützen konnte sich der Autor dabei auf die gründliche
Auswertung relevanter Quellen, vor allem auf ältere
Reisewerke. Denn deren Autoren haben dem Konsum
der “Milch des weißen Mannes”, wie der Alkohol bei
einigen Indianern, vor allem im Gebiet der Großen Seen
hieß, durch die Indianer in der Regel nicht geringe
Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt. Auf die genannte Region,
insbesondere auf die Bewohner des Waldlandes, kon-
zentriert sich dann auch die vorliegende Untersuchung.
Der zeitliche Schwerpunkt der Untersuchung, die auf
einer Habilitationsschrift der Kulturwissenschaftlichen
Fakultät der Europa-Universität Viadrina in Frankfurt
an der Oder basiert, beginnt mit der Begegnung der
ersten europäischen Seefahrer mit der autochthonen
Küstenbevölkerung des nordamerikanischen Kontinents.
Die andere Zäsur bildet die Vertreibung der Indianer
westlich des Mississippi in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jhs.
Der Schwerpunkt der Darstellung liegt also zwischen
dem frühen 17. Jh. und dem frühen 19. Jh.
Gegliedert ist die Arbeit neben einem Vorwort und
einem Epilog in 16 Kapitel. In allen kommt der Autor
nicht umhin, sich mit der Qualität der zeitgenössischen
Quellen auseinanderzusetzen. So erfährt der Leser neben
den ethnographischen Details auch wichtige Informa-
tionen über die Entdeckungsgeschichte sowie über die
konkreten Formen des Kulturkontaktes.
Leider liegt im Druck nur eine gekürzte Fassung der
Habilitationsschrift vor. Neben zahlreichen illustrieren-
den Beispielen und Belegen wurden auch einige Fall-
studien gestrichen, die die Entwicklung der Trinkkultur
einzelner ethnischer Gruppierungen, etwa der Micmac,
Delaware, Irokesen, Huronen, hätten verdeutlichen kön-
nen. Das ist zu bedauern. So bleibt zwar das “Gerüst” er-
halten mit seinen wissenschaftlichen Ausführungen, Be-
gründungen, Theorieerläuterungen und Hinweisen auf
weiterführende Literatur, jedoch wird beim Lesen “das
Fleisch”, die nachweisträchtigen Erläuterungen und Be-
lege, vermißt. Dennoch liegt eine exzellente wissen-
schaftliche Untersuchung über ein Phänomen vor, wel-
ches viele europäische Reisende beschrieben, somit zur
Herausbildung des Stereotyps des nordamerikanischen
Indianers beitrugen, jedoch keine schlüssigen Beweise
hierfür vortragen konnten. Einen solchen Deutungsver-
such hat Trenk geliefert.
Neben einer ausführlichen Literaturübersicht enthält
das Buch ein detailliertes Personenregister sowie ein
Register über die im Buch vorkommenden Ethnien.
Diese sind sehr nützlich für alle sich mit der nordameri-
kanischen Geschichte und Völkerkunde beschäftigenden
Wissenschaftler. Ulrich van der Heyden
Valeri, Valerio: The Forest of Taboos. Morality,
Hunting, and Identity among the Huaulu of the Moluc-
cas. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2000.
509 pp. ISBN 0-299-16214-1.
Valerio Valeri carried out over 30 months of field-
work among the Huaulu, agriculturalists for whom hunt-
ing is a major focus of activity, living in the forested
interior of Seram in eastern Indonesia. He began his
studies of this population nineteen years ago, and this
is his first book on their culture. Sadly, this is also a
posthumous book.
“The Forest of Taboos” is an attempt to explain the
notion of “taboo” with reference to the ethnographic par-
ticulars of Huaulu society, and as was the case with his
first book, “Kingship and Sacrifice. Ritual and Society
in Ancient Hawaii,” published in 1985 (Chicago), this is
a thoughtful study whose arguments are marshaled with
meticulous attention to detail.
Dr. Valeri opens his study by establishing the geo-
graphical, historical, and sociological contexts of Huaulu
collective representations. Next, as in “Kingship and
Sacrifice”, he begins his disquisition on taboo by taking
established authorities severely to task for a sundry array
of errors he has detected in their work on taboo and
totemism. His survey is especially destructive of the
Leach-Douglas approach, which relies heavily on the
presumption that taboo (and pollution) results from the
conceptual necessity of accommodating classificatory
anomalies in a rigidly ordered system of categories.
The theories of Steiner, Testart, Durkheim, and Héritier
come in for vigorous criticism also, although as it turns
out, Dr. Valeri’s own theory, which owes much to
Lévi-Strauss, actually is a development of their better
ideas. Since the material in this chapter, which bears
the title “Taboo in Anthropology”, stands pretty much
independent of the rest of the book it could well have
been published as an article in its own right and so
made its valuable critical insights available to a wider
readership.
Chapter 3 establishes the signification of the term
maquwoli, the Huaulu approximation of the anthropo-
logical category “taboo,” by examining the conceptual,
ideological, sociological, and experiential contexts and
forms of the term’s application. Dr. Valeri’s inquiry
leads him to conclude that for the Huaulu a maquwoli
action or event signifies a relationship between subject
Anthropos 96.2001
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655
and object that contradicts their identity as determined
by categorical affiliation. “The dangers of maquwoli,”
as he phrases it, “are dangers of identity by association”
(136). To confirm his point, he seeks to identify what
it is about the subject’s relating to maquwoli actions
and events that undermines the integrity of the subject,
an inquiry that leads him into an elaborate discussion
of the two domains in Huaulu society most beset by
taboos. These are meat and blood.
Chapter 4 is longer than some ethnographies pub-
lished nowadays, and at 157 pages perhaps indulgently
so. In adducing data to substantiate his thesis, Dr. Valeri
devotes a sizeable portion of the chapter to analyzing
the interconnections between taboo and the array of
animal species that share the Huaulu world. The crea-
tures whose symbolic connotations are itemized include
domestic animals like the dog, cat, and chicken, as well
as ferals such as crocodiles and turtles. The author also
advances reasons for the taboos that distinguish women
from men, and describes the fitful involvement of human
beings with the denizens of the spirit world. Hunting
is very important in this society, and by the (violent)
provision of meat, becomes an intrinsic constituent of
the Huaulu concept of maquwoli. By analyzing the
rituals governing the acquisition of game in exhaus-
tive detail, the author succeeds in accounting for such
practices as those that compel human beings to display
some respect for the animals they slay. This token of
respect, he suggests, publicly signals human recognition
that while animals differ enough from human beings
to serve as game animals they also share features in
common with humanity. It is, as he puts it, a matter of
“identification and distancing” being “in subtle tension
in these practices” (324).
In the final chapter the author concludes that “the
common denominator of all taboos consists in injunc-
tions or recommendations to keep oneself materially
separate from objects that are conceptually or experi-
entially incompatible with one’s identifications” (329).
Taboo results from an excessive similarity (or proximity)
or an excessive difference (or distance) between subject
and object. It might be remarked, incidentally, that
the style of Dr. Valeri’s own thinking is decidedly
oppositional, in that when presenting his findings he
tends to organizes them within the terms of pairs of
polar contrasts.
Scholars prone to acknowledge the usefulness of a
structural approach to the study of society - and the
present reviewer identifies himself as a member of their
company - will find much to engage their interest and
respect in “The Forest of Taboos.” Adherents of rival
theoretical persuasions, however, may not be averted
from the suspicion that some of the less evidenced in-
terpretations Dr. Valeri offers on Huaulu thinking, how-
ever confidently annunciated, need to be taken more as
revealing the ethnographer’s own subjectivity than any
purported Huaulu view. Their skepticism will surely find
iuel in Dr. Valeri’s occasionally excessive self-referen-
tial choice of writing style. Nevertheless, although there
is, to be sure, some measure of the “auto-ethnographic”
on these pages, I would argue that the interpretations
Dr. Valeri offers of Huaulu taboo read convincingly,
and that in his presentation of his data, the ethnographic
evidence appears consistent with the pattern he claims
to detect. His painstaking unraveling of the multitude of
strands that compose the signification of the fundamental
indigenous category maquwoli is made convincing by its
ethnographical exactitude and the analytical acuity of its
author. In his findings Dr. Valeri has provided important
keys to understanding, not only Huaulu taboo but taboo
for as an anthropological concept, and this admirable
book joins its predecessor as a major contribution to
the study of ritual and classificatory thought. As such
it should be read by religious scholars whatever their
disciplines. Dr. Valeri’s untimely death is a tragedy for
scholarship. David Hicks
Van Dijk, Rijk, Ria Reis, and Marja Spierenburg
(eds.): The Quest for Fruition through ngoma. Polit-
ical Aspects of Healing in Southern Africa. Oxford:
James Currey; Athens: Ohio University Press, 2000. 172
pp. ISBN 0-85255-263-7: ISBN 0-8214- 1304-X. Price:
£ 12.95
Indigenous words may be handy to use whenever an
anthropologist is unable to find a suitable translation.
But what right do we have to borrow such a word from
the folk context of a different language when we need
a new analytical tool to express some of our academic
concerns? Or, if we prefer to formulate this question
in a more familiar academic idiom: What right do we
have to turn many actors’ different constructs into an
analyst’s single construct?
This question is not entirely new. All since Benjamin
Lee Whorf’s book “Language, Thought, and Reality”
was published about 50 years ago, this question has
kept popping up as an anthropological problem. The
basic problem is the one that concerns the gap between
different thought-worlds, which are expressed in dif-
ferent languages. The professional translators of fiction
and poetry have come to terms with this problem by
adopting a rewriting technique which presupposes not
only bilingual competence, but also certain bicultural
and artistic skills. The same kind of competence is not
the self-evident gift of every anthropologist. Hence, as
anthropologists, we might have to face this problem in
a different way.
The particular concept that has triggered off these
reflections is a Bantu word, ngoma. Its literal translation
is “drum.” However, in vast regions of Bantu-speaking
Africa, this word is also used with a variety of secondary
meanings. It may be used to designate many kinds of
rituals and ceremonies in which drums are beaten, or
songs are sung, whether such rituals are concerned with
healing, possession, or political celebrations. Further,
the same word may be used to designate certain cult
associations, or “organizations” for ritual music. It may
even be used as a term for ritual or secular musical
performances where drums are lacking. This means that
we are faced with enormous difficulties of translation,
Anthropos 96.2001
656
Rezensionen
if we want to explain what an African means when he
talks about ngoma.
The multivocality of the word ngoma is precisely
what has caused a whole group of anthropological
scholars in the Netherlands to publish a book about
it, or rather a book about what is implied in “the
institution of ngoma.,, The name of this book is “The
Quest for Fruition through Ngoma,” with a secondary
title pointing to a certain polemic stance: “The Political
Aspects of Healing in Southern Africa.”
The publication of the book under review is the result
of a seminar, which was organized in Leyden, as a
rejoinder to the book that John M. Janzen published
in 1992 on Ngoma. The title of Janzen’s book is
“Ngoma: Discourses of Healing in Central and Southern
Africa.”
This all turns this review into a review of a review,
since, as Janzen himself puts it in the afterword to
the book under review: ‘“The Quest for Fruition’ is
the ultimate review” (155). More precisely, the book
under review contains seven review articles by different
authors, in addition to the well-written introduction,
in which the editors (Rijk van Dijk, Ria Reis, and
Marja Spierenburg) present a very useful overview of
anthropological writings on cults of affliction, divina-
tion, spirit possession, ritual healing, and associated
activities in Bantu-speaking Africa, during the last three
decades. However, in this introduction, which so effi-
ciently summarises the most important studies of ritual
therapies in Central and Southern Africa, the authors
proceed to an hitherto rather neglected aspect of ritual
healing in Africa, viz., that of political transition. As the
editors point out, the political aspects of ngoma-rituals
are far more important than it seems from Janzen’s
book, which focuses on therapeutic ngoma-rituals. In
essence, they hold, all ngoma-rituals are concerned with
transition, implying liminal, anti-structural, “wild” and
“un-civilized” processes: “All ngoma, such as healing,
initiation rituals, and kingship rites, share a common
concern with the person in transition and the society in
transition” (6).
This brings us to the heart of the matter. What is
ngoma, and how useful is this word as an anlytical
concept in the hands of an anthropologist? Accord-
ing to Janzen’s afterword, the essence of ngoma is
“power”: “... I hazard a characterization of power in
ngoma without reducing it here to an academic theory”
(165). At the same time, Janzen seems to recognize the
concept of “quest for fruition” as an equally valuable
characterization: “Now, with this volume, ‘The Quest
for Fruition,’ we have begun a conversation between
scholars of western and eastern ngoma, from which a
new convergence of insight emerges” (165).
Faced with characterizations on such a general lev-
el, any anthropologist working outside Bantu-speaking
Africa, or any anthropologist concerned with compari-
sons of African and non-African rituals, has a reason
to ask: What if a society does not have that handy
word “ngoma” at its disposal? If we have to abandon
traditional anthropological concepts like “fertility ritu-
als,” “spirit possession,” “cult organizations,” and the
like, how do we go about to compare such phenomena
cross-culturally?
This is only one of the problems that I have with
the idea of the substitution of traditional “academic”
concepts for an all-inclusive, native term like “ngoma,”
especially since the translation suggested is equally
all-inclusive (i. e., “power” or “fruition”). In my view,
this is not sufficient for analytical purposes, even though
the concept of “ngoma” may carry deeply felt emotional
associations, once you are participating as an actor in a
ngoma context.
Another problem that I have with the acceptance of
an all-inclusive concept such as “ngoma” or “power,” or
the like, is that “ngoma” as a folk concept is being trans-
lated without any syntagmatic references. If “ngoma”
should be regarded as a central key concept associated
with “power,” “fruition,” and the like, then it should be
regarded as a key symbol, with symbolic, syntagmatic,
and paradigmatic relations as well. If the symbolic
references of this key concept have been identified as
“power,” we have to ask ourselves: What kind of power?
“Power” as against what?
Having worked with ritual symbols in Central Africa,
I have realised that ritual experts in the Bantu-speaking
region are very much preoccupied with what I would
call the “syntagmatic” relations between three terms
(not two, as Lévi-Strauss would have it). As a general
rule, the ritual expert tends to dress these three terms
in colours: white, black, and red. What the colours
“stand for” (thus, their symbolic relations) may vary
according to the context. But on the most general
level, the combination of white and black refers to
two determinate values, such as true vs. false, right
vs. wrong, etc. Being determinate values, they are apt
classificatory devices in any attempt at rational argumen-
tation, or rational explanation. Together, they represent
“structure.” However, the Africans south of the Sahara
are not content with the kind of two-value-logic that
seems to preoccupy Aristotelean philosophers. They are
well aware of the fact that there are a lot of phenomena,
processes, and mental states which defy classification
into one of two opposite categories, or according to a
“rational” structure. All that defies classification tends
to be designated with the colour red, especially in the
hands of ritual experts. Being completely indeterminate,
the “things” denoted as “red” will be associated with
a potential for anything to happen, or with a “magic”
power for good or for ill. That which is neither “true,”
nor “false,” neither “right,” nor “wrong,” neither “this,”
nor “that,” will contain the germ for miracle, transition,
catastrophy, or anything. It is pregnant with dynamic
power, with a potential for fertility, healing, and -
miracle. Or, to use the words of the editors in their
introduction: it is concerned with transition, liminality,
anti-structure, the wild, the un-civilized. However, in the
context of the introduction to the book under review, the
authors refer to the concept of ngoma, rather than to the
colour red as a ritual symbol.
This is another way of identifying the concept of
Anthropos 96.2001
Rezensionen
657
“power”, which seems to be the preferred translation of
the multivocal term “ngoma.” It presupposes an analysis
that takes into account the syntagmatic relations between
several symbols on the same level of expression. As far
as “ngoma” is concerned, I would assume that ratio-
nal speech, or the argumentation in a secular, judicial
process, would represent the “sounds” of structure and
rational order, as opposed to the “sounds” of anti-
structure, irrationaly, dynamic power, and potential for
transition and miracle that most people would associate
with “ngoma” - whether this term is translated as the
beating of drums, singing, dancing, or the entire ritual
performance called ngoma.
Some of this argument runs through several of
the contributions to the book under review. Thus, for
instance, Annette Drews shows that certain “contra-
dictions found in a society [in this case Zambia] -
such as those between women and men and between
church norms and ‘traditional’ ethics - are expressed
and shaped within a ngoma-like ritual” (58). In a simi-
lar vein of thought, Henny Blokland demonstrates the
role of ngoma-ntxxdXs, in the transformation of social
relationships in the Unyamwezi in Tanzania (22 ff.).
The idiom of ngoma thus seems to be the idiom of
boundary crossing and liminality, transformation and
transition, or a way to express the very essence of the
three-value-logic of the Bantu-speaking peoples: Right
now, we are faced with a problem that we will not
be able to resolve with rational reasoning. So let us
overcome the contradictions by having a ngomal
Anita Jacobson-Widding
Zimori, Henryk (ed.): Religia w swiecie wspolczes-
nym. Zarys problematyki religiologicznej. Lublin: To-
warzystwo Naukowe KUL, 2000. 653 pp. ISBN 83-
87703-95-8. Price: $ 15.00
Religion, next to language the most important el-
ement of culture, is the object of interest for many.
People of different races, cultures, and creeds come
closer through commercial and cultural contacts. These
contacts include wide access to information through
media, evangelization ministries of Christian churches
throughout the world, and growing missionary activity
of non-Christian religions and new religious movements
and sects in Christian countries. As a result, religious
and cultural pluralism is more widely recognized now
than ever before. In Poland as well as elsewhere in the
world one can observe the growing interest, especially
among younger people, in religion and mysticism, both
Christian and non-Christian, as witnessed by the grow-
ing number of registered religious denominations and
new religious movements.
The collective work “Religion in the Contemporary
World. A Compendium of the Religiological Issues” is
responsive to this growing interest. The editor, Henryk
Zimon SVD, is the head of the Chair of the History
and Ethnology of Religions, Religiological Section of
the Institute of Fundamental Theology at the Lublin
Catholic University’s Faculty of Theology. He is a pre-
eminent expert in non-Christian religions - in particular
in traditional African religions, religions of nonliterate
societies, and Buddhism - as well as in the area of
interreligious dialogue.
The book was published by “The Scientific Society
of the Catholic University of Lublin” (KUL). It is the
first time that Polish Catholic scholars have published
a handbook of religiological science of such broad
scope and diversity of subject. Due to the complexity
of religion and the variety of methods of inquiry, the
contributors comprise the totality of the possible meth-
ods of analysis of religious phenomena under the name
of “religiological studies” or religiology. Religiology
includes: study in comparative religion and its various
disciplines investigating religious phenomena and reli-
gions on the empirical plane (e.g., history of religion,
ethnology of religion, sociology of religion, psychology
of religion, phenomenology of religion, geography of
religion, ecology of religion); philosophy of religion;
and theology of religion.
The book consists of three parts, and it contains
23 articles presenting the results of comparative reli-
gion, philosophical and theological studies of various
aspects of religion and various non-Christian religions.
The authors are scholars from KUL and from other
academic centres, who have been working in the area of
religiology for many years. The table of contents (5-16)
and the editor’s preface (17-20) are written in Polish and
English. The first part of the book (23-203) includes
the following articles: “Sciences about Religion” (A.
Bronk), “What Is Religion and Why Does It Exist?”
and “Religion and Culture” (both Z. J. Zdybicka),
“The Genesis of Religion” (M. Rusecki), “Religion
and Human Personality” (Z. Chlewinski), “The Social
Character of Religion” (J. Marianski), and “Atheism”
(Z. Krzyszowski), This part deals with the nature of
religion and the role it plays in human life.
The second, most extensive part of the book (207-
486) contains syntheses of several ethnic and univer-
sal religions, with the focus on their historical de-
velopment, doctrine, ritual, and religious institutions.
The articles include: “Religions of Primitive Peoples”
(H. Zimon), “Hinduism” (M. S. Zi?ba), “Confucianism”
(Z. Wesolowski), “Taoism - China’s Native Religion”
(R. Malek), “Shintoism” (M. Melanowicz), “Judaism”
(R. Rubinkiewicz), “Buddhism” (H. Zimon), “Islam”
(S. Grodz), “New Religious Movements” (W. Kowalak),
and “New Age” (S. A. Wargacki). The authors clearly
attempted to present the non-Christian religions in an
objective and scholarly manner.
The third part (489-631) is devoted to issues of
theology of religion. It includes the following articles:
“Christianity” (M. Rusecki and K. Kaucha), “Exception-
al Character of Christianity” (I. S. Ledwon) “Salvation
Elements in Non-Christian Religions” (M. Rusecki),
“The Attitude of the Church towards Sects and New
Religious Movements” (Z. Pawlowicz), “The Dialogue
of Christianity with Non-Christian Religions” (J. Ur-
ban), and “Religious Pluralism and the Truthfulness of
Religion” (A. Bronk). This part has particular impor-
Anthropos 96.2001
658
Rezensionen
tance for theologians (clergy and laity), teachers, and
parents, who are responsible for the education of the
young generation and who help young people seeking
meaning in life and deeper Christian values.
Each article is followed by a list of sources, in Polish
and in other languages, pertaining to the subject of the
article. This book is concluded by an index of names
(633-648) and notes about the contributors (649-653).
This three-part handbook is a substantively valuable
compendium of religiological scholarship as it deals
with the phenomenon of religion and its various aspects
in the general sense and also within the scope of ethnic
and universal non-Christian religions and new religious
movements. The content provides ample theological
reflection with regard to the foregoing subjects. The
handbook, which has already become a bestseller in
scholarly Polish circles, is addressed - as the editor indi-
cates in the “Preface” (18) - to lecturers in religiology,
seminarians, students of theology, philosophy, compar-
ative religion, ethnology, culture, and oriental studies,
pastors and educators, as well as all those who are
interested in learning about non-Christian religions and
their theological interpretation in the light of Christian
revelation and contemporary Catholic Church doctrine.
For a handbook that necessarily presumes a certain level
of disciplinary knowledge, and hence uses some degree
of “technical” terminology, it is easily accessible and
clearly written, which is the testimony not only to the
authors but also to the editor. The readers will find
the handbook to be a rich source of information and
thoughtful discussion.
It is worth noting that the book is part of the newly
created series “Religiological Studies,” edited by H.
Zimori, which is published by the “Scientific Society of
KUL.” In 2001, the Society will publish three additional
books in the series. Zdzislaw Kupisinski
Anthropos 96.2001
Neue Publikationen
Abu-Zahra, Nadia: The Pure and Powerful. Studies
in Contemporary Muslim Society. Reading: Ithaca
Press, 1999. 320 pp. ISBN 0-86372-269-5.
Abramson, J.A.: Art in Nonliterate Societies. Structural
Approaches and Implications for Sociocultural and
System Theories. Kalamazoo: New Issues Press,
2000. 420 pp. ISBN 0-932826-33-4.
Adam, Barbara, et al. (eds.): The Risk Society and
Beyond. Critical Issues for Social Theory. London:
Sage Publications, 2000. 232 pp. ISBN 0-7619-
6469-X.
Aebischer, Adolf: Gottes weiter Horizont in dir. Ge-
spräche über Christentum und Zen-Buddhismus,
Kirche und Gesellschaft. Aufgez. von Josef Bos-
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Agbasiere, Joseph Thérèse: Women in Igbo Life and
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Aigle, Denise, et al. (éds.): La politique des esprits.
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Allen, James P.: Middle Egyptian. An Introduction to
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Allen, Richard B.: Slaves, Freedmen, and Indentured
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Arai, Paula Kane Robinson: Women Living Zen. Jap-
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Arhem, Kaj: Ethnographic Puzzles. Essays on Social
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The Athlone Press, 2000. 274 pp. ISBN 0-485-
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Ariarajah, Wesley S.: Not Without My Neighbour.
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Arrieros y colonización. Antioquia y Viejo Caldas 1850-
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20 pp.
Atkinson, Paul, et al. (eds.): Handbook of Ethnography.
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Banerjee, Mukulika: The Pathan Unarmed. Opposition
and Memory in the North West Frontier. Oxford:
James Currey; Santa Fe: School of American Re-
search Press, 2000. 238 pp. ISBN 0-85255-273-4;
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Bartens, Raija: Permiläisten kielten rakenne ja kehi-
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Baumann, Gerd: The Multicultural Riddle. Rethinking
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92213-5.
Beck, Ulrich (Hrsg.): Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft.
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Bekkum, W. van: Geschiedenis van Manggarai (West-
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Bellenger, Xavier (ed.): Winaya Q’axilunaka. Eter-
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Consumption and Cultural Creativity in the Andes.
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259 pp. ISBN 0-226-11395-7.
Cook, John W.: Morality and Cultural Differences.
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ISBN 0-19-512679-3.
Coon, Carl: Culture Wars and the Global Village.
A Diplomat’s Perspective. Amherst: Prometheus
Books, 2000. 256 pp. ISBN 1-57392-801-1.
Cordeu, Edgardo Jorge: Transfiguraciones simbólicas.
Ciclo ritual de los indios tomaráxo del Chaco
Boreal. Quito: Ediciones Abya-Yala, 1999. 339 pp.
ISBN 9978-04-474-4. (Biblioteca Abya-Yala, 63)
Couldry, Nick: Inside Culture. Re-Imaging the Method
of Cultural Studies. London: Sage Publications,
2000. 166 pp. ISBN 0-7619-6916-0.
Cowlishaw, Gillian: Rednecks, Eggheads, and Black-
fellas. A Study of Racial Power and Intimacy in
Australia. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan
Press, 1999. 352 pp. ISBN 0-472-08648-0.
Crane, Diana: Fashion and Its Social Agendas. Class,
Gender, and Identity in Clothing. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 2000. 294 pp. ISBN
0-226-11798-7.
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Space, and Relations. London: Routledge, 1999.
322 pp. ISBN 0-415-16828-7.
Crapanzano, Vincent: Serving the Word. Literalism in
America from the Pulpit to the Bench. New York:
The New Press, 2000. 406 pp. ISBN 1-56584-412-
2.
Crawford, Michael H.: The Origins of Native Amer-
icans. Evidence from Anthropological Genetics.
Pbk. ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000. 308 pp. ISBN 0-521-00410-1.
Croegaert, Luc: The African Continent. An Insight into
Its Earliest History. Nairobi: Paulines Publications
Africa, 1999. 336 pp. ISBN 9966-21-441-0.
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Prehispanic Southwest. Labor, Power, and Prestige.
Santa Fe: School of American Research Press;
Oxford: James Currey, 2001. 503 pp. ISBN 0-
933452-17-9; ISBN 0-85255-922-4.
Cruikshank, Julie: The Social Life of Stories. Narrative
and Knowledge in the Yukon Territory. Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 2000. 211 pp. ISBN
0-8032-6409-7.
Das, Veena, et al. (eds.): Violence and Subjectivity.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.
379 pp. ISBN 0-520-21608-3.
---- Remaking a World. Violence, Social Suffering, and
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2001. 294 pp. ISBN 0-520-22330-6.
Davies, Douglas J.: The Mormon Culture of Salvation.
Force, Grace, and Glory. Aldershot: Ashgate Pub-
lishing, 2000. 293 pp. ISBN 0-7546-1330-5.
Deimel, Claus, und Elke Ruhnau: Jaguar und Schlange.
Der Kosmos der Indianer in Mittel- und Südameri-
ka. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 2000. 235 pp.,
Fotos. ISBN 3-496-02695-2.
Delson, Eric, et al: Body Mass in Cercopithecidae
(Primates, Mammalia). Estimation and Scaling in
Extinct and Extant Taxa. New York: American
Museum of Natural History, 2000. 159 pp. ISSN
0065-9452. (Anthropological Papers, 83)
Demakopoulou, Katie, et al: Gods and Heroes of the
European Bronze Age. London: Thames and Hud-
son, 1998. 303 pp., photos. ISBN 0-500-01915-0.
Derber, Charles: The Pursuit of Attention. Power and
Ego in Everyday Life. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2000. 133 pp. ISBN 0-19-513549-0.
Devisch, René, and Claude Brodeur: The Law of the
Lifegivers. The Domestication of Desire. Amster-
dam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1999. 268 pp.
ISBN 90-5702-422-5.
Dietler, Michael, and Brian Hayden (eds.): Feasts.
Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on
Food, Politics, and Power. Washington: Smith-
sonian Institution Press, 2001. 432 pp. ISBN 1-
56098-840-1.
Doniger, Wendy: Splitting the Difference. Gender and
Myth in Ancient Greece and India. Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1999. 376 pp. ISBN
0-226-15641-9.
Doolittle, William E.: Cultivated Landscapes of Na-
tive North America. New York: Oxford University
Press, 2000. 574 pp. ISBN 0-19-823420-1.
Douglas, Mary: Implicit Meanings. Selected Essays in
Anthropology. 2nd ed. London: Routledge, 1999.
322 pp. ISBN 0-415-20554-9.
Dresch, Paul, et al. (eds.): Anthropologists in a Wider
World. Essays on Field Research. New York: Berg-
hahn Books, 2000. 310 pp. ISBN 1-57181-799-9.
(Methodology and History in Anthropology, 7)
Dupont, Véronique, et al. (eds.): Delhi. Urban Space
and Human Destinies. New Delhi: Manohar Pub-
lishers, 2000. 261 pp. ISBN 81-7304-366-3.
Dussart, Françoise: The Politics of Ritual in an Aborig-
inal Settlement. Kinship, Gender, and the Currency
of Knowledge. Washington: Smithsonian Institu-
tion Press, 2000. 269 pp. ISBN 1-56098-393-0.
Early, John D., and John F. Peters: The Xilixana Ya-
nomami of the Amazon. History, Social Structure,
and Population Dynamics. Gainesville: University
Press of Florida, 2000. 324 pp. ISBN 0-8130-1762-
9.
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506 pp. ISBN 0-415-11404-7.
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and Southern Africa in World History, 1000 B.C. to
A.D. 400. Pbk. ed. Charlottesville: University Press
of Virginia; Oxford: James Currey, 2001. 354 pp.
ISBN 0-8139-2057-4; ISBN 0-85255-788-4.
Ellen, Roy, et al (eds.): Indigenous Environmen-
tal Knowledge and Its Transformations. Critical
Anthropological Perspectives. Amsterdam: Har-
wood Academic Publishers, 2000. 356 pp. ISBN
90-5702-484-5. (Studies in Environmental Anthro-
pology, 5)
Ellingson, Ter: The Myth of the Noble Savage. Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 2001. 445 pp.
ISBN 0-520-22610-0.
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662
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Entwistle, Joanne: The Fashioned Body. Fashion,
Dress, and Modern Social Theory. Cambridge:
Polity Press, 2000. 258 pp. ISBN 0-7456-2007-8.
Eriksen, Thomas Hylland: Small Places, Large Issues.
An Introduction to Social and Cultural Anthropol-
ogy. 2nd ed. London: Pluto Press, 2001. 342 pp
ISBN 0-7453-1772-3.
Erlmann, Veit: Music, Modernity, and the Global Imag-
ination. South Africa and the West. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1999. 312 pp. ISBN 0-
19-512367-0.
Evers, Hans-Dieter, and Rüdiger Korff: Southeast
Asian Urbanism. The Meaning and Power of Social
Space. Münster: Lit Verlag, 2000. 268 pp. ISBN
3-8258-4021-2. (Market, Culture, and Society, 7)
Falola, Toyin: The History of Nigeria. Westport: Green-
wood Press, 1999. 270 pp. ISBN 0-313-30682-6.
Feest, Christian F. (ed.): Studies in American In-
dian Art. A Memorial Tribute to Norman Feder.
Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001.
208 pp., photos. ISBN 3-00-005871-0. (ERNAS
Monographs, 2)
Feldman-Savelsberg, Pamela: Plundered Kitchens,
Empty Wombs. Threatened Reproduction and Iden-
tity in the Cameroon Grassfields. Ann Arbor: The
University of Michigan Press, 1999. 257 pp. ISBN
0-472-10989-8.
Fisher, William H.: Rain Forest Exchanges. Industry
and Community on an Amazonian Frontier. Wash-
ington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000. 222 pp.
ISBN 1-56098-983-1.
Fitzhugh, William W., and Chisato O. Dubreuil (eds.):
Ainu. Spirit of a Northern People. Washington:
Arctic Studies Center, National Museum of Natural
History, Smithsonian Institution, 1999. 415 pp.,
photos. ISBN 0-9673429-0-2.
Fleras, Augie, and Paul Spoonley: Recalling Aotearoa.
Indigenous Politics and Ethnic Relations in New
Zealand. Auckland: Oxford University Press, 1999.
288 pp. ISBN 0-19-558371-X.
Fontes, Manuel da Costa: Folklore and Literature.
Studies in the Portuguese, Brazilian, Sephardic, and
Hispanic Oral Traditions. Albany: SUNY Press,
2000. 327 pp. ISBN 0-7914-4492-9.
Forshee, Jill: Between the Folds. Stories of Cloth,
Lives, and Travels from Sumba. Honolulu: Uni-
versity of Hawai’i Press, 2001. 266 pp. ISBN
0-8248-2346-X.
Fortier, Anne-Marie: Migrant Belongings. Memory,
Space, Identity. Oxford: Berg, 2000. 209 pp. ISBN
1-85973-410-3.
Fouberg, Erin Hogan: Tribal Territory, Sovereignty,
and Governance. A Study of the Cheyenne River
and Lake Traverse Indian Reservations. New York:
Garland Publishing, 2000. 213 pp. ISBN 0-8153-
3494-X.
Fuchs, Stephen: Inculturation. An Anthropological and
Theological Perspective. Sep.: Dialogue in Action
(New Delhi) 1988:134-151.
Furth, Charlotte: A Flourishing Yin. Gender in China’s
Medical History, 960-1665. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1999. 355 pp. ISBN 0-520-20829-
3.
Gächter, Othmar: Varuna. Sep.: Lexikon für Theologie
und Kirche, Bd. 10 (Freiburg) 2001: 538.
--- Vishnu, Vishnuismus. Sep.: Lexikon für Theologie
und Kirche, Bd. 10 (Freiburg) 2001: 809-810.
Gallissot, René, Mondher Kilani et Annamaria Ri-
vera: L’imbroglio ethnique. En quatorze mots clés.
Lausanne: Editions Payot, 2000. 294 pp. ISBN
2-601-03268-5.
Gamburd, Michele Ruth: The Kitchen Spoon’s Han-
dle. Transnationalism and Sri Lanka’s Migrant
Housemaids. Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
2000. 275 pp. ISBN 0-8014-8644-0.
Gannon, Martin J.: Understanding Global Cultures.
Metaphorical Journeys through 23 Nations. 2nd ed.
Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications, 2001. 466 pp.
ISBN 0-7619-1329-7.
García Jordán, Pilar et al. (eds.): Estrategias de poder
en América Latina. VII Encuentro-Debate. América
Latina ayer y hoy. Barcelona: Universität de Barce-
lona, 2000. 503 pp. ISBN 84-475-2447-7.
Gaski, Harald (ed.): Sami Culture in a New Era. The
Norwegian Sami Experience. Karasjok: Davii Girji
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of Medical Anthropology. Readings. Amsterdam:
Het Spinhuis, 1998. 421 pp. ISBN 90-5589-106-1.
Gell, Alfred: Art and Agency. An Anthropological
Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. 271 pp.
ISBN 0-19-828014-9.
Gillette, Maris Boyd: Between Mecca and Beijing.
Modernization and Consumption among Urban
Chinese Muslims. Stanford: Stanford University
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Goepper, Roger: Aspekte des traditionellen chine-
sischen Kunstbegriffs. Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher
Verlag, 2000. 36 pp. ISBN 3-531-07369-9. (Nord-
rhein-Westfälische Akademie der Wissenschaften,
Vorträge G, 369)
Goldman, Laurence R. (ed.): Social Impact Analysis.
An Applied Anthropology Manual. Oxford: Berg,
2000. 347 pp. ISBN 1-85973-392-1.
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phy. Walnut Creek: AltaMira, 2000. 221 pp. ISBN
0-7425-0339-9. (Ethnographie Alternatives Book
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Gordon, Bruce, and Peter Marshall (eds.): The Place
of the Dead. Death and Remembrance in Late
Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000. 324 pp. ISBN
0-521-64518-2.
Gothóni, René: Attitudes and Interpretations in Com-
parative Religion. Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedea-
katemia, 2000. 173 pp. ISBN 951-41-0877-9. (FF
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Gow, Peter: An Amazonian Myth and Its History.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. 338 pp.
ISBN 0-19-924195-3.
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Green, December: Gender Violence in Africa. African
Women’s Responses. New York: St. Martin’s Press,
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Greenfield, Sidney M., and André Droogers (eds.):
Reinventing Religions. Syncretism and Transfor-
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man & Littlefield Publishers, 2001. 232 pp. ISBN
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Grijns, Kees, and Peter J.M. Nas (eds.): Jakarta - Ba-
tavia. Socio-Cultural Essays. Leiden: KITLV Press,
2000. 349 pp. ISBN 90-6718-139-0. (Verhandelin-
gen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-
en Volkenkunde, 187)
Grube, Nikolai, et al (eds.): Maya. Gottkönige im
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Gruenbaum, Ellen: The Female Circumcision Con-
troversy. An Anthropological Perspective. Phila-
delphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001.
242 pp. ISBN 0-8122-1746-2.
Guha, Ramachandra, and Jonathan P. Parry (eds.):
Institutions and Inequalities. Essays in Honour
of André Béteille. New Delhi: Oxford University
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Haley, Shawn D., and Ellie Braun-Haley: War on
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New York: Berghahn Books, 2000. 243 pp. ISBN
1-57181-117-6. (Public Issues in Anthropological
Perspectives, 2)
Halpern, Joel M., and David A. Kideckel (eds.):
Neighbors at War. Anthropological Perspectives on
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sity Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press,
2000. 477 pp. ISBN 0-271-01979-4.
Hancock, Mary Elizabeth: Womanhood in the Making.
Domestic Ritual and Public Culture in Urban South
India. Oxford: Westview Press, 1999. 286 pp. ISBN
0-8133-3889-1.
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Handoo, Jawaharlal (ed.): Folklore in Modern India.
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Hanlon, David, and Geoffrey M. White (eds.): Voy-
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Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2000. 443 pp.
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Hardman, Charlotte E.: Other Worlds. Notions of Self
and Emotion among the Lohorung Rai. Oxford:
Berg, 2000. 315 pp. ISBN 1-85973-155-4.
Harrell, Stevan, et ai: Mountain Patterns. The Survival
of Nuosu Culture in China. Seattle: University
of Washington Press, 2000. 64 pp., photos. ISBN
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Harris, Max: Aztecs,. Moors, and Christians. Festi-
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University of Texas Press, 2000. 309 pp. ISBN
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Hatto, Arthur T.: The Mohave Heroic Epic of Inyo-
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6. (FF Communications, 269)
Haught, John F.: God after Darwin. A Theology of
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Headley, Stephen C.: From Cosmogony to Exorcism
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19-823423-6.
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Heine-Geldern, Robert: Gesammelte Schriften; Bde.
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Heinz, Donald: The Last Passage. Recovering a Death
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tian Philosophical and Theological Perspectives.
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Helms, Mary W.: The Curassow’s Crest. Myths and
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190 pp. ISBN 0-8130-1746-7.
Hendry, Joy: The Orient Strikes Back. A Global View
of Cultural Display. Oxford: Berg, 2000. 257 pp.
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of the Urban Poor, Transvestites, Discapacitados,
and Other Popular Cultures. Austin: University of
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65569-2.
Hinton, Elizabeth: Oldest Brother’s Story. Tales of the
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Hodgson, Dorothy L. (ed.): Rethinking Pastoralism in
Africa. Gender, Culture, and the Myth of the Patri-
archal Pastoralist. Oxford: James Currey; Athens:
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85255-911-9; ISBN 0-8214-1370-8.
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in Kult und Alltag. Stuttgart: Verlag Arte America,
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tumskunde; Bd. 17: Kleinere Götter - Landschafts-
archäologie. 2., völlig neu bearb. und stark erw.
Aufl., hrsg. von Heinrich Beck et al. Berlin: Walter
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Hoopes, John W., et al.: Mayfield’s Quick View Guide
to the Internet for Anthropology. Mountain View:
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Hornborg, Alf, and Mikael Kurkiala (eds.): Voices
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Hornborg, Alf, and Gísli Pálsson (eds.): Negotiating
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ment. Lund: Lund University Press, 2000. 224 pp.
ISBN 91-7966-582-9. (Lund Studies in Human
Ecology, 2)
Horton, Mark, and John Middleton: The Swahili.
The Social Landscape of a Mercantile Society.
Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2000. 282 pp. ISBN
0-631-18919-X.
Huber-Rudolf, Barbara, et al. (Hrsg.): Der Islam im
Spiegel muslimischer Schriftsteller. Ein Lesebuch.
Frankfurt: Cibedo, 2000. 134 pp. ISSN 0932-3945.
Hubmayer, Gerald: Die ewig dunklen Erdschlünde.
Ihre Entdecker - Ihre Erforscher. Der Speläologe
als zoon politikon. Wien-Föhrenau: Elisabeth Stigl-
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tica, 66)
Hudson, Mark J.: Ruins of Identity. Ethnogenesis
in the Japanese Islands. Honolulu: University of
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Hunt, Nancy Rose: A Colonial Lexicon. Of Birth
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ISBN 0-8223-2366-4.
Huynh Sanh Thong: The Golden Serpent. How Hu-
mans Learned to Speak and Invent Culture. Ham-
den: Selbstverlag, 1999. 817 pp.
Hutton, Ronald: The Triumph of the Moon. A History
of Modern Pagan Witchcraft. Oxford: Oxford Uni-
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Icke-Schwalbe, Lydia, und Rose Hempel: Uchiwa und
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Itier, César (ed.): Karu Ñankunapi. Usi comunidad
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la Tradición Oral Andina, 20; Travaux de l’Institut
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Ivanova, Radost: Folklore of the Change. Folk Culture
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8. (FF Communications, 270)
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2- 8254-1321-6.
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Janzing, Gereon: Psychoaktive Drogen weltweit. Zu
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Jason, Heda: Motif, Type, and Genre. A Manual for
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Junker, Marie-Odile: Quantification in East Cree and
Linguistic Relativity. Winnipeg: Linguistics De-
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Just, Roger: A Greek Island Cosmos. Kinship and
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933452-73-X.
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579-05317-5.
Kapcia, Antoni: Cuba. Island of Dreams. Oxford: Berg,
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Katz, Nathan: Who Are the Jews of India? Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2000. 205 pp. ISBN
0-520-21323-8.
Kayanga, Samuel E., and Andrew C. Wheeler (eds.):
“But God Is Not Defeated.” Celebrating the Cen-
tenary of the Episcopal Church of the Sudan,
1899-1999. Nairobi: Paulines Publications Africa,
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Keifenheim, Barbara: Wege der Sinne. Wahrnehmung
und Kunst bei den Kashinawa-Indianern Amazoni-
ens. Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 2000. 264 pp. ISBN
3-593-36602-9.
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of War. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan
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Kershaw, Kris: The One-Eyed God. Odin and the
(Indo-)Germanic Männerbünde. Washington: Insti-
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8.
Khoury, Adel Theodor, et al.: Handbuch Recht und
Kultur des Islams in der deutschen Gesellschaft.
Probleme im Alltag - Hintergründe - Antworten.
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Theory, India, and “The Mystic East.” London:
Routledge, 1999. 283 pp. ISBN 0-415-20258-2.
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Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University
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Routledge, 2000. 254 pp. ISBN 0-415-22441-1.
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Prestel Verlag, 1999. 239 pp., Fotos. ISBN 3-7913-
2180-3.
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für Anfänger. Wyk auf Foehr: Verlag für Amerika-
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Kuada, John, and Yao Chachah: Ghana. Understand-
ing the People and Their Culture. Accra: Woeli
Publishing Service, 1999. 102 pp. ISBN 9964-978-
60-X.
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sins. Histoire de peuplement et relations intereth-
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Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität, SFB 268,
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Sonderforschungsbereichs 268 “Kulturentwicklung
und Sprachgeschichte im Naturraum Westafrika-
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Die Kunst Neuguineas. Jubiläums-Austeilung: 125 Jahre
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Kuper, Adam: Culture. The Anthropologists’ Ac-
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Kupisihski, Zdzislaw: Zwyczaje i obrzçdy adwentowe
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--- Przemiany w kulturze ludowej regionu Opoc-
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--- Niedziela Palmowa w zwyczajach i obrzçdach lu-
dowych w Opoczynskiem. Sep.: Roczniki Teolo-
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--- Religijnosc ludowa okresu wielkiego postu w
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Opoczyriskiem. Sep.: Studia etnologicznei antropo-
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Studium religijnosch ludowej. Warszawa: Verbi-
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Lamb, Sarah: White Saris and Sweet Mangoes. Aging,
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Larson, Pier M.: History and Memory in the Age
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Pueblo Identity over the Centuries. Albuquerque:
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Lum, Kenneth Anthony: Praising His Name in the
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McMullen, Michael: The Baha’i. The Religious Con-
struction of a Global Identity. New Brunswick:
Rutgers University Press, 2000. 246 pp. ISBN
0-8135-2836-4.
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513464-8.
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University of Illinois Press, 2000. 182 pp. ISBN
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Maxwell, Anne: Colonial Photography and Exhibitions.
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Mbock, Charly Gabriel: Le chant du signe. Essai
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Medicine Crow, Joseph: From the Heart of the Crow
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University of Nebraska Press, 2000. 138 pp. ISBN
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Michell, George, and Mark Zebrowski: The New
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Cambridge University Press, 1999. 297 pp. ISBN
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Mills, Mary B.: Thai Women in the Global Labor
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Molnar, Andrea Katalin: Grandchildren of the Ga’é
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Les rituels du dialogue. Promenades ethnolinguis-
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Moran, Emilio F.: Human Adaptability. An Introduc-
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Pauli, Julia: Das geplante Kind. Demographischer,
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Rapp, Rayna: Testing Women, Testing the Fetus. The
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Richter, Sabine: Das Powwow-Fest bei den Black-
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Riesz, János: Europäisch-afrikanische Literaturbezie-
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Robertson, Alexander F.: Greed. Gut Feelings, Growth,
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Rudloff, Robert von: Hekate in Ancient Greek Re-
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Ruf, Gregory A.: Cadres and Kin. Making a Social-
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Rumsey, Alan, and James F. Weiner (eds.): Emplaced
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Sahlins, Marshall: Culture in Practice. Selected Essays.
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Salgado López, Héctor, y Alba Nelly Gómez García:
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Salzman, Philip Carl: The Anthropology of Real Life.
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Santos, Juana Elbein dos (ed.): Nossos ancestrais e o
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Scarduelli, Pietro (ed.): Antropología del rito. Interpre-
tazioni et spiegazioni. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri
editore, 2000. 214 pp. ISBN 88-339-5651-2.
Schäfer, Rita: Gender und ländliche Entwicklung in
Afrika. Eine kommentierte Bibliographie. Münster:
Lit Verlag, 2000. 383 pp. ISBN 3-8258-5053-6.
(Spektrum, 75)
Scheffler, Harold W.: Filiation and Affiliation. Oxford:
Westview Press, 2001. 202 pp. ISBN 0-8133-3761-
5.
Schiffer, Michael Brian: The Material Life of Human
Beings. Artifacts, Behavior, and Communication.
London: Routledge, 1999. 158 pp. ISBN 0-415-
20033-4.
Schlosser, Katesa (Hrsg.): Masken in Papua Neugui-
nea 1978. Anhang: Museumsobjekte aus Papua-
Neuguinea. Masken und Figuren. Album mit 30
Postkarten. Kiel: Museum für Völkerkunde der
Universität Kiel, 2000. 30 pp., Fotos.
Schmelz, Bernd: Carl Friedrich Philipp von Martius
(1794-1868) - “Vater der brasilianischen Völker-
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Schmidt, Bettina E., and Ingo W. Schröder (eds.):
Anthropology of Violence and Conflict. London:
Routledge, 2001. 229 pp. ISBN 0-415-22906-5.
Schubert, Michaela: Prostitution und Ausstieg. Un-
tersuchungen und Überlegungen zur Ausstiegspro-
blematik aus dem Prostituiertenmilieu. Wien-
Föhrenau: Elisabeth Stiglmayr, 1995. 96 pp.
(Acta Ethnologica et Lingüistica, 68)
Schuerkens, Ulrike: Du Togo allemand aux Togo
et Ghana indépendants. Changement social sous
régime colonial. Paris: Editions L’Harmattan, 2001.
619 pp. ISBN 2-7475-0248-1.
Scott, Susan, and Christopher J. Duncan: Biology
of Plagues. Evidence from Historical Populations.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
420 pp. ISBN 0-521-80150-8.
Scrambical Clarence, (ed.): In His Foot Steps ... To-
gether towards the New Millennium. Divine Word
Missionaries (1875-2000). Indore: Divine Word
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Segersträle, Ullica: Defenders of the Truth. The Battle
for Science in the Sociobiology Debate and Be-
yond. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. 493
pp. ISBN 0-19-850505-1.
Seithel, Friderike: Von der Kolonialethnologie zur
Advocacy Anthropology. Zur Entwicklung einer
kooperativen Forschung und Praxis von Ethno-
loglnnen und indigenen Völkern. Hamburg: Lit
Verlag, 2000. 528 pp. ISBN 3-8258-4082-4. (In-
terethnische Beziehungen und Kulturwandel, 34)
Sereburä et al.: Wamreme Za’ra - Nossa Palavra. Mito
et histöria do povo Xavante. Säo Paulo: Editora
Senac, 1997. 179 pp. ISBN 85-7359-033-5.
Sharma, J.B., and S.P. Sharma: Parsis in India. Jaipur:
Sublime Publications, 1999. 304 pp. ISBN 81-
85809-51-8. (Studies in Indian Culture, Religion,
and Society Series, 6)
Shell-Duncan, Bettina, and Ylva Hernlund (eds.):
Female “Circumcision” in Africa. Culture, Contro-
versy, and Change. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Pub-
lishers, 2000. 349 pp. ISBN 1-55587-871-7
Sick, Deborah: Farmers of the the Golden Bean. Costa
Rica Households and the Global Coffee Economy.
DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999.
169 pp. ISBN 0-87580-579-5.
Simon, Artur (Hrsg.): Das Berliner Phonogramm-
Archiv 1900-2000. Sammlungen der traditionellen
Musik der Welt - The Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv
1900-2000. Collections of Traditional Music of the
World. Berlin: VWB - Verlag für Wissenschaft und
Bildung, 2000. 264 pp. ISBN 3-86135-680-5.
Singh, Pashaura, and N. Gerald Barrier (eds.): Sikh
Identity. Continuity and Change. New Delhi: Ma-
nohar, 1999. 397 pp. ISBN 81-7304-236-5.
Singh, Pritam, and Shinder Singh Thandi (eds.):
Punjabi Identity in a Global Context. New Del-
hi: Oxford University Press, 1999. 416 pp. ISBN
0-19-564864-1.
Smith, Andy, et al.: The Bushmen of Southern Africa.
A Foraging Society in Transition. Cape Town:
David Philip Publishers; Athens: Ohio Üniversity
Press, 2000. 112 pp. ISBN 0-86486-419-1; ISBN
0-8214-1341-4.
Snell, Alma Hogan: Grandmother’s Grandchild. My
Crow Indian Life. Ed. by Becky Matthews. Lin-
coln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000. 213 pp.
ISBN 0-8032-4277-8.
Socolow, Susan Migden: The Women of Colonial Latin
America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000. 237 pp. ISBN 0-521-47642-9.
Sonesson, Birgit: Puerto Rico’s Commerce, 1765—
1865. From Regional to Worldwide Market Rela-
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Publications, 2000. 338 pp. ISBN 0-87903-085-2.
(UCLA Latin American Studies, 85)
Soren, Sagram Santosh Kumar (ed.): Santalia. Ca-
talogue of Santali Manuscripts in Oslo - Oslore
Menak’ Hor Rorte Olak’ko Reak’ Talkha. Copen-
hagen: Nordic Institute for Asian Studies, 1999.
180 pp. ISBN 87-87062-73-9. (NIAS Report Se-
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Spindler, George, and Louise Spindler: Fifty Years of
Anthropology and Education, 1950-2000. A Spind-
ler Anthology. Ed. by George Spindler. Mahwah:
Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publishers, 2000.
434 pp. ISBN 0-8058-3495-8.
Stephens, Thomas M.: Dictionary of Latin American
Racial and Ethnic Terminology. 2nd ed. Gaines-
ville: University Press of Florida, 1999. 863 pp.
ISBN 0-8130-1705-X.
Stephenson, Nigel A.: Kastom or Komuniti. A Study of
Social Process and Change among the Warn People,
East Sepik Province, Papua New Guinea. Basel:
Wepf Verlag, 2001. 474 pp. ISBN 3-85977-202-3.
(Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie, 40)
Stewart, Pamela J., and Andrew Strathern: Identity
Work. Constructing Pacific Lives. Pittsburgh: Uni-
versity of Pittsburgh Press, 2000. 217 pp. ISBN
0-8229-5716-7. (ASAO Monograph Series, 18)
--- Humors and Substances. Ideas of the Body in New
Guinea. Westport: Bergin & Garvey, 2001. 156 pp.
ISBN 0-89789-762-5.
Stone, Linda: Kinship and Gender. An Introduction.
2nd ed. Oxford: Westview Press, 2000. 322 pp.
ISBN 0-8133-3728-3.
Strathern, Marilyn: Property, Substance, and Effect.
Anthropological Essays on Persons and Things.
London: The Athlone Press, 1999. 336 pp. ISBN
0-485-12149-2.
Swaan, Abram de: Human Societies. An Introduction.
Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001. 160 pp. ISBN 0-
7456-2592-4.
Tan, Michael Lim: Good Medicine. Pharmaceuticals
and the Construction of Power and Knowledge in
the Philippines. Amsterdam: Het Spinhuis, 1999.
325 pp. ISBN 90-5589-071-5.
Tatum, Jim C.: A Motif-Index of Luis Rosado Vega’s
Mayan Legends. Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedea-
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Taylor, Colin F.: Hoka Hey! Scalps to Coups. The
Impact of the Horse on Plains Indian Warfare -
Von Skalps zu Coups. Der Einfluß des Pferdes
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Foehr: Verlag für Amerikanistik, 2000. 83 pp.
ISBN 3-89510-075-7.
Taylor, J., and N. Westbury: Aboriginal Nutrition
and the Nyirranggulung Health Strategy in Jawoyn
Country. Canberra: CAEPR, The Australian Na-
tional University, 2000. 83 pp. ISBN 0-7315-5103-
6. (CAEPR Research Monograph, 19)
Thompson, Charles D., Jr.: Maya Identities and the
Neue Publikationen
Violence of Place. Borders Bleed. Aldershot: Ash-
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Tol, Roger, et al. (eds.): Authority and Enterprise
among the Peoples of South Sulawesi. Leiden:
KITLV Press, 2000. 285 pp. ISBN 90-6718-145-5.
(Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor
Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 188)
Tómala, Karin: Zhongguo - “Reich der Mitte”. China
auf dem steinigen Weg in die Welt. Warschau:
Polska Akademia Nauk, 2000. 146 pp. ISBN 83-
87545-39-2.
Toren, Christina: Mind, Materiality, and History. Ex-
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ledge, 1999. 209 pp. ISBN 0-415-19577-2.
Trenk, Marin: Die Milch des weißen Mannes. Die
Indianer Nordamerikas und der Alkohol. Berlin:
Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 2001. 232 pp. ISBN 3-
496-02492-5.
Tryjarski, Edward: Bestattungssitten türkischer Völker
auf dem Hintergrund ihrer Glaubensvorstellungen.
Berlin: Reinhold Schletzer Verlag, 2001. 448 pp.
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Tsomo, Karma Lekshe (ed.): Buddhist Women across
Cultures. Realizations. Delhi: Sri Satguru Publica-
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Tuzin, Donald: Social Complexity in the Making. A
Case Study among the Arapesh of New Guinea.
London: Routledge, 2001. 159 pp. ISBN 0-415-
11899-9.
Uribe, Victoria María, y Eduardo Restrepo (eds.):
Antropología en la modernidad. Identidades, et-
nicidades y movimientos sociales en Colombia.
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Vajda, László: Ethnologica. Ausgewählte Aufsätze.
Hrsg, von Xaver Götzfried et al. Wiesbaden:
Harrassowitz Verlag, 1999. 572 pp. ISBN 3-447-
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Vertovec, Steven: The Hindu Diaspora. Comparative
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Villas Boas, Claudio, y Orlando Villa Boas: Alma-
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ISBN 85-250-2134-2.
Visona, Monica Blackmun, el al: A History of Art in
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Wagner, Roy: An Anthropology of the Subject. Holo-
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Ward, Graeme K., and Claudio Thniz (eds.): Ad-
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Papers from the First Australian Rock-Picture Dat-
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Warde, Alan, and Lydia Martens: Eating Out. Social
Differentiation, Consumption, and Pleasure. Cam-
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Watson, C.W.: Multiculturalism. Concepts in the So-
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History in Colonial Africa. Berkeley: University of
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Whitehouse, Harvey: Arguments and Icons. Divergent
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Willis, Paul: The Ethnographic Imagination. Cam-
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0174-X.
Wilson, David J.: Indigenous South Americans of
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Wolf, Eric R.: Pathways of Power. Building an An-
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Sides of Medicine. Cree Taels of Curing and
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Wunderli, Peter: Realitätskonstitution und mythi-
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Zarrilli, Phillip B.: Kathakali Dance-Drama. Where
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Zimoh Henryk: Z Badan nad kultem ziemi u ludu
Konkomba z polnocnej Ghany. Sep.: Roczniki Teo-
logiczne 1994: 17-35.
--- Ziemia w rytualach dozynkowych u ludu Konkom-
ba z polnocnej Ghany. Sep.: Roczniki Teologiczne
1995: 91-102.
--- Modlitwa u ludow afrykanskich. Sep.: Roczniki
Teologiczne 1998:333-345.
--- Rytualy pochowkowe starszych mçzczyzn u ludu
Konkomba z polnocnej Ghany. Sep.: Roczniki Teo-
logiczne 1998: 137-154.
--- Afrykanskie wartosci duchowe i religijne. Sep.:
Roczniki Teologiczne 1999: 107-123.
--- Religijny wymiar wybranych rytualöw u ludu Kon-
komba z polnocnej Ghany. Sep.: Studia Etnolo-
giczne i antropoligiczne (Katowice) 1999: 115—
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Zimoh Henryk (ed.): Religia w swiecie wspolczesnym.
Zarys problematyki religiologicznej. Lublin: To-
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87703-95-8. (Prace Wydzialu Teologicznego, 124;
Studia Religiologiczne, 1)
Zuckerhut, Patricia: Macht - Autorität - Herrschaft.
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furt: Peter Lang, 2000. 444 pp. ISBN 3-631-36719-
8. (Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe 3:
Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften, 882)
Anthropos 96.2001
672
Miszelle
Fifth Conference of the European Society for Ocea-
nists (ESfO). - The European Society for Oceanists an-
nounces the next interdisciplinary conference on Ocea-
nia which will be held in Vienna, 4-6 July 2002, at the
Institute for Cultural and Social Anthropology, Vienna
University.
“Recovering the Past: Resources, Representations, and
Ethics of Research in Oceania,” the theme of the 2002
ESfO conference, invites a range of interpretations:
looking to the past, making old things new and new
things old, and in the sense “recovering the past” - i.e.,
investigating the ways in which corporations, travellers,
tourists, and others are repeating all the old classi-
fication mistakes that were made in the field of anthro-
pology.
Scholars of Oceanic societies make use of a mul-
titude of resources when reflecting on, reappropriating
and recontextualising the past in order to (re)generate
the cultural order of things and people in the pres-
ent. They are seeking unprecedented contexts for their
work, and rediscovering theoretical resources that had
previously been dismissed as out-of-date. There is still
much to learn from an older anthropology. In this sense,
anthropologists share a predicament common to many
in Oceania who increasingly have to consider what of
the old that can be made new (modernity creates a space
for tradition, insists that “cultures” appear in a particular
form), and to consider what is new that can be made old
(how to make sense in conventional terms of changing
circumstances).
Knowledge of Oceanic societies can be used to
think through universal challenges and vice versa: here,
indigenous representations meet Western, scientific, an-
thropological representations and ethics.
For more information about the conference and
ESfO, see the ESfO-homepage:
http://cc.joensuu.fi/esfo/index.html
Contact persons and address: Dr. Hermann Mueckler,
Mag. Margit Wolfsberger, ESfO-Organizing Commit-
tee, Austrian-South Pacific Society/Institute for Cul-
tural and Social Anthropology, Vienna University,
Universitaetsstr. 7/NIG/IV, A-1010 Vienna, Austria.
E-mail: hermann.mueckler@univie.ac.at or
m.wolfsberger@gmx.at
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
Acta Ethnographica Hungarica (Budapest)
44. 1999/3-4
Schrutka-Rechtenstamm, A., Tourismus und Volks-
kunde (303-322). - Selänniemi, T., Secular Pilgrims on
the Quest for Authenticity? (341-354). - Windmeyer,
J., The Otavalenos of Ecuador (355-371). - Kâmân,
E., Zur Frage der Eigenart der Gattung der russischen
religiösen Volkslieder (419-429).
Acta Orientalia (Kopenhagen)
61. 2000
Svarverud, R., Jus gentium sinense. The Earliest Chi-
nese Translation of International Law with Some Con-
siderations Regarding the Compilation of Haiguo tuzhi
(202-237).
Africa (Manchester)
70. 2000/3
Colson, E., The Father as Witch (333-358). - Last, M.,
Children and the Experience of Violence: Contrasting
Cultures of Punishment in Northern Nigeria (359-393).
- Stilwell, S., Power, Honour, and Shame: The Ideology
of Royal Slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate (394-421). -
Anthony, D., “Islam Does not Belong to Them:” Ethnic
and Religious Identities among Male Igbo Converts in
Hausaland (422-441). - LeBlanc, M. N., Versioning
Womanhood and Muslimhood: “Fashion” and the Life
Course in Contemporary Bouaké, Côte d’Ivoire (442-
481). - Manji, A., “Her Name is Kamundage:’’Rethink-
ing Women and Property among the Haya of Tanzania
(482-500).
70. 2000/4
Abbink, J., Violence and the Crisis of Conciliation:
Suri, Dizi, and the State in South-West Ethiopia (527-
550). - Tonah, S., State Policies, Local Prejudices, and
Cattle Rustling along the Ghana-Burkina Faso Border
(551-567). - Waters, T., The Persistence of Sub-
sistence and the Limits to Development Studies: The
Challenge of Tanzania (614-652). - Geissler, P. W.,
The Significance of Earth-Eating: Social and Cultural
Aspects of Geography among Luo Children (653-682).
African Affairs (Oxford)
99. 2000/397
Pityana, N. B., South Africa’s Inquiry into Racism in
the Media: The Role of National Institutions in the
Promotion and Protection of Human Rights (525-532).
- Mistry, P. S., Africa’s Record of Regional Co-Oper-
ation and Integration (553-573).
100. 2001/398
Huliaris, A., Qadafi’s Comeback: Libya and Sub-Saha-
ran Africa in the 1990 s (5-25). - Frynas, J. G., Cor-
porate and State Responses to Anti-Oil Protests in the
Niger Delta (27-54). - Billon, P. le, Angola’s Political
Economy of War: The Role of Oil and Diamonds, 1975 —
2000 (55-80). - Tangri, R., A. Mwenda, Corruptions
and Cronyism in Uganda’s Privatization in the 1990 s
(117-133).
African Arts (Los Angeles)
33. 2000/3
Hoover, D. A., Revealing the Mbusa as Art. Women
Artists in Zambia (40-53). - Sieber, R., F. Herreman,
Hair in African Art and Culture [Exhibition Preview]
(54-69). - Behrend, H., “Feeling Global.” The Likoni
Ferry Photographers of Mombasa, Kenya (70-77).
33. 2000/4
Jordán, M., Revisiting PWO (16-25). - Nettleton, A.,
Home is Where the Art Is. Six South African Rural
Artists (26-39). - Youmans, J. M., African Art at the
Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art (40-61). - Wehmeyer,
S. C., Indian Altars of the Spiritual Church. Kongo
Echoes in New Orleans (62-69). - Geary, C. M.,
Photographing in the Cameroon Grassfields, 1970 to
1984 (70-72).
Afriche (Genova)
48. 2000/4
Special Issue [ed. by L. Nervi]: Malawi. Fiamme verso
il cielo (2-48).
49. 2001/1
Special Issue [ed. by N. Morganti]: Kaydara. Alla ricerca
dell’oro e della conoscenza (2-32).
Anthropos 96.2001
674
Zeitschriftenschau
Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere (Köln)
2000/62
Akinyemi, A., Yorùbâ Palace Poetry within the Context
of Change (71-92). - Abiodun, M. A., More on Vowel
Assimilation across Segment in Yorùbâ (129-136). -
Nurse, D., Aspect and Tense in Lingala Revisited (137 —
150). '
2000/63
Güldemann, T., Noun Categorization in Non-Khoe
Lineages of Khoisan (5-33).
Afrique contemporaine (Paris)
196. 2000/4
Rouch, J., L’ethnographe et le cinéaste: Un “vélo-
portrait” des origines (5-16). - Ahounou, B., Jean
Rouch et la grande sécheresse du Sahel. Les dieux se
fâchent à Gangel ... Divinités en colère et anthrop-
ologie visuelle (17-26). - Haffner, P., D’une fleur
double et quatre mille autres. Sur le développement du
cinéma africain (27-35). - Racine-Issa, O., L’essor des
médias: L’exemple de la Tanzania (36-48). - Porgès,
L., Un thème sensible: L’excision en Afrique et dans les
pays d’immigration africaine (49-74). - Bisillat, J., La
dynamique du concept de “genre” dans les politiques
de développement en Afrique (75-82). - Alibert, J.,
Transparency international et l’évaluation de la corrup-
tion en Afrique (83-98).
Almogaren (Hallein)
31. 2000
Peiffer, K., Glockenbecherleute auf den Kanaren? Ver-
such einer Hypothese (7-18). - Caridad Arias, J.,
“Tenerife:” Überlegungen zur Herkunft des Namens
(19-43). - Ulbrich, H.-J., Eine Spur der Großen Mutter
auf Lanzarote [Kanarische Inseln] (71-88). - Stroomer,
H., Rain Ceremonies at Imi n Tala [High Atlas, Moroc-
co] (125-132). - Ulbrich, H.-J., Die Ilhas Selvagens
(Portugal) im Spiegel der Geschichte (143-191). -
Steiner, H.-E., Spekulationen und Thesen zur “zeit-
weisen Besiedlung” der Atlantikinsel Selvagem Grande
(223-236). - Ulbrich, H.-J., Bibliographie der Ilhas
Selvagens [Portugal] (237-262).
American Anthropologist (Washington)
102. 2000/3
Gillespie, S. D., Rethinking Ancient Maya Social Orga-
nization: Replacing “Lineage” with “House”(467-484).
- Chance, J. K., The Noble House in Colonial Puebla,
Mexico: Descent, Inheritance, and the Nahua Tradi-
tion (485-502). - Williams, D. M., Representations of
Nature on the Mongolian Steppe: An Investigation of
Scientific Knowledge Construction (503-519). - Du, S.,
“Husband and Wife Do It Together:” Sex/Gender Allo-
cation of Labor among the Qhawqhat Lahu of Lancang,
Southwest China (520-537). - Hollan, D., Construc-
tivist Models of Mind, Contemporary Psychoanalysis,
and the Development of Culture Theory (538-550).
American Ethnologist (Washington)
27. 2000/3
Martin, E., Aes Presidential Address: Mid-Body Prob-
lems (569-590). - Cooper, N. I., Singing and Silences:
Transformations of Power through Javanese Seduction
Scenarios (609-644). - Louie, A., Re-Territorializing
Transnationalism: Chinese Americans and the Chinese
Motherland (645-669). - McCoy Owens, B., Envi-
sioning Identity: Deity, Person, and Practice in the
Kathmandu Valley (702-735).
27. 2000/4
Qureshi, R., How Does Music Mean? Embodied
Memories and the Politics of Affect in the Indian
Sarangi (805-838). - Schrauwers, A., Three Weddings
and a Performance: Marriage, Households, and Devel-
opment in the Highlands of Central Sulawesi, Indonesia
(855-876). - Krier, J., The Marital Project: Beyond the
Exchange of Men in Minangkabau Marriage (877-897).
- Holmberg, D., Derision, Exorcism, and the Ritual
Production of Power (927-940).
28. 2001/1
Schiller, A., Talking Heads: Capturing Dayak Death-
ways on Film (32-55). - Borovoy, A., Recovering
from Codependence in Japan (94-118). - West, H.,
Sorcery of Construction and Socialist Modernization:
Ways of Understanding Power in Postcolonial Mozam-
bique (119-150). - Jonsson, H., Serious Fun: Minority
Cultural Dynamics and National Integration in Thailand
(151-178). - Zhang, L., Migration and Privatization of
Space and Power in Late Socialist China (179-205).
Annual Review of Anthropology
(Palo Alto)
29. 2000
Spencer, J., British Social Anthropology: A Retrospec-
tive (1-24). - McHenry, H. M., K. Coffing, Australo-
pithecus to Homo: Transformations in Body and Mind
(125-146). - Wolfe, T. C., Cultures and Communities
in the Anthropology of Eastern Europe and the Former
Soviet Union (195-216). - Kulick, D., Gay and Lesbian
Language (243-285). - Foley, W. A., The Languages
of New Guinea (357-404). - Johnstone, B., The Indi-
vidual Voice in Language (405-424).
Anthropological Quarterly (Washington)
73. 2000/3
Durham, D., Youth and the Social Imagination in
Africa: Introduction to Parts 1 and 2 (113-120). -
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
675
Gottlieb, A., Where Have All the Babies Gone? To-
ward an Anthropology of Infants [and Their Caretakers]
(121-132). - Rasmussen, S., Between Several Worlds:
Images of Youth and Age in Tuareg Popular Perfor-
mances (133-144). - Bastian, M. L., Young Converts:
Christian Mission, Gender and Youth in Onitsha, Nigeria
1880-1929 (145-158).
73. 2000/4
Stambach, A., Evangelism and Consumer Culture in
Northern Tanzania (171-179). - Gable, E., The Cul-
ture Development Club: Youth, Neo-Tradition, and the
Construction of Society in Guinea-Bissau (195-203). -
Burke, C., They Cut Segametsi into Parts: Ritual Mur-
der, Youth, and the Politics of Knowledge in Botswana
(204-214).
74. 2001/1
Lomsky-Feder, E., T. Rapoport, Homecoming, Im-
migration, and the National Ethos: Russian-Jewish
Homecomers Reading Zionism (1-14). - Binde, P.,
Nature in Roman Catholic Tradition (15-27).
74. 2001/2
Goluboff, S. L., Fistfights at the Moscow Choral Syna-
gogue: Ethnicity and Ritual in Post-Soviet Russia (55-
71).
Anthropological Theory (London)
1. 2001/1
Hassig, R., Counterfactuals and Revisionism in Histor-
ical Explanation (57-72). - Pauketat, T. R., Practice
and History in Archaeology: An Emerging Paradigm
(73-98). - Ferguson, R. B., Materialist, Cultural and
Biological Theories on Why Yanomami Make War (99-
116).
Anthropologie et Sociétés (Québec)
24. 2000/3
Ouellette, F.-R., Présentation. L’anthropologie des pa-
rentés euro-américaines (5-20). - Cadoret, A., L’ho-
moparentalité, construction d’une nouvelle figure fa-
miliale (39-52). - Fonseca, C., La circulation des
enfants pauvres au Brésil. Une pratique locale dans
un monde globalisé (53-73). - Johnson, C.L., La
réorganisation de la parenté aux Etats-Unis après la
divorce et le remariage (93-114). - Saint-Jacques,
M.-C., C. Chamberland, Quand les parents refont
leur vie. Regards adolescents sur la famille recomposée
(115-131).
Anthropology Today (London)
16. 2000/6
Sillitoe, P., Indigenous Knowledge, Science, and the
“Poorest of the Poor” (3-7). - Hann, C., Problems with
the (De)Privatization of Religion (14-20).
17. 2001/2
Linquist, G., The Culture of Charisma: Wielding Le-
gitimacy in Contemporary Russian Healing (3-8). -
Mitchell, H., “Being There:” British Mormons and the
History Trait (9-14). - Seneviratne, H. L., Buddhist
Monks and Ethnic Politics. A War Zone in an Island
Paradise (15-21).
Archipel (Paris)
60. 2000/4
Couteau, J., Bali et l’islam: Part 2: Coexistence et
perspectives contemporaines (45-64). - Lancret, N.,
La mesure de l’espace domestique balinais (65-86). -
Salmon, C., M. Sidharta, The Hainanese of Bali: A
Little Known Community (87-124). - Labrousse, P.,
Les races de l’Archipel ou le scientisme in partïbus
[France; XIXe siècle] (235-265).
Archives de sciences sociales des religions
(Paris)
45. 2000/111
Julliard, A., Quand Dieu souffle. Vent, respiration et
notion de personne chez les Diola-Adiamat [Guinée
Bissau] (7-24). - Andézian, S., Dire la transe en islam
mystique. De l’expérience au langage autorisé (25-40).
- Bégot, A.-C., Les mutations de la représentation du
divin au sein d’un groupe à vocation thérapeutique.
Le cas e l’antoinisme (41-55). - Saint-Martin, I.,
“Catéchisme en images,” une pédagogie par le sensible?
(57-78). - Albert, J.-P., Des lieux où souffle l’Esprit
(111 -123). - Piette, A., Des formes ordinaires de la vie
religieuse. Entre anthropologie et ethnographie (125 —
133).
45. 2000/112
Baschet, J., Ame et corps dans l’Occident médival: Une
dualité dynamique, entre pluralité et dualisme (5-29). -
Pitarch, P., Almas y cuerpo en una tradición indígena
tzeltal (31-48).
Arctic Anthropology (Madison)
37. 2000/2
Kingston, D. M., Siberian Songs and Siberian Kin:
Indirect Assertions of King Islander Dominance in the
Bering Strait Region (38-51). - Poirier, S., L. Brooke,
Inuit Perceptions of Contaminants and Environmental
Knowledge in Salluit, Nunavik (78-91). - Dorais,
L.-J., S. Sammons, Discourse and Identity in the Baffin
Region (92-110). - Collings, P., Aging and Life Course
Development in an Inuit Community (111-125).
Anthropos 96.2001
676
Zeitschriftenschau
Asian Folklore Studies (Nagoya)
59. 2000/2
Korom, F. J., Holy Cow! The Apotheosis of Zebu, or
Why the Cow is Sacred in Hinduism (181-203). -
McLaren, A., C. Qinjian, The Oral and Ritual Culture
of Chinese Women: Bridal Lamentations in Nanhui
(205-238).
The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology
(Canberra)
1. 2000/1
Robingson, K., Economy as a Cultural System: The
Economic Anthropology of Paul Alexander (3-13). -
Alexander, J., From “Accompanying Spouse” to “Duti-
ful Daughter:” Fieldwork Roles in Sri Lanka, Java, and
Sarawak (14-23). - Hawkins, M., Becoming Banjar:
Identity and Ethnicity in South Kalimantan, Indone-
sia (24-36). - Helliwell, C., Restoring the Balance:
“Marriage Exchange” in a Borneo Community (37-53).
- Geshiere, P., Money versus Kinship: Subversion or
Consolidation? Contrasting Examples from Africa and
the Pacific (54-78). - White, B., Rice Harvesting and
Social Change in Java: An Unfinished Debate (79-102).
- Leitch, A., The Social Life of lardo: Slow Food in
Fast Times (103-118).
Asiatische Studien (Bern)
54. 2000/3
Herzog, C., ’Abdalhamld az-ZahräwI und seine Schrift
HadTga, umm al-mu minin'. Zur Genese des arabischen
Nationalismus (677-696).
54. 2000/4
Kollmar-Paulenz, K., “Religionslos ist dieses Land”:
Das Mongolenbild der Tibeter (875-905). - Schwie-
ger, P., Geschichte als Mythos - Zur Aneignung von
Vergangenheit in der tibetischen Kultur. Ein kulturwis-
senschaftlicher Essay (945-973).
Australian Aboriginal Studies (Canberra)
2000/1-2
Smith, C., G. K. Ward, Globalisation, Decolonisa-
tion, and Indigenous Australia (3-11). - Godwell, D.,
Playing the Game: Is Sport as Good for Race Re-
lations as We’d Like to Think? (12-19). - Merlan,
F., Representing the Rainbow: Aboriginal Culture in
an Interconnected World (20-26). - Tafler, D., The
Use of Electronic Media in Remote Communities (27-
38). - Nathan, D., Plugging in Indigenous Knowledge:
Connections and Innovations (39-47). - McConaghy,
C., The Web and Today’s Colonialism (48-55).
The Australian Journal of Anthropology
(Sydney)
11. 2000/3
Ram, K., Dancing the Past into Life: The Rasa, Nrtta
and Rdga of Immigrant Existence (261-273.). - Ta-
misari, F., The Meaning of the Steps Is in Between
Dancing and the Curse of Compliments (274-286). -
Rose, D. B., To Dance with Time: A Victoria River
Aboriginal Study (287-296). - Alexeyeff, K., Dragging
Drag: The Performance of Gender and Sexuality in
the Cook Islands (297-307). - Magowan, F., Dancing
with a Difference: Reconfiguring the Poetic Politics of
Aboriginal Ritual as National Spectacle (308-321). -
Henry, R., Dancing into Being: The Tjapukai Aborig-
inal Cultural Park and the Laura Dance Festival (322-
332). - Nowak, B. S., Dancing the Main Jo’oh: Hma’
Btsisi’ Celebrate Their Humanity and Religious Identity
in a Malaysian World (333-344). - Murray, D., Haka
Fracas? The Dialectics of Identity in Discussions of a
Contemporary Maori Dance (345-357). - Ram, K.,
Commentary. Listening to the Call of Dance: Re-Think-
ing Authenticity and “Essentialism” (358-364).
12. 2001/1
Bedford, I., The Interdiction of Music in Islam (1-
14). - Kipnis, A. B., The Flourishing of Religion
in Post-Mao China and the Anthropological Category
of Religion (32-40). - Telban, B., Temporality of
Post-Mortem Divination and Divination of Post-Mortem
Temporality (67-79).
Autrepart (Bondy)
16. 2000
Grégoire, E., J. Schmitz, Monde arabe et afrique noire:
Permanences et nouveaux liens (5-20). - Bennafla,
K., Tchad: L’appel des sirènes arabo-islamiques (67-
86). - Schmitz, J., L’islam en Afrique de l’Ouest:
Les méridiens et les parallèles (117-137). - Miran,
M., Vers un nouveau prosélytisme islamique en Còte
d’Ivoire: Une revolution discrète (139-160).
Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en
Volkenkunde (Dordrecht)
156. 2000/3
Rottger-Rossler, B., Shared Responsibility. Some As-
pects of Gender and Authority in Makassar Society
(521-538). - Rossler, M., From Divine Descent to
Administration. Sacred Heirlooms and Political Change
in Highland Goa (539-560). - Lucas, A., C. de Jong,
M. Akbar, The Struggle for Religious Recognition of a
Mystical Movement in Selayar (561-587).
156. 2000/4
Blust, R., Rat Ears, Tree Ears, Ghost Ears, and Thunder
Ears in Austronesian Languages (687-706). - Claessen,
H. J.M., Ideology, Leadership, and Fertility. Evaluat-
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
677
ing a Model of Polynesian Chiefship (707-735). -
Miedema, J., The Water Demon and Related Mythic
Figures. The Bird’s Head Peninsula of Irian Jaya/Papua
in Comparative Perspective (737-769). - Telle, K. G.,
Feeding the Dead. Reformulating Sasak Mortuary Prac-
tices (771-805).
Boletín Americanista (Barcelona)
50. 2000
Casellas Cañellas, E., Arqueología y sociedad: una
aproximación a la idea de estado en los olmecas del
formadvo inicial (7-14). - Dietz, G., Comunidades
indígenas y movimientos étnicos en mesoamérica: Una
revisión bibliográfica (15-38). - Guerrero, A., El
levantamiento indígena nacional de 1994: Discurso y
representación política [Ecuador] (123-151). - Luna,
L. G., Populismo, nacionalismo y maternalismo: Casos
peronista y gaifanista (189-200). - Reyes Esquivel,
J. R., Pachamama. Dos mundos, dos vivencias, un ideal:
La defensa de la tierra (269-280).
Bulletin de l’Ecole française
d’Extrême-Orient (Paris)
87. 2000/1
Chambert-Loir, H., Mythes et archives. L’historiogra-
phie indonésienne vue de Bima (215-245). - Lager-
wey, J., Du caractère rationnel de la religion locale
en Chine (301-315). - Clémentin-Ojha, C., Etre un
brahmane smârta aujourd’hui. Quelques points de repère
à partir d’une enquête ethnographique à Bénarès (317—
339). - Bouchy, A., La cascade et l’écritoire. Dynam-
ique de l’histoire du fait religieux et de l’ethnologie du
Japon : Le cas du shugendô (341-366).
Bulletin of the School of Oriental and
African Studies (London)
63. 2000/3
Geller, M. J., Fragments of Magic, Medicine, and My-
thology from Nimrud (331-339). - Matisoff, J. A., On
“Sino-Bodic” and Other Symptoms of Neosubgroupitis
(356-369).
Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines (Paris)
40. 2000/4
Argyriadis, K., Des noirs sorciers aux babalaos: An-
alyse du paradoxe du rapport à l’Afrique à La Havane
(649-674). - Bisanswa, J. K., V. Y. Mudimbe, Réflex-
ion sur les sciences humaines et sociales en Afrique
(705-722). - Monga, Y., “Au village!”: Space, Culture,
and Politics in Cameroon (723-749). - Bacuez, P., La
poésie orale swahili manganja (751-774).
41. 2001/1
Diallo, Y., L’africanisme en Allemagne hier et au-
jourd’hui (13-43). - Hagberg, S., A l’ombre du conflit
violent. Règlement et gestion des conflits entre agricul-
teurs karaboro et agro-pasteurs peul au Burkina Faso
(45-72). - Fortier, C., Le lait, le sperme, le dos. Et
le sang? Représentations physiologiques de la filiation
et de la parenté de lait en islam malékite et dans
la société maure de Mauritanie (97-138). - Tonda,
J., Le syndrome du prophète. Médecines africaines et
précarités identitaires (139-162).
Cahiers de Littérature Orale (Paris)
2000/48
Ellis, B., What Michelle Remembered: The Occult
Roots of the American Satanism Scare (31-57). -
Drettas, G., “Aller chez la mère du diable:” De quelques
représentations de Satan dans l’aire balkanique (103 —
128). - Lebarbier, M., Un diable humain? Représen-
tations du (des) diable(s) dans les contes populaires
roumains (129-158). - Alvarez-Pereyre, F., Obstacle
et tentation dans le monde hébraèque et juif ( 159—
173). - Calame-Griaule, G., Un perturbateur africain.
L’exemple dogon (175-202). - Leblic, L, Diables et
“choses d’ailleurs” à Ponérihouen [Nouvelle-Calédonie]
(203-230).
Cambridge Anthropology (Cambridge)
21. 1999/2000/3
Drucker-Brown, S., The Politics of Calendars (9-
17). - Shnirelman, V. A., Perun, Svarog, and Others:
Russian Neo-Paganism in Search of Itself (18-36). -
Howe, L., Describing the Balinese: Sorcery, Fear, and
Laughter (37-61). - Barry, A., Invention and Inertia
(62-70).
Comparative Civilizations Review
(Scranton)
43. 2000
Erasov, B., The Crash of Civilizations, the Growth of
Disorder, and the Rise of Crime: A View from Russia
(9-32). - Maxwell, R. R., Civilization and Interde-
pendent Specialists: Cooperative Systems, Symbioses,
Moral Syndromes, and a Sense of Wholeness (33-62).
Comparative Studies in Society and
History (Cambridge)
43. 2001/1
Douglas, B., Encounters with the Enemy? Academic
Readings of Missionary Narratives on Melanesians (37-
64). - Ownby, D., Imperial Lantasies: The Chinese
Communists and Peasant Rebellions (65-91). - Dubois,
Anthropos 96.2001
678
Zeitschriftenschau
L., Voudou and History (92-100). - Gates, H., Foot-
loose in Fujian: Economic Correlates of Footbinding
(130-148). - Rosemblatt, K. A., “What We Can Re-
claim of the Old Values of the Past:” Sexual Morality
and Politics in Twentieth-Century Chile (149-180).
Congo-Afrique (Kinshasa)
40. 2000/350
Muyengo, S., Médecine et bioéthique en Afrique (580-
590).
Contributions to Indian Sociology
(New Delhi)
34. 2000/2
Abraham, I., Landscape and Postcolonial Science
(163-187). - Pai, S., New Social and Political Move-
ments of Dalits: A Study of Meerut District (189-220).
- Bapat, J., Globalisation, Environmental Protest, Loca-
lity, and Modernity (221-242). - Derne, S., L. Jadwin,
Male Hindi Filmgoers’ Gaze: An Ethnographic Interpre-
tation (243-269).
34. 2000/3
Singh, M. S., A Journey into Pictorial Space: Poetics of
Frame and Field in Maithil Painting (409-442).
Curare (Wiesbaden)
22. 1999/2
Krippner, S., Shamans as Mythmakers and Psycho-
pomps (109-113). - Baker, J. R., Keepers of Tra-
dition, Agents of Change: Shamanism Altered States
of Consciousness, and Cultural Adaptation (115-120).
- Winkelman, M., Shamanism as Psychobiological
Structures of Consciousness. Cognition and Healing
(121-128). - Mandelstam Balzer, M., Shamans in All
Guises: Exploring Cultural Repression and Resilience
in Siberia (129-134). - Viesca, T. C., M. Ramos de
Viesca, A. Aranda, The Mexican Graniceros: Ancient
Priests, Modern Healers (135-140). - Awang, A.R.H.,
Malay Shamanism: From Devil’s Art to Indigenous
Psychotherapy (141-143). - Peters, L., Man Chinni:
An Exorcist Rite of Tamang Shamans (145-150). -
Samokhvalov, V., O. Gilburd: Hantian Ritual of Expe-
rience of Loss (“Hurrah”) and Its Therapeutic Meaning
(151-155). - Gerke, B., Mataji Kumari Cintury - Devi
Healer Priestess of Darjeeling (157-164). - Agoes, A.,
Traditional Healing and Shamanism in Indonesia (165 —
169). - Weidle, B., Samischer Schamanismus (171 —
185).
23. 2000/1
Kaiser, P., Soziokultureller Hintergrund bei Patientin-
nen: Auswirkungen auf die Therapie- und Therapeuten-
wahl im medizinischen Bereich (11-23). - Kosack, G.,
Wie gehen die Mafa-Frauen (Nordkamerun) mit Krank-
heit um? (25-40). - Lübbren, J., “Kinderlos zu sterben
bedeutet, keine Spuren zu hinterlassen” - Primäre und
sekundäre Sterilität westafrikanischer Frauen und ihre
individuellen und sozialen Auswirkungen (41-49).
The Eastern Anthropologist (Lucknow)
52. 1999/4
Lau, B.W.K., Feng-Shui: Chinese Geomancy to Control
Nature (319-329). - Nauriyal, D. K., Reproductive
Decision Making among the Bhotia (331-357). - Jha,
M., Naga People’s Movement for Human Rights: An
Ethnic NGO (359-368). - Pandey, A., S. Patnaik,
Sacred Grove: Conservation through Religion (369-
380).
53. 2000/1-2
Gill, M., Dams and Resettlement as Development: A
Case for Building Good Practice (13-32). - Meikle,
S., J. Walker, The Theory and Practice of Resettlement
in China (33-51). - Mahapatra, LK, Resettlement
with Participation: The Indian Experience (121-140). -
Patnaik, SM, Understanding Involuntary Resettlement:
An Anthropological Viewpoint (141-159). - Judge,
P. S., What Goes Wrong with Rehabilitation: A So-
ciological Viewpoint (161-175). - Saksena, HS, The
Anthropology of Displacement and Change in a Fringe
Area (177-192). - Mathur, H. M., Big Projects and
Poverty: Displacement and Resettlement in Rajasthan,
India (193-200). - Jacob, V. L., Government Plans
and Local Initiatives in Dam-Related Resettlement in
Africa (213-221). - Rapp, K. W., Yacyreta: Affected
People’s Resistance to Involuntary Resettlement (223-
257). - Muggah, HC R., Capacities in Conflict: Reset-
tlement of Conflict-Induced Internally Displaced People
in Colombia (259-292).
Entwicklungsethnologie (Trier)
9. 2000/1
Korf, B., Ökonomie der Zeit. Über Wege zu Was-
sermühlen, Partizipation und Gender [Beobachtungen
aus Tansania] (28-42). - Teves, L. B., Patron-Client
Relationship and Participation. The Case of the Phi-
lippines (43-59). - Schröder, P., Wie “partizipativ”
sind die Indianer? Kulturelle und politische Grundlagen
indigener Partizipation an Projekten im Amazonasgebiet
Brasiliens (60-89). - Schutte, D. W., Community De-
velopment and Community Participation. A Conceptual
Revisit (90-104).
Erdkunde (Bonn)
54. 2000/4
Livingstone, D. N., Making Space for Science (285-
296). - Gregory, D., Culture of Travel and Spatial
Formations of Knowledge (297-319). - Meusburger,
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
679
P., The Spatial Concentration of Knowledge. Some
Theoretical Considerations (352-364).
Ethnic and Racial Studies
(Henley-on-Thames)
23. 2000/6
Grillo, R. D., Plural Cities in Comparative Perspective
(957-981). - Oberschall, A., The Manupulation of
Ethnicity: From Ethnic Cooperation to Violence and
War in Yugoslavia (982-1001). - Ross, M. H., Creating
the Conditions for Peacemaking: Theories of Practice
in Ethnic Conflict Resolution (1002-1034). - Brown,
M. S., Religion and Economic Activity in the South
Asian Population (1035-1061). - Cooper, D., Pro-
moting Injury or Freedom: Radical Pluralism and Or-
thodox Jewish Symbolism (1062-1085). - Kaufmann,
E., Liberal Ethnicity: Beyond Liberal Nationalism and
Minority Rights (1086-1119).
24. 2001/1
Collins, P. H., Like One of the Family: Race, Ethnicity,
and the Paradox of US National Identity (3-28). -
Sudbury, J., (Re)Constructing Multiracial Blackness,
Women’s Activism, Difference, and Collective Identity
in Britain (29-49). - Barany, Z., The East European
Gypsies in the Imperial Age (50-63). - Rabinowitz,
D., The Palestinian Citizens of Israel, The Concept of
Trapped Minority, and the Discourse of Transnation-
alism in Anthropology (64-85). - Igwara, O., Dom-
inance and Difference: Rival Visions of Ethnicity in
Nigeria (86-103). - Hunt, S., N. Lightly, The British
Black Pentecostal “Revival:” Identity and Belief in the
“New” Nigerian Churches (104-124).
24. 2001/2
Banton, M., Progress in Ethnic and Racial Studies
(173-194). — Tambini, D., Post-National Citizenship
(195-217). - Basu, D., P. Werbner, Bootstrap Capital-
ism and the Culture Industries: A Critique of Invidious
Comparisons in the Study of Ethnic Entrepreneurship
(236-262). - Kurien, P., Religion, Ethnicity, and Poli-
tics: Hindu and Muslim Indian Immigrants in the United
States (263-293).
24. 2001/3
Karmis, D., J. Maclure, Two Escape Routes from the
Paradigm of Monistic Authenticity: Post-Imperialist and
Federal Perspectives on Plural and Complex Identities
(361-385).
Ethnography (London)
1. 2000/2
Sayad, A., El ghorba: From Original Sin to Collective
Lie (147-171). - Bourdieu, P., L.Wacquant, The
Organic Ethnologist of Algerian Migration (173-182).
Ethnohistory (Durham)
47. 2000/3-4
Pérez, B. E., Rethinking Venezuelan Anthropology
(513-533). - Heinen, H. D., A. Garcia-Castro, The
Multiethnic Network of the Lower Orinoco in Early
Colonial Times (561-579). - Vidal, S. M., Kuwé
Duwákalumi: The Arawak Sacred Routes of Migration,
Trade, and Resistance (635-667). - Scaramelli, F.,
K. Tarble, Cultural Change and Identity in Mapoyo
Burial Practice in the Middle Orinoco, Venezuela (705-
729).
Ethnologia Europaea (Gottingen)
31. 2000/1
Jezernik, B., Head-Hunting in Europe (21-36). -
Lonnqvist, B., Fashion and Eroticism (65-82).
Ethnology (Pittsburgh)
39. 2000/3
Wood, W. W., Stories from the Field, Handicraft Pro-
duction, and Mexican National Patrimony: A Lesson
in Translocality from B.Traven (183-203). - Wolff,
N. H., The Use of Human Images in Yoruba Medicines
(205-224). - Khalaf, S., Poetics and Politics of Newly
Invented Traditions in the Gulf: Camel Racing in the
United Arab Emirates (243-261). - Rosen, D. M., V. P.
Rosen, New Myths and Meanings in Jewish New Moon
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39. 2000/4
Munck, V. de, Introduction: Units for Describing and
Analyzing Culture and Society (279-292). - Gatewood,
J. B., Distributional Instability and the Units of Culture
(293-303). - Garro, L. C., Cultural Meaning, Expla-
nations of Illness, and the Development of Comparative
Frameworks (305-334). - Munck, V. de, A. Koro-
tayev, Cultural Units in Cross-Cultural Research (335-
348). - Ember, M., C. R. Ember, Testing Theory and
Why the “Units of Analysis” Problem Is Not a Problem
(349-363). - Chick, G., Writing Culture Reliably: The
Analysis of High-Concordance Codes (365-393).
Ethnomusicology (Bloomington)
44. 2000/3
Kidula, J., Polishing the Luster of the Stars: Music
Professionalism Made Workable in Kenya (408-428). -
Terada, Y., T. N. Rajarattinam Pillai and Caste Rivalry
in South Indian Classical Music (460-490).
45. 2001/1
Rasmussen, A. K., The Qur’an in Indonesian Daily
Life: The Public Project of Musical Oratory (30-57).
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Modern China: Musical Representation and Transfor-
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Ethnomusicology (132-149).
Ethnos (Stockholm)
65. 2000/3
Godelier, M., Is Social Anthropology Still Worth the
Trouble? A Response to Some Echoes from America
(301-316). - Bay, M., Planned Policy or Primitive
Balkanism? A Local Contribution to the Ethnography
of the War in Bosnia-Herzegovina (317-340). - Bollig,
M., Staging Social Structures: Ritual and Social Orga-
nisation in an Egalitarian Society. The Pastoral Pokot of
Northern Kenya (341-365). - Tonkin, E., Autonomous
Judges: African Ordeals as Dramas of Power (366-
386).
66. 2001/1
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Indignation in Botswana and Madagascar (49-72). -
Kümmels, L, Reflecting Diversity: Variants of the Leg-
endary Footraces of the Rarâmuri in Northern Mexico
(73-98).
Ethos (London)
28. 2000/3
Garro, L. C., Remembering What One Knows and the
Construction of the Past: A Comparison of Cultural
Consensus Theory and Cultural Schema Theory (275-
319). - Stein, H. F., From Countertransference to Social
Theory: A Study of Holocaust Thinking in U. S. Busi-
nesse Dress (346-378). - Brereton, D. P., Dreaming,
Adaptation, and Consciousness: The Social Mapping
Hypothesis (379-409). - Burbank, V. K., “The Lust
to Kill” and the Arnhem Land Sorcerer: An Exercise in
Integrative Anthropology (410-444).
28. 2000/4
Wertsch, J. V., Narratives as Cultural Tools in Sociocul-
tural Analysis: Official History in Soviet and Post-Soviet
Russia (511-533). - Feldman, R. M., Encountering the
Trauma of the Holocaust: Dialogue and Its Discontents
in the Broszat-Friedlander Exchanges of Letters (551 —
574).
Etnofoor (Amsterdam)
13. 2000/2
Niehaus, I., Coins for Blood and Blood for Coins.
From Sacrifice to Ritual Murder in the South African
Lowveld, 1930-2000 (31-54). - Bahre, E., The Price
of a Bed. Migrants and Money in Cape Town (55-72).
- Geest, S. van der, Goed en slecht geld. Gesprekken
in een Ghanees dorp (78-88).
Etudes Inuit Studies (Québec)
24. 2000/2
Chichlo, B. P., Sous le toit de la qaygi: Folklore et
pratique rituelle chez les Yuit de la Tchoukotka (7-31).
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45). - Robert-Lamblin, J., Cycles de vie et transitions
dans la société est-groenlandaise: D’hier à aujourd’hui
(47-64). - Sonne, B., Heaven negotiated. The Realms
of Death in Early Colonial West Greenland (65-87). -
Anglure, B. S. de, Pijariurniq. Performances et rituels
inuit de la première fois (89-113).
Finnisch-Ugrische Forschungen (Helsinki)
56. 2001/1-3
Saarinen, S., 100 Jahre Finnisch-Ugrische Forschungen
(11-28). - Koivulehto, J., Etymologie und Lehnwort-
forschung: Ein Überblick um 2000 (42-78). - Larsson,
L. -G., Lappische Sprachforschung an der Schwelle zum
21. Jahrhundert (79-94). - Siikala, A.-L., Die Heraus-
forderungen der Mythenforschung an die Finnougristik
(217-234). - Lehtinen, L, Von der Erforschung der
Überlieferung zur Kulturwissenschaft (235-253).
Folia Linguistica (Berlin)
34. 2000/1-2
Clements, G. N., Some Antecedents of Nonlinear Pho-
nology (29-55). - Encrevé, P., The Old and the New:
Some Remarks on Phonology and Its History (57-84).
- Goldsmith, J., On Information Theory, Entropy, and
Phonology in the 20th Century (85-100). - Halliday,
M. A.K., Phonology Past and Present: A Personal Ret-
rospect (101-111).
Frankfurter Afrikanistische Blätter
(Frankfurt)
12. 2000
Jungraithmayr, H., Zum Genus im Tschadischen (27-
36). - Zoch, U., Genus im Hausa von Kumasi [Ghana]
(99-110).
Geo (Hamburg)
2001/3
Nicolet, G., Kamerun: Die Jäger des Süßen Schatzes
(16-36).
2001/4
Auffermann, B., G. Weniger, M. Meister, Neanderta-
ler: Der verkannte Mensch (22-52).
2001/5
Chang, C.-C., J. Romberg, M. Cornelius, Taiwan:
Eine Insel auf Selbstfindung (148-174).
Anthropos 96.2001
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681
Hemispheres (Warszawa)
15. 2000
Kapiszewski, A., Broadening Political Representation
in the Oil Monarchies of the Persian Gulf. Are These
Regimes Moving Toward Democracy? (25-36). - Kow-
nacki, A., Migration Phenomena and Current Social
and Economic Problems of the African Countries (37-
49). - Mrozek-Dumanowska, A., The Differences in
the Perception of Democracy between the North and
the South. The Case of Islam (65-74). - Tokarski,
S., The Church and Cross-Cultural Dialogue at the
Threshold of the 21th Century (119-124). - Tómala,
K., China zwischen Kontinuität und Aufbruch (125 —
139). - Weiss, Holger, Zakat in Northern Ghana: Not
an Institution but a Goal to Be Achieved (141-157).
History of Religions (Chicago)
40. 2001/3
Asad, T., Reading a Modern Classic: W. C. Smith’s
The Meaning and End of Religion (205-222). - Wede-
meyer, C. K., Tropes, Typologies, and Turnarounds:
A Brief Genealogy of the Historiography of Tantric
Buddhism (223-259). - Stewart, T. K., In Search
of Equivalence: Conceiving Muslim-Hindu Encounter
through Translation Theory (260-287).
IBLA (Tunis)
63. 2000/2
Boissevain-Souid, K., La sainteté féminine tunisoise:
Saida Mannouviya (132-164). - Fakhfakh, A., Contes
tunisiens (165-189). - Chaibi, L., La décolonisation
tunisienne (191-211).
Indiana (Berlin)
16. 1999
Díaz de Arce, N., Bezeichnungen für den Krieg bei
den Azteken: Die Metapher Teoatl Tlachinolli (7-28). -
Dietz, G., “Desencuentros,” “Encontronazos” y “Reen-
cuentros:” Movimientos indígenas y organizaciones no-
gubernamentales en México (29-50). - Hartmann, R.,
In Memoriam Udo Oberem. Una addenda bibliográfica
(51-55). - Julien, C. J., Spanish Use of Inca Textile
Standards (57-81). - Künne, M., Felsbilder der Provinz
Chiriqui, Panama (83-114). - Küne, M., E. Coladan,
Felsbilder in Costa Rica. Eine bibliographische Zusam-
menfassung (115-122). — Loza, C. B., El modelo de
Max Uhle para el estudio de los “quipus,” a la luz de sus
notas inéditas de trabajo de campo [1894-1897] (123-
158). - Mayer, K. H., Maya Monumente aus La Naya,
Petén, Guatemala (159-184). - Thiemer-Sachse, U.,
Sobre higiene y medicina entre los zapotecas durante la
época de la conquista española (185-209). - Urcid, J.,
La lápida grabada de Noriega: Tres rituales en la vida
de un noble zapoteca (211-264).
The International Journal of African
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33. 2000/1
Mutongi, K., “Dear Dolly’s” Advice: Representations
of Youth, Courtship, and Sexualities in Africa, 1960-
1980 (1-23). — Elkins, C., The Struggle for Mau
Mau Rehabilitation in Late Colonial Kenya (25-57).
- Kissi, E., The Politics of Famine in U. S. Relations
with Ethiopia, 1950-1970 (113-131).
The International Journal of Comparative
Sociology (Leiden)
41. 2000/3-4
Mackey, W. C., N. S. Coney, Cultural Evolution and
Gender Roles: A Re-Affirmation of J. K. Brown’s Note
(285-298). - Marsh, R. M., Taiwan’s Future National
Identity: Attitudes and Geopolitical Constraints (299-
314).
ISKCON Communications Journal
(Oxford)
8. 2000/1
Cracknell, K., ISKCON and Interfaith Dialogue (23-
32). - Gosvämi, H. D., The Role of the Guru in a Mul-
ti-Guru Society (45-53). - Theodor, I., A Philosophy
of Social Development for ISKCON: Perspectives from
Bhagavad-gTtä (55-60).
Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations
(Birmingham)
11. 2000/3
Bahlul, R., People vs God: The Logic of “Divine
Sovereignty” in Islamic Democratic Discourse (287-
297). - Hammer, J., Prayer, Hijäb and the Intifada:
The Influence of the Islamic Movement on Palestinian
Women (299-320).
12. 2001/1
Mujiburrahman, Religious Conversion in Indonesia:
The Karo Batak and the Tengger Javanese (23-38). -
Lacar, L. Q., Balik-Islam: Christian Converts to Islam
in the Philippines, c. 1970-98 (39-60).
The Islamic Quarterly (London)
44. 2000/3
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Islam: A Case Study of Iran (473-489). - Nasir, B. M.,
Anthropos 96.2001
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(491-505). - Mohamad, The Types of Torts
Against the Person: A Study According to English and
Islamic Law of Tort (507-536). - Shah, S. S. (Haneef),
Ibadah: A Concept Beyond Ritualism in Islam (537-
553).
44. 2000/4
Jamil, F., A. G. Yahaya, Muslims in Non-Muslim So-
cieties and Their Response to Major Issues Affecting
Them: The Case of Singapore (575-600). - Khalid, S.,
Sociology, Islam, and Islamic Sociology (619-627).
Islamochristiana (Roma)
26. 2000
Teissier, H., Chrétiens et Musulmans: Cinquante ans
pour approfondir leurs relations (33-50). - Siddidqui,
A., Fifty Years of Christian-Muslim Relations: Explor-
ing and Engaging in a New Relationship (51-77). -
Pratt, D., Identity and Ideology. Some Considerations
for Islamo-Christian Dialogue: An Australasian Perspec-
tive (79-93). - Heck, P. L., Orientalism and Post-Mod-
ernism: A Note on Studying Islam with Muslims (95-
106).
Journal Asiatique (Paris)
288. 2000/1
Gilliot, C., Les sciences coraniques chez les Karrâmites
du Khorasan: Le livre des fondations (15-81). - Ma-
tringe, D., La création d’un saint et ses enjeux dans le
Panjab pakistanais (137-152).
Journal de la Société des Américanistes
(Paris)
86. 2000/1
Ragot, N., Le Chichihualcuauhco, la résurrection et la
renaissance dans la pensée aztèque (49-66). - Grau-
lich, M., S. Nunez Tolin, Les contenus subliminaux de
l’image chez Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala (67-112).
- Neurath, J., La maison de Lévi-Strauss y la Casa
Grande wixarika (113-137). - Pitarch, P., Conjeturas
sobre la identidad de los santos tzeltales (129-148).
- Collomb, G., Identité et territoire chez les Kali’na.
A propos d’un récit du retour des morts (149-168).
- La Riva Gonzalez, P., Les Walthana Hampi ou la
reconstruction du corps. Conception de la grossesse dans
les Andes du Sud du Pérou (169-184).
Journal de la Société des Océanistes (Paris)
111. 2000/2
Tabani, M. K., Walter Lini, la coutume de Vanuatu
et le socialisme mélanésien (173-194). - Favole, A.,
La royauté oscillante. Ethnographie et histoire de la
cérémonie d’investiture du Tu’i Agaifo d’Alo [Futu-
na] (195-218). - Pillon, P., Les modalités binaires et
ternaires dans l’organisation du pays Mèa [Nouvelle-
Calédonie] (219-243).
The Journal of African History
(Cambridge)
42. 2001/1
Klein, M. A., The Slave Trade and Decentralized So-
cieties (49-65). - Lovejoy, P. E., D. Richardson, The
Business of Slaving: Pawnship in Western Africa, c.
1600-1810 (67-89). - Allen, R. B., Licentious and
Unbridled Proceedings: The Illegal Slave Trade to Mau-
ritius and the Seychelles during the Early Nineteenth
Century (91-116).
Journal of American Folklore (Washington)
113. 2000/430
Tokofsky, P., A Tale of Two Carnivals: Esoteric and
Exoteric Performance in the Fasnet of Elzach (357—
377). - McMahan, F. F., The Aesthetics of Play in
Reunified Germany’s Carnival (378-390). - Rasmus-
sen, S., Grief at Seeing a Daughter Leave Home: Weep-
ing and Emotion in the Tuareg Techawait Postmarital
Residence Ritual (391-421). - Bremer, T. S., Tourists
and Religion at Temple Square and Mission San Juan
Capistrano (422-435). - Correa, P. M., Otomi Rituals
and Celebrations: Crosses, Ancestors, and Resurrection
(436-450). - Crowder, L. S., Chinese Funerals in San
Francisco Chinatown: American Chinese Expressions
in Mortuary Ritual Performance (451-463). - Fair,
S. W., The Inupiaq Eskimo Messenger Feast: Celebra-
tion, Demise, and Possibility (464-494). - Shuman,
A., Food Gifts: Ritual Exchange and the Production of
Excess Meaning (495-508).
Journal of Asian and African Studies
(Leiden)
35. 2000/3
Kim, S., Democratization and Environmentalism: South
Korea and Taiwan in Comparative Perspective (287-
302). - Chu, J.-J., Nationalism and Self-Determination:
The Identity Politics in Taiwan (303-321). - Ryang, S.,
Gender in Oblivion: Women in the Democratic People’s
Republic of Korea [North Korea] (323-349).
The Journal of Asian Studies (Ann Arbor)
59. 2000/3
Ramaswamy, S., History at Land’s End: Lemuria in
Tamil Spatial Fables (575-602). - Elliott, M. C., The
Limits of Tartary: Manchuria in Imperial and National
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683
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cial Identities: Reviving Regionalism and Reinventing
“Chineseness” (667-692).
59. 2000/4
Mann, S., Presidential Address: Myths of Asian Wom-
anhood (835-862). - Schmid, A., Colonialism and
the “Korea Problem” in the Historiography of Modern
Japan: A Review Article (951-976).
Journal of Contemporary Religion
(London)
Campbell, R. A., The Truth Will Set You Free: Towards
the Religious Study of Science (29-43). - Hartman,
H., M. Hartman, Jewish Attitudes toward Intermarriage
(45-69).
The Journal of Pacific History (Canberra)
35. 2000/3
Nelson, H., Liberation: The End of Australian Rule in
Papua New Guinea (269-280).
Journal of Religion in Africa (Leiden)
30. 2000/3
Gaitskell, D., Hot Meetings and Hard Kraals: African
Biblewomen in Transvaal Methodism, 1924-60 (277-
309). - Garner, R. C., Religion as a Source of So-
cial Change in the New South Africa (310-343). -
Goodhew, D., Growth and Decline in South Africa’s
Churches, 1960-91 (344-369). - Cummergen, P.,
Zionism and Politics in Swaziland (370-385). - Ber-
glund, A.-I., The Zulu Prophet Laduma Madela (386-
393).
30. 2000/4
Hais, P. E.H., Franciscan Missionaries and the 1752
“Donation of Sierra Leone” (408-432). - Schwartz, N.,
Active Dead or Alive: Some Kenyan Views about the
Agency of Luo and Luyia Women Pre- and Post-Mortem
(433-467). - Maxwell, D., In Defence of African
Creativity (468-481).
The Journal of the Polynesian Society
(Auckland)
110. 2000/4
Kawharu, M., Kaitiakitanga: A Maori Anthropological
Perspective of the Maori Socio-Environmental Ethic of
Resource Management (349-370).
110. 2001/1
Firth, R., Tikopia Dreams: Personal Images of Social
Reality (7-29). - Reilly, M., Sex and War in Ancient
Polynesia (31-57).
The Journal of the Royal Anthropological
Institute (London)
6. 2000/4
Leach, M., New Shapes to Shift: War, Parks, and the
Hunting Person in Modern West Africa (577-595). -
Gilsenan, M., Signs of Truth: Enchantment, Modern-
ity, and the Dreams of Peasant Women (597-615). -
Laidlaw, J., A Free Gift Makes No Friends (617-634).
- Riches, D., The Holistic Person; or, the Ideology of
Egalitarianism (669-685).
7. 2001/1
Simpson, B., Making “Bad” Deaths “Good:” The Kin-
ship Consequences of Posthumous Conception (1-18).
- Locke, J. L., Rank and Relationships in the Evo-
lution of Spoken Language (37-50). - Argenti, N.,
Kesum-Body and the Places of the Gods: The Politics
of Children’s Masking and Second-World Realities in
Oku [Cameroon] (67-94). - Werbner, P., The Limits of
Cultural Hybridity: On Ritual Monsters, Poetic Licence
and Contested Postcolonial Purifications (133-152).
KAS Auslandsinformationen
(Sankt Augustin)
2000/12
Thesing, J., Demokratie in Lateinamerika (4-10).
2001/1
Biegel, R., Die Parlamentswahlen 2000 in Ägypten.
Pyrrhussieg der Regierungspartei wird zur Niederlage
(4-34). - Wanjohi, N. G., Zukunftsfähige Kommunen
im Zeitalter der Globalisierung. Das Beispiel Afrikas,
vor allem Kenias (69-88).
2001/4
Priess, F., Medien in Lateinamerika. Von der vierten
zur ersten Gewalt? (29-50). - Mönikes, V., Malawi auf
dem Weg zur Demokratie? Zwischen Aufbegehren der
städtischen Zivilgesellschaft und Ausschluss der ländli-
chen Bevölkerung (66-76). - Lange, M. A., Politische
Trends in Südafrika im Spiegel der Kommunalwahlen
(77-103).
Language (Baltimore)
76. 2000/3
Evans, N., D. Wilkins, In the Mind’s Ear: The Semantic
Extensions of Perception Verbs in Australian Languages
(546-592). - Jong, K. de, S. G. Obeng, Labio-Palatal-
ization in Twi: Contrastive, Quantal, and Organizational
Factors Producing an Uncommon Sound (682-703).
Lingua Posnaniensis (Poznan)
42. 2000
Banksira, D. P., Words without a Lexical Category
Anthropos 96.2001
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(7-18). - Daniels, P. T., Syllables, Consonants, and
Vowels in West Semitic Writing (43-55). - Emons,
R. , Is Language Universal? (57-68). - Kießling, R.,
Some Salient Features of Southern Cushitic [Common
West Rift] (69-89). - Manczak, W., Relations entre le
germanique, le slave, le balte et le latin (99-106).
Maghreb Machrek (Paris)
2000/169
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une société divisée? (6-22). - Beydoun, A., Sur l’ara-
bité du Liban (23-31). - Rougier, B., Le “destin mêlé”
des Palestiniens et des Libanais au Liban (43-54). -
Hamdan, K., Le social dans la reconstruction du Liban
(70-79). - Moukheiber, G., La justice, instrument du
pouvoir politique (80-86).
Man in India (Ranchi)
80. 2000/1-2
Bhattacharya, M., Iron Bangles to Iron Shackles: A
Study of Women’s Marriage and Subordination within
Poor Households in Calcutta (1-29). - Dasgupta, S.,
S. Hennessey, R. S. Mukhopadhyay, Class, Caste, and
Agrarian Structure in West Bengal (31-55). - Prakash,
P. V., Culture-Historical Process in Northern Eastern
Ghats of Andhra Pradesh: A Predictive Model (57-73).
- Srinivasan, L., Historicity of the Indian Mythology:
Some Observations (89-106). - Basa, K. K., D. Sahoo,
Mesolithic Culture around Duburi-Tamka Region in
Orissa (121-140). - Ansari, H., Are the Elderly a
Burden? An Examination of Their Conditions in Rural
Bihar (195-213).
The Mankind Quarterly (Washington)
4L 2000/2
Michaelsen, P., T. W. Ebersole, N. W. Smith, P. Biro,
Australian Ice Age Rock Art May Depict Earth’s Oldest
Recordings of Shamanistic Rituals (131-146). - Doss,
M., Evans-Pritchard and Segmentary Structures amongst
the Nuer: A Reappraisal (155-174). - McFarquhar,
C. M.H., M. J. Lowis, The Effect of Hairdressing on
the Self-Esteem of Men and Women (179-192).
Mitteilungen für Anthropologie und
Religionsgeschichte (Münster)
13. 1998
Ahn, G., Die ungewisse Zukunft und der imaginäre
Zeitstrahl - Konkurrenz und Koexistenz divergieren-
der Zukunftsbilder und prognostische Strategien in der
europäischen Religionsgeschichte (5-48). - Dietrich,
M., Zeitloses Urbild und zeitgebundenes Abbild nach
der babylonischen Mythologie (49-79). - Dupré, W.,
Zeit und Mythos (81-106). - Häußling, A., Religions-
geschichte innerhalb der Grenzen der Zeit - Kritische
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stenz der Zeit in Nägäriunas Philosophie der Leerheit
(187-192).
Monumenta Serica (Nettetal)
48. 2000
Hu-Sterk, F., Entre fascination et repulsion: Regards
des poètes des Tang sur les “barbares” (19-38).
National Geographie (Hamburg)
2000/12
Parfit, M., K. Garrett, Phantome aus der Frühzeit (96-
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Godwin, P., C. Johns, Die letzte Generation (40-67).
- Lewis-Williams, D., K. Garrett, Bilder aus einer
anderen Welt (68-75).
2001/3
Donnan, C. B., K. Garrett, C. A. Klein, Moche - eine
Kultur voller Rätsel (102-117). - Dahley, T., A. Bou-
lât, Indonesien - Land am Abgrund (120-149).
2001/4
Gori, R., K. Garrett, Pharaonen der Sonne (42-69).
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(106-119). - Godwin, P., T. Tomaszewski, Roma -
die Außenseiter (156-187).
2001/5
Muller, J. A., Peking - Stadt der Überraschungen (192—
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Neue Zeitschrift für Missionswissenschaft
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57. 2001/1
Singleton, M., Expertise ethnologique et expansion-
nisme ecclésiastique. Le Cardinal Lavigerie et les Pères
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Numen (Leiden)
47. 2000/4
MacWilliams, M. W., The Holy Man’s Hut as a Symbol
of Stability in Japanese Buddhist Pilgrimage (387-416).
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48. 2001/1
Abeysekara, A., The Saffron Army, Violence, Ter-
rorism): Buddhism, Identity, and Difference in Sri
Lanka (1-46). - Münzer, S. R., Heroism, Spiritual
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Mendicancy and Almsgiving (47-80).
48. 2001/2
Smith, J. Z., A Twice-Told Tale: The History of the
History of Religion’s History (131-146). - Thorb-
jornsrud, B., Academic Nomadism: The Relationship
between Social Anthropology and History of Religion
(204-223).
Oceania (Sydney)
71. 2001/3
Bauman, T., Shifting Sands: Towards an Anthropolo-
gical Praxis (202-225).
Orientalistische Literaturzeitung (Berlin)
95. 2000/6
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Pacific Studies (Laie)
21. 1998/4
Wetherell, D., The Anglicans in New Guinea and
the Torres Strait Islands (1-31). - Saura, B., The
Emergence of an Ethnic Millenarian Thinking and the
Development of Nationalism in Tahiti (33-65). - Ahl-
burg, D. A., H. J. Larson, T. Brown, The Potential
Demographic Impact of HIV /AIDS in the Pacific (67-
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Philippine Quarterly of Culture and
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27. 1999/1-2
Junker, L. L., Warrior Burials and the Nature of War-
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Junker, L. L., Networks of Power and Political Tra-
jectories in Early Southeast Asian Complex Societies
(59-104).
27. 1999/3-4
Gultiano, S. A., Husbands’ Views on Family Planning
and Labor Force Participation of Wives in Metro-Cebu,
the Philippines (133-160). - Aguilar, E. J.T., J. C.
Kintanar, L. S. Tiampo, From Traditional Midwife to
Trained Birth Attendant in Cebu: Magic, Indigenous
Knowledge and Western Medical Practices in the Ar-
ea of Reproductive Health (161-177). - Ulrich, P.,
M. Edgercombe, Bohol’s Indigenous Social Institu-
tions: A Development Perspective (178-201). - Olof-
son, H., E. M. Remedio, A Magnifying Lens on Ev-
eryday Life: The Socioeconomic Impact of a Mini-Hy-
droelectric Construction Project in Southwestern Cebu
(202-222).
Race and Class (London)
42. 2000/2
Meszaros, G., No Ordinary Revolution: Brazil’s Land-
less Workers’ Movement (1-18). - Halpern, A.,
F. W. Twine, Antiracist Activism in Ecuador: Black-In-
dian Community Alliances (19-31). - Torre, C. de la,
Racism in Education and the Construction of Citizenship
in Ecuador (33-45).
42. 2001/3
Sherwood, M., Race, Empire, and Education: Teaching
Racism (1-28). - Waters, H., Putting on “Uncle Tom”
on the Victorian Stage (29-48).
42. 2001/4
Gordon, P., Psychoanalysis and Racism: The Politics of
Defeat (17-34). - Harris, J., Information Technology
and the Global Ruling Class (35-56).
Recherches amérindiennes au Québec
(Montreal)
30. 2000/3
Special Issue [ed. by D. Delâge]: Les Hurons de Wen-
dake (3-92).
31. 2001/1
Norget, K., Droits des autochtones et droits de la
personne au Mexique: De 1’’’indigénisme” d’Etat aux
mouvements populaires (29-38). - Martínez, C. A.,
Pouvoir, résistance et processus identitaire dans une
région autochtone de la Sierra Sur de Oaxaca (39-
47). - Nadal, M.-J., Que sont les Mayas devenue? La
construction de nouvelles identités au Yucatán (49-60).
- Foxen, P., A la recherche d’identités au Guatema-
la après la guerre civile: Perspectives transnationales
(61-70). - Saumier, G., Les lois révolutionnaires des
femmes au sein du zapatisme: Du texte au acteurs (71-
82).
Recherches sociologiques (Louvain)
31. 2000/3
Baumann, M., Le bouddhisme theravâda en Europe:
Histoire, typologie et rencontre entre un bouddhisme
moderniste et traditionaliste (7-31). - Spuler, M.,
Qu’est-ce que le zen? La reformulation du zen à l’atten-
tion de l’Occident (33-47). - Hahlbohm-Helmus, E.,
Buddhism as Philosophy and Psychology. Performance
Aspects of Tibetan Buddhism “in the West” between
1959 and 1990 (48-66). - Obadia, L., Une tradi-
tion au delà de la modernité. L’institutionnalisation
du bouddhisme tibétain en France (67-88). - Chelli,
N., L. Hourmant, Orientations axiologiques dans le
bouddhisme du mouvement Soka Gakkai’ France (89-
102). - Rommeluère, E., Le bouddhisme en France:
Une lecture critique de Frédéric Lenoir (103-119).
Anthropos 96.2001
686
Zeitschriftenschau
- Obadia, L., Le bouddhisme. Quelques publications
anglo-saxonnes récentes (121-130).
32. 2001/1
Singleton, M., De l’épaississement empirique à l’inter-
pellation interprétative en passant par l’ampliation ana-
logique. Une méthode pour l’anthropologie prospective
(15-40). - Reyniers, A., O. Servais, Ethnohistoire ou
anthropologie prospective? Quelques balises pour sortir
d’un tunnel épistémologique (41-54). - Steichen, R.,
L’attitude prospective en anthropologie. Le point de vue
d’une anthropologie clinique d’inspiration psychanaly-
tique (55-75). - Francq, B., X. Leloup, M. Becerra,
F. Bodeux, E. Goovaerts, J. Pierart, Pour une socio-
anthropologie urbaine ... prospective (77-85). - Derèze,
G. , Un mode de prospection ethnographique: Le re-
portage (87-100). - Laurent, P.-J., L’espace public
dans une ville émergente d’Afrique de l’ouest. Aux
frontières de la théorie des conventions, l’anthropologie
prospective? (101-124). - Gaspar de Mascarenhas,
M. J., Vie ensemble, vie collective: L’urbain et le sens
du quartier (127-141).
Religion and Society (Bangalore)
46. 1999/1-2
Rambachan, A., Hindu-Christian Relations: Challenges
and Possibilities (5-22). - Wingate, A., Impelled by
Love: An Inter-Faith Theology Born in India and De-
veloped in Britain (23-36). - Selvanayagam, I., Truth
and Truths in Interfaith Dialogue (37-64). - Abraham,
K. C., Inter-Faith Dialogue for Humanization (65-76).
- Burke, J. C., Reflections on the Intellectual Legacy of
M. M. Thomas (77-81). - Robinson, G., From Apart-
heid to Dialogical Living in India: The Need of the Hour
(82-96). — Henry, S., The Encounter of Faith and
Science in Inter-Religious Dialogue (97-111). - Shar-
ma, A., On This-Worldliness and Otherworldliness and
This-Worldly and Otherwordly Religions (119-122). -
Singh, D. E., Analyses of Mawlana Mawdudi’s Political
Theory in the Context of Hindu-Muslim Relations in
Indian Subcontinent (123-148).
Research in Melanesia (Boroko)
20. 1996
Awart, S., Women of Lihir: Coping with Culture
Change (1-38). - Cooper, D., Letters to “Wantok:” The
Public Culture of the Grassroots Citizen in Papua New
Guinea (103-140). - Boyd, D. J.„ A Tale of “First Con-
tact:” The Hagahai of Papua New Guinea (103-149). -
Hays, T. E., A Bibliography of the Strickland-Bosavi
Region (157-186).
Revista Andina (Cuzco)
17. 1999/1
Mannheim, B., El Arado del tiempo: Poética quechua y
Formación Nacional (15-58). - Ganzarolli de Olivei-
ra, J. V., Cultura latinoamericana: Lenguaje e identidad
(235-240).
Revue de l’Histoire des Religions (Paris)
217. 2000/4
Freudenthal, G., Jérusalem ville sainte? La perspective
mai'monidienne (689-705).
Revue des Etudes sud-est européennes
(Bukarest)
34. 1996/3-4
Milov, L. V., The Problem of Byzantine Law in Old
Russia (201-207). - Popescu-Mihut, E., Quelques as-
pects de la réception du droit byzantin dans les Princi-
pautés roumaines (209-220).
35. 1997/1-2
Pippidi, A., La décadence de l’empire Ottoman comme
concept historique, de la Renaissance aux Lumières (5-
19). - Heppner, H., Zentrale und dezentrale Macht-
gefüge in Byzanz (21 - 31). - Longworth, P., The Soviet
Legacy to the Balkans. An Outsider’s View (87-93). -
Zecev, N., Die bulgarischen gesellschaftlich-kulturellen
Organisationen und Institutionen in der Zeit der Wie-
dergeburt (95-105).
35. 1997/3-4
Mihail, Z., Renseignements ethnolinguistiques sur la re-
ligion populaire dans le Sud-Est européen (171-179). -
Mladenova, D., Die rumänischen volkstümlichen Stern-
und Sternbildnamen in der Perspektive der Balkanspra-
chen (181-188). - Vâtâçescu, C., Termes d’origine
latine concernant la parenté, conservés en albanais et
en roumain (189-196). - Alexova, V., Verben und
Ausdrücke für “Heiraten” im Bulgarischen und Rumäni-
schen. Vergleichende Untersuchung (197-201). - Päun,
R. G., La construction de l’Etat moderne et le sud-est de
l’Europe: Quelques réflexions méthodologiques (213 —
226).
Saeculum (Freiburg)
51. 2000/2
Assmann, J., Gottes willige Vollstrecker. Zur politi-
schen Theologie der Gewalt (161-174). - Schott, R.,
Schriftlose Geschichte in akephalen Gesellschaften der
westafrikanischen Savanne (175-190). - Reichmuth,
S. , “Netzwerk” und “Weltsystem”. Konzepte zur neu-
zeitlichen “Islamischen Welt” und ihrer Transformation
(267-293). - Lutterbach, H., “Tiere - In allem gehor-
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
687
sam wie Monche ...” Die Vorstellung vom Kosmischen
Frieden im Christentum (294-331).
Scripta Ethnologica (Buenos Aires)
21. 2000
Villar, D., La concepción de la práctica ritual en la
escuela francesa de sociología [1897-1912] (9-89). -
Yanai, T., Oralidad mapuche ¿Qué aprendemos de este
otro modo de pensar y de ser? ... (91-104). - Mor-
gante, G., Cosmología y mitología de la puna jujeña
argentina (105-142). - Córdoba, L., D. Villar, Algunas
cuestiones referidas al ciclo vital de los Chacobo (143-
155).
Seminar (Neu-Delhi)
495. 2000
Überoi, P., Déjà vu? (14-19). - Béteille, A., Teaching
and Research (20-23). - Oommen, T. K., Profession-
als without Professionalism? (24-28). - Saberwal, S.,
On Crossing Boundaries (29-32). - Srivastava, V. K.,
Teaching Anthropology (33-40). - Singh, K. S., A Per-
spective on the Asi (40-44). - Shah, A. M., Sociology
in a Regional Context (45-49). - Burman, B. K.R.,
Frozen Ice and a Silent Spring (50-54). - Rege, S.,
Histories from the Borderlands (55-61).
497. 2001
Bhalla, S. S., Indian Poverty: Ideology and Evidence
(24-27). - Ninan, T. N., Protectionism No Solution
(28-31). - Debroy, B., Why We Need Law Reform
(32-37). - Mehta, P. B., Reform Political Parties First
(38-41). - Khare, H., Politics of Reordering Chaos
(42-45).
Shaman (Szeged)
8. 2000/2
Dooley, J. A., Common Motifs and Effects in Shamanic
Passage Rites and Nô Theatre (99-129). - Kósa, G.,
“In Search of the Spirits:” Shamanism in China before
the Tang Dynasty, Part 1 (131-179). - Fung, J. M.,
Glimpses of Murat Shamanism in Sabah (181-193).
Signs (Chicago)
26. 2000/1
Bettie, J., Women Without Class: Chicas, Cholas, Trash,
and the Presence/Absence of Class Identity (1-35).
26. 2001/2
Wiegman, R., Object Lessons: Men, Masculinity, and
the Sign Women (355-388). - Markowitz, S., Pelvic
Politics: Sexual Demorphism and Racial Difference
(389-414). - Espiritu, Y. L., “We Don’t Sleep Around
Like White Girls Do:” Family, Culture, and Gender in
Filipina American Lives (415-440). - Moya, P. M.L.,
Chicana Feminism and Postmodernist Theory (441 —
483). - Walby, S., Against Epistemological Chasms:
The Science Question in Feminism Revisited (485-
509).
26. 2001/3
Adkins, L., Cultural Feminization: “Money, Sex, and
Power” for Women (669-695). - Motzafi-Haller, P.,
Scholarship, Identity, and Power: Mizrahi Women in
Israel (697-734). - Tietjens Meyers, D., The Rush
to Motherhood - Pronatalist Discourse and Women’s
Autonomy (735-773). - Klassen, P. E., Sacred Mater-
nities and Postbiomedical Bodies: Religion and Nature
in Contemporary Home Birth (775-809). - Chatterjee,
N., N. E. Riley, Planning an Indian Modernity: The
Gendered Politics of Fertility Control (811-845). -
Greenhalgh, S., Fresh Winds in Beijing: Chinese Femi-
nists Speak Out on the One-Child Policy and Women’s
Lives (847-886).
Social Anthropology (Cambridge)
8. 2000/3
Mason, A., The Language of Society. The Cubeo
Mourning Ceremony as Example (231-245). - Vibert,
S., La “communauté” des modernes. Etude comparative
d’une idée valeur polysémique en Russie et en Occident
(263-294).
9. 2001/1
AIvi, A., The Category of the Person in Rural Punjab
(45-63). - Rabinowitz, D., Natives with Jackets and
Degrees. Othering, Objectification, and the Role of
Palestinians in the Co-Existence Field in Israel (65-80).
Social Compass
(Ottignies Louvain-La-Neuve)
47. 2000/4
Cha, S. H., Korean Civil Religion and Modernity (467-
485). - Jetzkowitz, J., La religion, le droit et le
problème de l’intégration sociale en Corée: Evolution
de la société entre autonomie nationale et tradition con-
fucianiste (487-505). - Park, Y.-S., Protestant Chris-
tianity and Its Place in a Changing Korea (507-524). -
Luca, N., La conquête de la modernité par les nouveaux
mouvements chrétiens coréens (525-539). - Shim, J.-
R., Buddhism and the Modernization Process in Korea
(541-548). - König, M., Religion and the Nation-State
in South Korea: A Case of Changing Interpretations of
Modernity in a Global Context (551-570).
48. 2001/1
Lambert, Y., Attitudes sécularistes et fondamentalistes
en France et dans divers pays occidentaux (37-49). -
Valente, A. L., La mort chez les noirs de la fraternité
Nossa Senhora do Rosârio (77-90). - Warburg, M.,
Seeking the Seekers in the Sociology of Religion (91-
Anthropos 96.2001
688
Zeitschriftenschau
101). - Spickard, J. V., Tribes and Cities: Towards an
Islamic Sociology of Religion (103-116). - Fernández
Mostaza, E., Characterization of the Opus Dei Family
Model (139-155).
Sociologus (Berlin)
50. 2000/1
Klute, G., T. von Trotha, Wege zum Frieden. Vom
Kleinkrieg zum parastaatlichen Frieden im Norden von
Mali (1-36). - Halbmayer, E., Socio-Cosmological
Contexts and Forms of Violence. War, Vendetta, Du-
els and Suicide among the Yukpa of North-Western
Venezuela (37-63). - Schlee, G., Identitätskonstruktio-
nen und Parteinahme: Überlegungen zur Konflikttheorie
(64-89).
South African Journal of Ethnology
(Pretoria)
23. 2000/2-3
Erasmus, P., Etniese identiteit: die “Afrikaner”-narra-
tief (43-54). - Coetzee, P., Uncovering Rationality: A
Perspective in African Thought (63-82). - Louwrens,
L. J., Anthropocentrism, Utilitarianism, and Supemat-
uralism in African World View: Some Linguistic Evi-
dence (91-101). - Coertze, R. D., Intercultural Com-
munication and Anthropology (116-134).
South Asia Research (New Delhi)
20. 2000/2
Moller, J., Anti-Reservation Protests and the Uttarak-
hand Pro-Autonomy Movement: Caste and Regional
Identities in the Indian Himalayas (147-169). - Mat-
tausch, J., A Case of Mistaken Identity: Why British
“African Asians” Are Not an “Ethnic” Community
(171-181).
Studi e materiali di Storia delle Religioni
(L’Aquila)
66. 2000/1
Pompa, C., Per ripensare il “profetismo” indigeno: I
Tupinambá (145-200).
66. 2000/2
Santi, C., Su alcuni aspetti dei pellegrinaggi e dei
culti federali nel mondo classico (217-226). - Visca,
D. , Il culto mariano in Africa. Le mariofanie africane
(255-316). - Letizia, C., Le rite d’initiation monastique
(bare chuyegu) chez les hautes castes bouddhistes Néwar
dans la vallèe de Katmandou (317-362). - Montanari,
E. , Il simbolismo del cuore nella venerazione cristiana
d’Oriente e d’Occidente (363-420).
Suplemento Antropológico (Assunción)
35. 2000/1
Moreno Azorero, R., J. Vera, A. Benítez, M. AI-
mirón, C. Rovira, M. Idalia Monzón, M. M. Carpi-
nelli, A. Cabello, Antropología médica en los indígenas
“Ayoreo” del Chaco [Zona Alto Paraguay] (9-90). -
Clough-Riquelme, J., La política de la conservación:
Los Aché del Paraguay Oriental y la reserva ecológica
del Mbaracayú (181-223). - Centurión Mereles, H.,
Los Guaraní: Entre el teko y la modernidad. Una cultura
originaria ante los desafíos del cambio (225-370). -
Miró de García, M., La alimentación y la religiosidad
paraguaya (407-483).
Terrain (Paris)
36. 2001
Bastard, B., La séparation, mais le lien (5-16). -
Martin. C., Recomposer l’espace intime et familial
(17-32). - Maunaye, E., Quitter ses parents. Trouver
la bonne distance (33-44). - Boukhobza, N., Dénouer
les noces (45-56). - Roberts, M., S. Roberts, La
médiation redécouverte. La transformation du divorce
en Angleterre (57-68). - Caradec, V., Le veuvage, une
séparation inachevée (69-84).
Tribus (Stuttgart)
49. 2000
Bah, N. J., Burial in Oku, Cameroon: An Eyewitness
Account of the Death Celebration of Fai Ndongdei
[Philip Njakoi] (49-64). - Baier, M., Form- und text-
kritische Studien an Ursprungsmythen der Ngaju-Dayak
(65-74). - Clados, C., Miniaturarchitektur in Kerami-
ken der Moche-Kultur. Ein Gefäß des Linden-Museums
Stuttgart (75-82). - Luttmann, I., Globalisierung ver-
sus afrikanische Identitäten: Mode und Kleidungsver-
halten in afrikanischen Städten (119-154).
Ultimate Reality and Meaning (Toronto)
23. 2000/3
Spitzer, R. J., Definitions of Real Time and Ultimate
Reality (260-276).
23. 2000/4
Maffie, J., “Like a Painting. We Will Be Erased: Like
a Flower. We Will Dry Up here on Earth:” Ultimate
Reality and Meaning According to Nahua Philosophy
in the Age of Conquest (295-318).
Anthropos 96.2001
Zeitschriftenschau
689
Wiener Ethnohistorische Blätter (Wien)
45. 2000
Special Issue [ed. by K. R. Wernhart, W. Zips]: Ethno-
historie und Dokumentarfilm. Mit Beispielen aus West-
afrika [Ghana und Burkina Faso] (7-107).
46. 2000
Special Issue [ed. by H. MiicklerJ: Melanesien in der
Krise. Ethnische Konflikte, Fragmentierung und Neu-
orientierung (5-138).
Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde
Südasiens (Wien)
44. 2000
Bodewitz, H. W., India as a Sociolinguistic Area and
Mayrhofer’s Etymologisches Wörterbuch des Altindoa-
rischen, Part 3 (5-18). - Hinüber, O. von, Die Nonnen
im Theraväda-Buddhismus. Zu einer weiteren Göttinger
Dissertation über das buddhistische Recht (61-85). -
Heesterman, J. C., The Sacrificer in Ancient Indian
Ritual. The View of the MTmämsä (135-155).
Zeitschrift der Deutschen
Morgenländischen Gesellschaft
(Stuttgart)
150. 2000/1
Gai, A., The Connection between Past and Optative in
the Classical Semitic Languages (17-28). - Gilliot, C.,
Al-DahabI contre la “pensée spéculative” (107-132). -
Möller, H.-G., Mehr oder weniger modern? Neukon-
fuzianismus, Politik und Modernisierung (231-241). -
Olles, F., Das Erbe des Himmelsmeisters: Der “Berg des
Laojun” in der Provinz Sichuan und seine Bedeutung als
daoistisches Heiligtum vom 2. Jahrhundert n.Chr. bis in
die Gegenwart (209-297).
Zeitschrift fur Ethnologie (Berlin)
125. 2000/1
Hazel, R., Segregating and Timing Generations. Social
Organization in Cushitic East Africa and beyond (1-
37).
Zeitschrift für Religions- und
Geistesgeschichte (Köln)
52. 2000/4
Brunotte, U., Ritual und Erlebnis. Theorien der Initia-
tion und ihre Aktualität in der Moderne (349-367).
Zeitschrift für Religionswissenschaft
(Marburg)
8. 2000/1
Schmidtchen, D., Ökonomik der Religion (11-43). -
Kalberg, S., Ideen und Interessen: Max Weber über den
Ursprung außerweltlicher Erlösungsreligionen (45-70).
- Stolz, F., Rechnungen in der Endzeitökonomie (71 -
92).
Zeitschrift für vergleichende
Rechtswissenschaft (Heidelberg)
99. 2000/4
Scholler, H., Bedeutung der Lehre vom Rechtskreis und
die Rechtskultur (373-386).
Anthropos 96.2001
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Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes
Prof. Dr. Christoph Antweiler, Universität Trier,
Abteilung Soziologie/Ethnologie. D-54286 Trier,
Germany
(antweile @ uni-trier.de)
Pierre Bamony, 10 rue Georges Gouy, F-69007 Lyon,
France
Laurent S. Barry, CNRS, Laboratoire d’anthropologie
sociale, 52 rue du Cardinal Lemoine, F-75005
Paris, France
(barry@ehess.fr)
Robert G. Bednarik, AURA, P. O. Box 216, Caulfield
South, Vic. 3162, Australia
(robertbednarik @ hotmail .com)
Prof. Dr. T. O. Beidelman, Dept, of Anthropology,
New York University, 201 Rufus D. Smith Hall, 25
Waverly Place, New York, NY 10003-6790, USA
Dr. Dominik Bonatz, Orientalisches Seminar, Albert-
Ludwigs-Universität, D-79085 Freiburg, Germany
(bonatz@ruf.uni-freiburg.de)
Dr. Aleksandar Boskovic, Dept, of Social Anthropol-
ogy, University of Witwatersrand, Private Bag 3,
Witwatersrand 2050, South Africa
(s_boskovic@yahoo.com)
Federico Bossert, CAE A, Laprida 1575 - 4° 17, 1425
Buenos Aires, Argentina
H. E. M. Braakhuis, Pres. Kennedylaan 571, 1079 ML
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Prof. Ernest Brandewie, Ph.D., 2604 Marine St., South
Bend, IN 46614, USA
(ebrandew @ iusb.edu)
Dr. Dan Brockington, New Hall, Cambridge, CB3
ODF, United Kingdom
(danbrockington@hotmail.com)
Dr. Annette Czekelius, Oldenburger Str. 44, D-10551
Berlin, Germany
(czekelius @ aol.com)
Dr. Ulrich Demmer, Am Hackteufel 6, D-69117 Hei-
delberg, Germany
(Ulrich.Demmer@t-online.de)
Dr. Michael Dürr, Berliner Gesamtkatalog, Potsdamer
Str. 33, D-10785 Berlin, Germany
(duerr@bgk.b. shuttle.de)
Kerstin Eckstein, M. A., Kirchditmolderstr. 47, D-
34131 Kassel, Germany
Prof. Thomas Hylland Eriksen, TIK, University of
Oslo, P. O. Box 1108 Blindem, N-0317 Oslo,
Norway
(t.h.erikson@sai.uio.no)
Prof. Pierre Erny, 6 rue Victor Huen, F-68000 Colmar,
France
Dr. Burkhard Ganzer, Heckmannufer 10, D-10997
Berlin, Germany
(ganzer@zedat.fu-berlin.de)
Univ.Prof. Dr. Roland Girtler, Kirchberggasse 24/6,
A-1070 Wien, Austria
Dr. Anthony Good, Dept, of Social Anthropology, The
University of Edinburgh, Adam Ferguson Build-
ing, George Square, Edinburgh EH8 9LL, United
Kingdom
(A.Good@ed.ac.uk)
Dr. Katarina Greifeid, Mauerweg 10, D-60316 Frank-
furt, Germany
(106465.3047 @ compuserve.com)
Prof. Dr. Thomas Hauschild, Institut für Ethnologie,
Schloß, D-72070 Tübingen, Germany
(thomas.hauschild@uni-tuebingen.de)
Andreas Hemming, M. A., Fachgebiet Völkerkunde,
Universität Marburg, D-35032 Marburg, Germany
(hemming@mailer.uni-marburg.de)
Dr. Ulrich von Heyden, Pfannschmidtstr. 14, D-13125
Berlin, Germany
Prof. David Hicks, Ph.D., Dept. of Anthropology,
SUNY, Stony Brook, NY 11794-4364, USA
Prof. Anita Jacobson-Widding, Dept, of Cultural An-
thropology, Uppsala Universitet, Trädgärdsgatan
18, S-753 09 Uppsala, Sweden
Dr. Erich Kasten, Ethnologisches Museum Berlin,
Arnimallee 27, D-14195 Berlin, Germany
(kästen @ snafu.de)
Prof. Dr. Godula Kosack, Brockhausstr. 13, D-04229
Leipzig, Germany
(G. Kosack @ t-online. de)
Dr. Ulrike Krasberg, Fachgebiet Völkerkunde, Phi-
lipps-Universität Marburg, D-35032 Marburg,
Germany
(Krasberg@em.uni-frankfurt.de)
Prof. David Kronenfeld, Dept, of Anthropology, Uni-
versity of California, Riverside, CA 9251, USA
(kfeld @ citrus. ucr.edu)
P. Dr. Zdzislaw Kupisinski, SVD, Dorn Misyjny Slo-
wa Bozego, skr. poczt. 1110, ul. Jagiellonska 45,
PL-20-950 Lublin, Poland
Prof. Dr. Jacob Pandian, Dept, of Anthropology, Cal-
ifornia State University, P. O. Box 6846, Fullerton,
CA 92834-6846, USA
(jpandian@fullerton.edu)
Anthropos 96.2001
692
Mitarbeiter dieses Heftes
P. Dr. Jacek Jan Pawlik, SVD, Kolonia 19, PL-14-520
Pieniezno, Poland
(pawlik@seminarium.org.pl)
Prof. Dr. Hanns J. Prem, Institut für Altamerikanistik
und Ethnologie, Römerstr. 164, D-53117 Bonn,
Germany
(Prem@Uni-Bonn.De)
Dr. Eva Ch. Raabe, Museum für Völkerkunde, Schau-
mainkai 35, D-60594 Frankfurt, Germany
(eva. raabe @ stadt-frankfurt.de)
Claudia Roch, M. A., Schadowstr. 7, D-04177 Leipzig,
Germany
(ClaudiaRoch@web.de)
P. Franciszek M. Rosinski, Al. J. Kasprowicza 26,
PL-51-161 Wroclaw 8, Poland
Dr. Lioba Rossbach de Olmos, Wingertsweg 18, D-
65611 Niederbrechen, Germany
(RossbachdeOlmos @ aol.com)
Dr. Rita Schäfer, Carl-Kistner-Str. 62, D-79115 Frei-
burg, Germany
(Marx.Schaefer@t-online.de)
Dr. Michael Schlottner, Oberstr. 2, D-56459 Willmen-
rod, Germany
Dr. Peter Schröder, UFPE, Programa de Pös-Gra-
duagao em Antropologia Cultural, Dept, de Ciencias
Sociais, Av. Prof. Moraes Rego 1.235, Cidade
Universitäria, 50.670-901 Recife, PE, Brasil
(antrop @ npd.ufpe.br)
Elisabeth Schwarzer, M. A., Kaiserin-Augusta-Str. 75,
D-12103 Berlin, Germany
(werkstethno @ arcormail.de)
Dagmar Siebelt, M. A., Dottendorfer Str. 63, D-53129
Bonn, Germany
Dr. Martin Sökefeld, Institut für Ethnologie, Rothen-
baumchaussee 64a, D-20148 Hamburg, Germany
(martin.soekefeld@uni-hamburg.de)
Dr. Gabriele Sommer, Lehrstuhl Afrikanistik II, Uni-
versität Bayreuth, D-95440 Bayreuth, Germany
(afrikani stik2 @ uni -bayreuth .de)
Jörn Sommer, Eichendorffstr. 65, D-15831 Mahlow,
Germany
(caloundra@ snafu.de)
Prof. Dr. Albert A. Trouwborst, Prof. Asselbergs-
str. 3, 6524 RR Nijmegen, The Netherlands
(A.Trouwborst@maw.kun.nl)
Dr. Friedrich Valjavec, Reichenbachstr. 7a, D-80469
München, Germany
Diego Villar, CAEA, Laprida 1575 - 4° 17, 1425
Buenos Aires, Argentina
(villar@cvtci.com.ar)
Dr. Hans Voges, Berger Str. 248, D-60385 Frankfurt,
Germany
(hans. voges @ stadt-frankfurt.de)
Prof. Dr. Rainer Voigt, Seminar für Semitistik und
Arabistik, FU Berlin, Altensteinstr. 34, D-14195
Berlin, Germany
(semiarab @ zedat.fu-berlin.de)
Prof. Dr. Wiebe Walther, Stauffenbergstr. 94, D-72074
Tübingen, Germany
P. Stanislaw Wargacki, SVD, PL-39-461 Tarnowska
Wola 67, Poland
(wargacki@cua.edu)
Dr. Thomas Widlok, Max-Planck-Institut für ethno-
logische Forschung, Postfach 110351, D-06017
Halle, Germany
(widlok@eth.mpg.de)
Dr. Edwin Wieringa CNWS, Universitaet Leiden, Post-
fach 9515, 2300 RA Leiden, The Netherlands
(epwieringa@wishmail.net)
Dr. Johannes Wolff-Diepenbrock, Innstr. 9, D-81679
München, Germany
Dr. Patricia Zuckerhut, Stuwerstr. 10/22, A-1020
Wien, Austria
(patrizia.zuckerhut@magnet.at)
Anthropos 96.2001
AUTORENINDEX
Artikel
Amborn, Hermann: Soul and Personality As a
Communal Bond............................... 41
Antweiler, Christoph: Interkulturalität und Kos-
mopolitismus in Indonesien? Ethnische Grenzen
und ethnieübergreifende Identität in Makassar . 433
Bednarik, Robert G.: Beads and Pendants of the
Pleistocene................................. 545
Beek, W. E. A. van: cf. Bienfait, H. F. and
W. E. A. van Beek
Bienfait, H. F. and W. E. A. van Beek: Right
and Left As Political Categories. An Exercise in
“Not-So-Primitive” Classification............. 169
Bonatz, Dominik: Wandel einer Megalithkultur
im 20. Jahrhundert (Nias/Indonesien).......... 105
Bossert, Federico, y Diego Villar: Tres dimen-
siones de la máscara ritual chañé................. 59
Braakhuis, H. E. M.: The Way of All Flesh.
Sexual Implications of the Mayan Hunt............ 391
Brumann, Christoph: Religious Consensus and
Secular Dissent. Two Alternative Paths to Surviv-
al for Utopian Communes........................... 87
Dalfovo, Albert Titus: Religion among the Lug-
bara. The Triadic Source of Its Meaning .... 29
Demmer, Ulrich: Always an Argument. Persua-
sive Tools in the Death Rituals of the Jénu Ku-
rumba............................................ 475
Erckenbrecht, Corinna: Deszendenz, politische
Macht und das Verhältnis der Geschlechter auf
Yap, Westkarolinen............................... 119
Ganzer, Burkhard: Generationsspanne, Status-
inkonsistenz und Rollenprägnanz in einer irani-
schen ‘asdyer-Gesellschaft....................... 509
Good, Anthony: The Structure and Meaning of
Daily Worship in a South Indian Temple .... 491
Krasberg, Ulrike: Theateranthropologische Be-
trachtungen zum Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Ma-
rokko ........................................... 379
Krines, Stephan: Rezente christliche Einflüsse
in der Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Ab-
origines ........................................ 157
Kronenfeld, David B.: Morgan, Trautmann and
Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type Cross/Parallel Dis-
tinction ........................................ 423
Petridis, Constantine: Chokwe Masks and Fran-
ciscan Missionaries in Sandoa, Belgian Congo,
ca. 1948 .......................................... 3
Sokefeld, Martin: Reconsidering Identity . . . 527
Sullivan, Sian: Difference, Identity, and Access
to Official Discourses. Hai||om, “Bushmen,” and
a Recent Namibian Ethnography .................. 179
Thiessen, Ilka: The Social Construction of
Gender. Female Cannibalism in Papua New
Guinea.......................................... 141
Trenk, Marin: Religious Uses of Alcohol among
the Woodland Indians of North America .... 73
Villar, Diego: cf. Bossert, Federico, y Diego
Villar
Widlok,Thomas: Living on Ethnography and
Comparison. What Difference Do Hai||om “Bush-
men” Make to Anthropology (and Vice Versa)? 359
Zuckerhut, Patricia: Geschlechterverhaltnisse
bei den Azteklnnen. Zwischen totaler Frauenun-
terdrlickung und Geschlechterparallelitat .... 411
Berichte und Kommentare
Bamony, Pierre: Chasseurs aux mains nues et
efficience des pouvoirs infrasensibles dans l’art
cynégétique. L’exemple d’une confrérie de chasse
du kwala Bationo de Koukoulkouala (Burkina
Faso)........................................ 563
Barry, Laurent S.: Parenté, début de siècle . . 586
Claffey, Patrick: The Place of the “imaginaire
religieux” in Social Change and Political Recom-
position in Sub-Saharan Africa............... 200
Fellman, Jack: Ethiopian-Semitic. The Situation
in Gurage Land.................................. 206
Gausset, Quentin: Masks and Identity. The Sig-
nificance of Masquerades in the Symbolic Cycle
Linking the Living, the Dead, and the Bush Spirits
among the Wawa (Cameroon)................ 193
Girtler, Roland: Franz Boas. Burschenschafter
und Schwiegersohn eines österreichischen Revo-
lutionärs von 1848 ............................. 572
Helmig, Thomas: Das Leid mit der “Abstam-
mung” .......................................... 217
Kasten, Erich: Franz Boas. The Early Years. A
Review Article........................... 577
Pandian, Jacob: Symbolic Inversions. An Inter-
pretation of Contrary Behavior in Ritual .... 557
Quack, Anton: Die vielen Gesichter des Islam 583
Siebelt, Dagmar: Report on the Seventh North
Americanist Conference................... 598
Anthropos 96.2001
696
Autorenindex (R)
Valjavec, Friedrich: Seßhafte Jäger, akkultu-
rierte Sammler. Zur Cambridge-Enzyklopädie
zeitgenössischer Wildbeuter..................... 207
Voigt, Rainer: Zum Rendille..................... 590
Rezensionen
Abram, Simone, and Jacqueline Waldren
(eds.): Anthropological Perspectives on Local De-
velopment. Knowledge and Sentiments in con-
flict. London 1998. 166 pp. (Peter Schröder) . . 221
Adam, Barbara, Ulrich Beck, and Joost Van
Loon (eds.): The Risk Society and Beyond.
Critical Issues for Social Theory. London 2000.
232 pp. (Katarina Greifeld)................ 603
Adams, Richard E. W., and Murdo J. Mac
Leod (eds.): The Cambridge History of the Na-
tive Peoples of the Americas; vol. 2: Mesoame-
rica; 2 parts. Cambridge 2000. 571pp.; 455 pp.
(Hanns J. Prem)............................ 605
Alber, Erdmute: Im Gewand von Herrschaft.
Modalitäten der Macht im Borgou (Nord-Benin)
1900-1995. Köln 2000. 325 pp. (Jörn Sommer) 606
Amit, Vered (ed.): Constructing the Lield. Eth-
nographie Fieldwork in the Contemporary World.
London 2000. 199 pp. (Roland Drubig) .... 321
Ammarell, Gene: Bugis Navigation. New Haven
1999.299 pp. (R.H. Barnes)................... 222
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.):
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. Ancient Greece
and Rome. Philadelphia 1999. 395 pp. (T. O.
Beidelman)..................................... 223
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.):
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. The Eighteenth
and Nineteenth Centuries. Philadelphia 1999.
340 pp. (T. O. Beidelman)...................... 226
Ankarloo, Bengt, and Stuart Clark (eds.):
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. The Twentieth
Century. Philadelphia 1999. 244 pp. (T. O. Bei-
delman) ....................................... 227
Arce, Alberto, and Norman Long (eds.):
Anthropology, Development, and Modernities.
Exploring Discourses, Counter-Tendencies, and
Violence. London 2000. 232 pp. (Peter Schrö-
der) .......................................... 607
Assies, Willem, Gemma van der Haar, and
André J. Hoekema (eds.): The Challenge of
Diversity. Indigenous Peoples and Reform of the
State in Latin America. Amsterdam 2000. 315 pp.
(Lioba Rossbach de Olmos)..................... 608
Barendse, R. J.: The Arabian Seas, 1640-1700.
Leiden 1998. 465 pp. (Wolfgang Marschall) . . 229
Barnard, Alan: History and Theory in Anthro-
pology. Cambridge 2000. 243 pp. (Albert Trouw-
borst)........................................ 610
Barnes, Teresa: “We Women Worked so Hard.”
Gender, Urbanization, and Social Reproduction in
Colonial Harare, Zimbabwe, 1930-1956. Ports-
mouth; Oxford 1999. 204 pp. (Rita Schäfer) . . 610
Baroin, Catherine, et Jean Boutrais (éds.):
L’homme et Tanimal dans le bassin du lac Tchad.
Paris 1999.705 pp. (Gabriele Sommer) .... 612
Beaujard, Philippe: Dictionnaire Malgache-
Français. Dialecte Tanala, Sud-Est de Madagas-
car. Paris 1998. 891 pp. (Christine Paulsen) . . 230
Beaujard, Philippe: Le parler secret arabico-
malgache du Sud-Est du Madagascar. Recherches
étymologiques. Paris 1998. 165 pp. (Christine
Paulsen)......................................... 230
Beck, Ulrich (Hrsg.): Perspektiven der Weltge-
sellschaft. Frankfurt 1998. 436 pp. (Thomas Hau-
schild) ......................................... 613
Beckwith, Carol, und Angela Fisher: Afrika.
Kulte, Feste, Rituale; 2 Bde. München 2000.
384 pp. (Godula Kosack).......................... 614
Beier, Ulli (ed.): A Dreaming Life. An Autobi-
ography of Chief Twins Seven-Seven, the Ekerin-
Bashorun Atunluto of Ibadanland. From Conver-
sations with Twins Seven-Seven. Bayreuth 1999.
207 pp. (Kerstin Eckstein)....................... 615
Bernard, H. Russell (ed.): Handbook of Methods
in Cultural Anthropology. Walnut Creek 1998.
816 pp. (Franciszek M. Rosinski)................. 616
Bickel, Balthasar, and Martin Gaenszle (eds.):
Himalayan Space. Cultural Horizons and Prac-
tices. Zürich 1999. 279 pp. (Gregory G. Maska-
rinec)........................................... 231
Blanc, Ulrike: Musik und Tod bei den Bulsa
(Nordghana). Münster 2000. 297 pp. (Michael
Schlottner)...................................... 618
Boyd, Robert: The Coming of the Spirit of
Pestilence. Introduced Diseases and Population
Decline among Northwest Coast Indians, 1774—
1874. Vancouver 1999. 405 pp. (Michael Har-
kin)............................................. 233
Brumann, Christoph: Die Kunst des Teilens.
Eine vergleichende Untersuchung zu den Überle-
bensbedingungen kommunitärer Gruppen. Ham-
burg 1998. 354 pp. (Elisabeth Schwarzer) . . . 620
Byer, Doris: Der Fall Hugo A. Bernatzik.
Ein Leben zwischen Ethnologie und Öffentlich-
keit, 1897-1953. Köln 1999. 456 pp. (Bernhard
Streck).......................................... 234
Califano, Mario (coord.): Los indios Sirionö
de Bolivia Oriental. Buenos Aires 1999. 347 pp.
(Diego Villar)................................... 235
Cannell, Fenella: Power and Intimacy in the
Christian Philippines. Cambridge 1999. 312 pp.
(Edwin Wieringa) ................................ 621
Casajus, Dominique: Gens de parole. Langage,
poésie et politique en pays touareg. Paris 2000.
190 pp. (Annette Czekelius)...................... 621
Ceballos Gômez, Diana L.: Zauberei und Hexe-
rei. Eine Untersuchung magischer Praxen im
Neuen Königreich Granada. Frankfurt 2000.
259 pp. (Godula Kosack).......................... 236
Cole, Douglas: Franz Boas. The Early Years,
1858-1906. Vancouver 1999. 360pp. (Erich Ka-
sten) ........................................... 577
Anthropos 96.2001
Autorenindex (R)
697
Cordeu, Edgardo Jorge: Transfiguraciones sim-
bólicas. Ciclo ritual de los indios tomaráxo del
Chaco Boreal. Quito 1999. 339 pp. (Federico
Bossert and Diego Villar).....................
Dahl, Jens: Saqqaq. An Inuit Hunting Commu-
nity in the Modem World. Toronto 2000. 277 pp.
(C. H. W. Remie)..............................
Drechsel, Paul, Bettina Schmidt und Bernhard
Gölz: Kultur im Zeitalter der Globalisierung. Von
Identität zu Differenzen. Frankfurt 2000. 172 pp.
(Bernhard Streck).............................
Dunbar, Robin, Chris Knight, and Camilla
Power (eds.): The Evolution of Culture. An
Interdisciplinary View. Edinburgh 1999. 257 pp.
(Franciszek M. Rosifiski) ....................
Edgar, Robert R., and Hilary Sapire: African
Apocalypse. The Story of Nontetha Nkwenkwe,
a Twentieth-Century South African Prophet. Jo-
hannesburg 2000. 190 pp. (T. O. Beidelman). .
Ellis, Stephen: The Mask of Anarchy. The De-
struction of Liberia and the Religious Dimension
of an African Civil War. London 1999. 350 pp.
(Patrick Claffey).............................
Erb, Maribeth: The Manggaraians. A Guide to
Traditional Lifestyles. Singapore 1999. 168 pp.
(Othmar Gächter)..............................
Erny, Pierre: Enfants du ciel et de la terre. Essais
d’anthropologie religieuse. Paris 2000. 345 pp.
(Jacek Jan Pawlik)............................
Fardon, Richard: Mary Douglas. An Intellectual
Biography. London 1999. 315 pp. (Volker Gotto-
wik)..........................................
Feest, Christian F. (Hrsg.): Sitting Bull - “der
letzte Indianer”. Begleitbuch zur Ausstellung im
Hessischen Landesmuseum Darmstadt, 13.6. bis
17. 10. 1999. Darmstadt 1999. 128 pp. (Dagmar
Siebelt)......................................
Frembgen, Jürgen Wasim, und Hans Werner
Mohm: Lebensbaum und Kalaschnikow. Krieg
und Frieden im Spiegel afghanischer Bildtep-
piche. Blieskastel 2000. 151 pp. (Johannes Wolff-
Diepenbrock)..................................
Fuglerud, 0ivind: Life on the Outside. The
Tamil Diaspora and Long Distance Nationalism.
London 1999. 203 pp. (Martin Baumann) . . .
Gade, Daniel W.: Nature and Culture in the
Andes. Madison 1999. 287 pp. (Iris Gareis) . .
García, Silvia P., y Diana S. Rolandi: Cuentos
de las tres abuelas. Narrativa de Antofagasta de
la Sierra. Buenos Aires 2000. 238 pp. (Lorena
Isabel Córdoba)...............................
Gingrich, Andre: Erkundungen. Themen der eth-
nologischen Forschung. Wien 1999. 310 pp. (Er-
nest Brandewie) ..............................
Gottschalk, Burkhard: Bei den Wahrsagern im
Land der Lobi. Die Kunst, Verborgenes zu ent-
decken. Düsseldorf 1999. 203 pp. (Godula Ko-
sack) ........................................
Halpern, Joel M., and David A. Kideckel (eds ):
Neighbors at War. Anthropological Perspectives
on Yugoslav Ethnicity, Culture, and History.
University Park 2000. 477 pp. (Andreas Hem-
ming) ....................................... 627
Hämmerle, Johannes Maria: Nias - eine eigene
Welt. Sagen, Mythen, Überlieferungen. Sankt
Augustin 1999.407 pp. (Dominik Bonatz) . . . 628
Hampton, O. W. “Bud”: Culture of Stone. Sa-
cred and Profane Uses of Stone among the Dani.
College Station 1999. 331 pp. (Anton Ploeg) . 256
Heady, Patrick: The Hard People. Rivalry, Sym-
pathy, and Social Structure in an Alpine Valley.
Amsterdam 1999. 248 pp. (Christophe Gros) . 257
Heald, Suzette: Manhood and Morality. Sex.
Violence, and Ritual in Gisu Society. London
1999. 192 pp. (Susan Reynolds Whyte) .... 259
Heersink, Christiaan: Dependence on Green
Gold. A Socio-Economic History of the Indo-
nesian Coconut Island Selayar. Leiden 1999.
371 pp. (Martin Rössler) .................... 261
Heinze, Ruth-Inge (ed.): The Nature and Func-
tion of Rituals. Fire from Heaven. Westport 2000.
308 pp. (Jacob Pandian)...................... 630
Helmreich, Stefan: Silicon Second Nature. Cul-
turing Artificial Life in a Digital World. Berkeley
1998.314 pp. (Hans Voges).................... 263
Hoffmann, Giselher W.: Schattenjäger. Swakop-
mund 1998. 412 pp. (Manfred Loimeier) .... 264
Jansen, Maarten, Peter Kröfges, and Michel
R. Oudijk: The Shadow of Monte Alban. Pol-
itics and Historiography in Postclassic Oaxaca,
Mexico. Leiden 1998. 144 pp. (Ursula Thiemer-
Sachse)...................................... 266
Jiménez de Báez, Yvette (ed.): Voces y cantos
de la tradición. Textos inéditos de la Fonoteca y
Archivo de Tradiciones Populares. México 1998.
149 pp. (Piotr Nawrot).......................... 267
Karlsson, B. G.: Contested Belonging. An Indig-
enous People’s Struggle for Forest and Identity in
Sub-Himalayan Bengal. Richmond 2000. 318 pp.
(Martin Sökefeld)............................... 631
Kasfir, Sidney Littlefield: Contemporary Afri-
can Art. London 1999. 224 pp. (Till Förster) . . 267
Kavanagh, Thomas W.: The Comanches. A His-
tory, 1706-1875. Lincoln 1999. 586 pp. (Peter
Bolz)........................................... 269
Kirch, Patrick Vinton: On the Road of the
Winds. An Archaeological History of the Pacific
Islands before European Contact. Berkeley 2000.
425 pp. (Eva Ch. Raabe)........................ 632
Knauft, Bruce M.: From Primitive to Postcolo-
nial in Melanesia and Anthropology. Ann Arbor
1999.320 pp. (Franciszek M. Rosinski) .... 270
Kozak, David L., and David I. Lopez: Dev-
il Sickness and Devil Songs. Tohono O’odham
Poetics. Washington 1999. 190 pp. (Claudia
Roch)........................................... 634
Krasberg, Ulrike: Religion und weibliche Iden-
tität. Interdisziplinäre Perspektiven auf Wirklich-
keiten. Marburg 1999. 324 pp. (Gabriele Herzog-
Schröder) ...................................... 271
623
238
240
241
243
244
245
625
247
249
626
250
251
252
253
255
Anthropos 96.2001
698
Autorenindex (R)
Kusimba, Chapurukha M.: The Rise and Fall
of Swahili States. Walnut Creek 1999. 237 pp.
(Alamin Mazrui)..............................
Lee, Christina: Women’s Health. Psychological
and Social Perspectives. London 1998. 238 pp.
(Katarina Greifeld)..........................
Lee, Richard B., and Richard Daly (eds.):
The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Hunters and
Gatherers. Cambridge 1999. 511 pp. (Friedrich
Valjavec)....................................
Lefebvre, Alain: Kinship, Honour, and Money in
Rural Pakistan. Subsistence Economy and the Ef-
fects of International Migration. Richmond 1999.
303 pp. (Klaus Hesse)........................
Linke, Uli: Blood and Nation. The European
Aesthetics of Race. Philadelphia 1999. 332 pp.
(Aleksandar Boskovic)........................
Lisimba, Mukumbuta: Kongo Proverbs and
the Origins of Bantu Wisdom. Libreville 1999.
251pp. (N.S. Kabuta).........................
McAnany, Patricia Ann: Living with the An-
cestors. Kinship and Kingship in Ancient Maya
Society. Austin 2000. 213 pp. (Mary W. Helms)
Mager, Anne Kelk: Gender and the Making of
a South African Bantustan. A Social History of
the Ciskei, 1945-1959. Portsmouth 1999. 248 pp.
(Rita Schäfer)...............................
Manger, Leif (ed.): Muslim Diversity. Local Is-
lam in Global Contexts. Richmond 1999. 260 pp.
(Anton Quack)................................
Marshall, Lorna J.: Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs
and Rites. Cambridge 1999. 361 pp. (Thomas
Widlok)......................................
Martinez, D. P. (ed.): The Worlds of Japanese
Popular Culture. Gender, Shifting Boundaries,
and Global Cultures. Cambridge 1998. 212 pp.
(Christoph Brumann)..........................
Mason, Peter: Infelicities. Representations of the
Exotic. Baltimore 1998. 255 pp. (Hilke Thode-
Arora).......................................
Maud, Ralph: Transmission Difficulties. Franz
Boas and Tsimshian Mythology. Buraby 2000.
174 pp. (Michael Dürr).......................
Meyer, Birgit: Translating the Devil. Religion
and Modernity among the Ewe in Ghana. Edin-
burgh 1999. 265 pp. (Stanislaw Pilaszewicz) . .
Miller, Daniel, and Don Slater: The Internet. An
Ethnographic Approach. Oxford 2000. 217 pp.
(Thomas Hylland Eriksen).....................
Mir-Hosseini, Ziba: Islam and Gender. The Re-
ligious Debate in Contemporary Iran. Princeton
1999. 305 pp. (Wiebke Walther)...............
Moore, Henrietta L. (ed.): Anthropological The-
ory Today. Cambridge 1999. 292 pp. (Wing Sam
Chow)........................................
Moore, Henrietta L., Todd Sanders, and
Bwire Kaare: Those Who Play with Fire. Gen-
der, Fertility, and Transformation in East and
Southern Africa. London 1999. 307 pp. (Rita
Schäfer).....................................
Mulvaney, John, and Johan Kamminga: Pre-
history of Australia. Washington 1999. 480 pp.
(Robert G. Bednarik)............................. 288
Oppitz, Michael, and Elisabeth Hsu (eds.): Naxi
and Moso Ethnography. Kin, Rites, Pictographs.
Zürich 1998. 396 pp. (Koen Wellens) .......... 290
Oswalt, Wendell H.: Eskimos and Explorers.
Lincoln 1999. 341 pp. (Evelin Haase).......... 292
Pérez Ihdela y Buesco, Juan (comp.): Obras
clásicas para la historia de Iberoamérica. Madrid
1998. (Agustín Seguí)........................... 293
Pezeu-Massabuau, Jacques: Demeure mémoire.
Habiter: Code, sagesse, libération. Marseille
1999. 180 pp. (Hans Peter Hahn)................. 294
Pickering, W. S. F. (ed.): Durkheim and Repre-
sentations. London 2000. 182 pp. (Friedrich Val-
javec) .......................................... 644
Pike, Sarah M.: Earthly Bodies, Magical Selves.
Contemporary Pagans and the Search for Com-
munity. Berkeley 2001. 288 pp. (T. O. Beidel-
man) ............................................ 646
Pillinger, Steve, and Letiwa Galboran: A Ren-
dille Dictionary, Including a Grammatical Out-
line and an English-Rendille Index. Köln 1999.
416 pp. (Rainer Voigt)........................... 590
Platte, Editha: Frauen in Amt und Würden.
Handlungsspielräume muslimischer Frauen im
ländlichen Nordostnigeria. Frankfurt 2000. 290 pp.
(Rita Schäfer)................................... 296
Rapport, Nigel: Transcendent Individual. To-
wards a Literary and Liberal Anthropology. Lon-
don 1997. 220 pp. (Wojciech J. Burszta) .... 297
Rapport, Nigel, and Joanna Overing: Social
and Cultural Anthropology. The Key Concepts.
London 2000. 464 pp. (Albert Trouwborst) . . 648
Reimann, Ralf Ingo: Der Schamane sieht eine
Hexe - der Ethnologe sieht nichts. Menschliche
Informationsverarbeitung und ethnologische For-
schung. Frankfurt 1998. 333 pp. (Birgitt Röttger-
Rössler)......................................... 298
Richter, Sabine: Das Powwow-Fest bei den
Blackfoot - Ein Ausdruck indianischer Identität.
Ulm 1998. 81 pp. (Dagmar Siebelt) ............... 300
Rowse, Tim: Obliged to Be Difficult. Nugget
Coomb’s Legacy in Indigenous Affairs. Cam-
bridge 2000. 254 pp. (Will Sanders).............. 301
Rubinstein, Raechelle: Beyond the Realm of the
Senses. The Balinese Ritual of kekawin Compo-
sition. Leiden 2000. 293 pp. (Edwin Wieringa) 649
Rubinstein, Raechelle, and Linda H. Connor
(eds.): Staying Local in the Global Village. Bali
in the Twentieth Century. Honolulu 1999. 353 pp.
(Henk Schulte Nordholt)...................... 302
Russell, Catherine: Experimental Ethnography.
The Work of Film in the Age of Video. Durham
1999. 392 pp. (Majan Garlinski).............. 304
Schiffauer, Werner: Die Gottesmänner. Türki-
sche Islamisten in Deutschland. Eine Studie zur
Herstellung religiöser Evidenz. Frankfurt 2000.
352 pp. (Thomas Lemmen) ..................... 305
274
634
207
275
635
278
280
636
583
637
281
282
638
284
639
640
285
287
Anthropos 96.2001
Autorenindex (R)
699
Schomburg-Scherff, Sylvia M., und Beatrix
Heintze (Hrsg.): Die offenen Grenzen der Ethno-
logie. Schlaglichter auf ein sich wandelndes Fach.
Klaus E. Müller zum 65. Geburtstag. Frankfurt
2000.315 pp. (Bettina Schmidt)...............
Schweitzer, Peter P. (ed.): Dividends of Kinship.
Meanings and Uses of Social Relatedness. Lon-
don 2000. 221 pp. (Laurent S. Barry).........
Shima, Mutsuhiko, and Roger L. Janelli (eds.):
The Anthropology of Korea. East Asian Per-
spectives. Papers Presented at the Seventeenth
Taniguchi International Symposium. Osaka 1998.
237 pp. (Astrid Winterhaider)................
Sieber, Roy, and Frank Herreman (eds.): Hair
in African Art and Culture. München 2000.
192 pp. (T. O. Beidelman)....................
Sillitoe, Paul: Social Change in Melanesia. De-
velopment and History. Cambridge 2000. 264 pp.
(Stanislaw A. Wargacki)......................
Simoons, Frederick J.: Plants of Life, Plants of
Death. Madison 1998. 568 pp. (Alexandra Ditt-
mar).........................................
Sjdrslev, Inger: Glaube und Besessenheit. Ein
Bericht über die Candomblé-Religion in Bra-
silien. Gifkendorf 1999. 622 pp. (Joachim G.
Piepke)......................................
Stott, Philip, and Sian Sullivan: Political Ecol-
ogy. Science, Myth, and Power. London 2000.
276 pp. (Dan Brockington)....................
Strathern, Andrew, and Pamela J. Stewart:
Arrow Talk. Transaction, Transition, and Contra-
diction in New Guinea Highlands History. Kent
2000.216 pp. (Ernest Brandewie) .............
Streck, Bernhard (Hrsg.): Wörterbuch der Eth-
nologie, 2. und erw. Aufl. Wuppertal 2000.
431 pp. (Pierre Erny)........................
Suhrbier, Birgit M.: Die Macht der Gegen-
stände. Menschen und ihre Objekte am oberen
Xingü, Brasilien. Marburg 1998. 245 pp. (Hans
Voges).......................................
Thornton, Russell (ed.): Studying Native Ame-
rica. Problems and Prospects. Madison 1998.
443 pp. (Peter Bolz)......................... 316
Trenk, Marin: Die Milch des weißen Mannes.
Die Indianer Nordamerikas und der Alkohol. Ber-
lin 2001. 232 pp. (Ulrich van der Heyden) . . . 653
Vajda, Läszlö: Ethnologica. Ausgewählte Auf-
sätze. Wiesbaden 1999. 572 pp. (Bertram Turner) 317
Valeri, Valerio: The Forest of Taboos. Morality,
Hunting, and Identity among the Huaulu of the
Moluccas. Madison 2000. 509 pp. (David Hicks) 654
Van Dijk, Rijk, Ria Reis, and Marja Spier-
enburg (eds.): The Quest for Fruition through
ngoma. Political Aspects of Healing in Southern
Africa. Oxford; Athens 2000. 172 pp. (Anita
Jacobson-Widding)................................ 655
Westerlund, David, and Ingvar Svanberg
(eds.): Islam Outside the Arab World. Richmond
1999.476 pp. (Anton Quack)....................... 583
Widlok, Thomas: Living on Mangetti. “Bush-
man” Autonomy and Namibian Independence.
Oxford 1999. 291 pp. (Sian Sullivan) ............ 179
Willis, Roy: Some Spirits Heal, Others Only
Dance. A Journey into Human Selfhood in an
African Village. Oxford 1999. 220 pp. (Wyatt
MacGaffey)....................................... 319
Wilmsen, Edwin N.: Journeys with Flies. Chica-
go 1999. 160 pp. (Renee Sylvain)................. 320
Wolcott, Harry F.: Ethnography. A Way of See-
ing. Walnut Creek 1999. 333 pp. (Roland Drubig) 321
Wood, John Colman: When Men Are Women.
Manhood among Gabra Nomads of East Africa.
Madison 1999. 240 pp. (T. O. Beidelman) . . . 323
Zahn, Heinrich: Mission and Music. Jabem Tra-
ditional Music and the Development of Lutheran
Hymnody. Boroko 1996. 492 pp. (Friedegard
Tomasetti)....................................... 325
Zimon, Henryk (ed.): Religia w swiecie wspol-
czesnym. Zarys problematyki religiologicznej.
Lublin 2000. 653 pp. (Zdzislaw Kupisiriski) . . 657
306
586
308
310
650
311
312
651
652
653
314
Anthropos 96.2001
700
Rezensenten
Rezensenten Marschall 229 Maskarinec 231
Barnes 222 Mazrui 274
Barry 586 Nawrot 267
Baumann 250 Pandian 630
Bednarik 288 Paulsen 230, 230
Beidelman 223, 226, 227, 243, 310, 323, 646 Pawlik 625
Bolz 269, 316 Piepke 312
Bonatz 628 Pilaszewicz 284
Boskovic 635 Ploeg 256
Bossert 623 Prem 605
Brandewie 253, 652 Quack 5832
Brockington 651 Raabe 632
Brumann 281 Remie 238
Burszta 297 Roch 634
Chow 285 Rosiriski 241, 270, 616
Claffey 244 Rossbach de Olmos 608
Cordoba 252 Rössler 261
Czekelius 621 Röttger-Rössler 298
Dittmar 311 Sanders 301
Drubig 3212 Schäfer 287, 296, 610, 636
Dürr 638 Schlottner 618
Eckstein 615 Schmidt 306
Eriksen 639 Schröder 221, 607
Erny 653 Schulte Nordholt 302
Förster 267 Schwarzer 620
Gächter 245 Segui 293
Gareis 251 Siebelt 249, 300
Garlinski 304 Sökefeld 631
Gottowik 247 Sommer, G. 612
Greifeid 603, 634 Sommer, J. 606
Gros 257 Streck 234, 240
Haase 292 Sullivan 179
Hahn 294 Sylvain 320
Harkin 233 Thiemer-Sachse 266
Hauschild 613 Thode-Arora 282
Helms 280 Tomasetti 325
Hemming 627 Trouwborst 610, 648
Herzog-Schröder 271 Turner 317
Hesse 275 Valjavec 207, 644
van der Heyden 653 Villar 235, 623
Hicks 654 Voges 263, 314
Jacobson-Widding 655 Voigt 590
Kabuta 278 Walther 640
Kasten 577 Wargacki 650
Knobloch 338 Wellens 290
Kosack 236, 255, 614 Widlock 637
Kupisiriski 657 Wieringa 621, 649
Lemmen 305 Winterhaider 308
Loimeier 264 Wolff-Diepenbrock 626
MacGaffey 319 Whyte 259
Anthropos 96.2001
GEOGRAPHISCHER INDEX*
Afrika
Afrika. Kulte, Feste, Rituale 614
Contemporary African Art 267
Enfants du ciel et de la terre. Essais d’anthropologie
religieuse 625
Hair in African Art and Culture 310
Infelicities. Representations of the Exotic 282
Kongo Proverbs and the Origins of Bantu Wisdom
278
The Place of the “imaginaire religieux” in
Social Change and Political Recomposition in
Sub-Saharan Africa 200
Nordafrika
Gens de parole. Langage, poésie et politique en pays
touareg 621
Theateranthropologische Betrachtungen zum
Ekstasetanz von Frauen in Marokko 379
Ostafrika
Ethiopian-Semitic. The Situation in Gurage Land 206
Manhood and Morality. Sex. Violence, and Ritual in
Gisu Society 259
Religion among the Lugbara. The Triadic Source of Its
Meaning 29
The Rise and Fall of Swahili States 274
Some Spirits Heal, Others Only Dance. A Journey into
Human Selfhood in an African Village 319
Soul and Personality As a Communal Bond 41
Symbolic Inversions. An Interpretation of Contrary
Behavior in Ritual 557
Those Who Play with Fire. Gender, Fertility, and
Transformation in East and Southern Africa 287
When Men Are Women. Manhood among Gabra
Nomads of East Africa 323
Zum Rendille 590
* Seitenzahlen in kursiv weisen auf Artikel oder Berichte und
Kommentare hin.
Westafrika
Bei den Wahrsagern im Land der Lobi. Die Kunst,
Verborgenes zu entdecken 255
Chasseurs aux mains nues et efficience des pouvoirs
infrasensibles dans l’art cynégétique. L’exemple
d’une confrérie de chasse du kwala Bationo de
Koukoulkouala (Burkina Faso) 563
A Dreaming Life. An Autobiography of Chief Twins
Seven-Seven, the Ekerin-Bashorun Atunluto of
Ibadanland 615
Frauen in Amt und Würden. Handlungsspielräume
muslimischer Frauen im ländlichen Nordostnigeria
296
L’homme et 1’animal dans le bassin du lac Tchad
612
Im Gewand von Herrschaft. Modalitäten der Macht im
Borgou (Nord-Benin) 1900-1995 606
Masks and Identity. The Significance of Masquerades
in the Symbolic Cycle Linking the Living, the
Dead, and the Bush Spirits among the Wawa
(Cameroon) 193
The Mask of Anarchy. The Destruction of Liberia and
the Religious Dimension of an African Civil War
244
Musik und Tod bei den Bulsa (Nordghana) 618
Translating the Devil. Religion and Modernity among
the Ewe in Ghana 284
Zentralafrika
Chokwe Masks and Franciscan Missionaries in
Sandoa, Belgian Congo, ca. 1948 3
Südafrika
African Apocalypse. The Story of Nontetha
Nkwenkwe, a Twentieth-Century South African
Prophet 243
Gender and the Making of a South African Bantustan.
A Social History of the Ciskei, 1945-1959 636
Journeys with Flies 320
The Quest for Fruition through ngoma. Political
Aspects of Healing in Southern Africa 655
Anthropos 96.2001
702
Geographischer Index
Those Who Play with Fire. Gender, Fertility, and
Transformation in East and Southern Africa 287
“We Women Worked so Hard.” Gender, Urbanization,
and Social Reproduction in Colonial Harare,
Zimbabwe, 1930-1956 610
Stidostafrika
Dictionnaire Malgache-Français. Dialecte Tanala,
Sud-Est de Madagascar 230
Le parler secret arabico-malgache du Sud-Est du
Madagascar. Recherches étymologiques 230
Siidwestafrika
Difference, Identity, and Access to Official Discourses.
Hai||om, “Bushmen,” and a Recent Namibian
Ethnography 179
Living on Ethnography and Comparison. What
Difference Do Hai||om “Bushmen” Make to
Anthropology (and Vice Versa)? 359
Nyae Nyae !Kung. Beliefs and Rites 637
Schattenjager 264
Amerika
Infelicities. Representations of the Exotic 282
Nordamerika
The Comanches. A History, 1706-1875 269
The Coming of the Spirit of Pestilence. Introduced
Diseases and Population Decline among Northwest
Coast Indians, 1774-1874 233
Devil Sickness and Devil Songs. Tohono O’odham
Poetics 634
Earthly Bodies, Magical Selves. Contemporary Pagans
and the Search for Community 646
Eskimos and Explorers 292
Die Milch des weißen Mannes. Die Indianer
Nordamerikas und der Alkohol 653
Morgan, Trautmann and Barnes, and the Iroquois-Type
Cross/Parallel Distinction 423
Das Powwow-Fest bei den Blackfoot - Ein Ausdruck
indianischer Identität 300
Religious Uses of Alcohol among the Woodland
Indians of North America 73
Report on the Seventh North Americanist Conference
598
Saqqaq. An Inuit Hunting Community in the Modern
World 238
Silicon Second Nature. Culturing Artificial Life in a
Digital World 263
Sitting Bull - “der letzte Indianer” 249
Studying Native America. Problems and Prospects
316
Transmission Difficulties. Franz Boas and Tsimshian
Mythology 638
Mittelamerika
The Challenge of Diversity. Indigenous Peoples and
Reform of the State in Latin America 608
The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the
Americas; vol. 2: Mesoamerica; 2 parts 605
Geschlechterverháltnisse bei den Azteklnnen.
Zwischen totaler Frauenunterdriickung und
Geschlechterparallelitát 411
The Internet. An Ethnographic Approach 639
Living with the Ancestors. Kinship and Kingship in
Ancient Maya Society 280
Obras clásicas para la historia de Iberoamérica 293
The Shadow of Monte Alban. Politics and
Historiography in Postclassic Oaxaca, Mexico
266
Voces y cantos de la tradición. Textos inéditos de la
Fonoteca y Archivo de Tradiciones Populares 267
The Way of All Flesh. Sexual Implications of the
Mayan Hunt 391
Südamerika
The Challenge of Diversity. Indigenous Peoples and
Reform of the State in Latin America 608
Cuentos de las tres abuelas. Narrativa de Antofagasta
de la Sierra 252
Glaube und Besessenheit. Ein Bericht über die
Candomblé-Religion in Brasilien 312
Los indios Sirionó de Bolivia Oriental 235
Die Macht der Gegenstände. Menschen und ihre
Objekte am oberen Xingü, Brasilien 314
Nature and Culture in the Andes 251
Obras clásicas para la historia de Iberoamérica 293
Transfiguraciones simbólicas. Ciclo ritual de los indios
tomaráxo del Chaco Boreal 623
Tres dimensiones de la máscara ritual chañé 59
Zauberei und Hexerei. Eine Untersuchung magischer
Praxen im Neuen Königreich Granada 236
Asien
Westasien
Erkundungen. Themen der ethnologischen Forschung
253
Generationsspanne, Statusinkonsistenz und
Rollenprägnanz in einer iranischen ’asäyer-
Gesellschaft 509
Anthropos 96.2001
Geographischer Index
703
Die Gottesmänner. Türkische Islamisten in Deutsch-
land. Eine Studie zur Herstellung religiöser
Evidenz 305
Islam and Gender. The Religious Debate in
Contemporary Iran 640
Lebensbaum und Kalaschnikow. Krieg und Frieden im
Spiegel afghanischer Bildteppiche 626
Siidasien
Always an Argument. Persuasive Tools in the Death
Rituals of the Jenu Kurumba 475
Contested Belonging. An Indigenous People’s
Struggle for Forest and Identity in Sub-
Himalayan Bengal 631
Himalayan Space. Cultural Horizons and Practices
231
Kinship, Honour, and Money in Rural Pakistan.
Subsistence Economy and the Effects of
International Migration 275
Life on the Outside. The Tamil Diaspora and Long
Distance Nationalism 250
The Structure and Meaning of Daily Worship in a
South Indian Temple 491
Symbolic Inversions. An Interpretation of Contrary
Behavior in Ritual 557
Ostasien
The Anthropology of Korea. East Asian Perspectives
308
Naxi and Moso Ethnography. Kin, Rites, Pictographs
290
The Worlds of Japanese Popular Culture. Gender,
Shifting Boundaries, and Global Cultures 281
Südostasien
Beyond the Realm of the Senses. The Balinese Ritual
of kekawin Composition 649
Bugis Navigation 222
Dependence on Green Gold. A Socio-Economic
History of the Indonesian Coconut Island Selayar
261
The Forest of Taboos. Morality, Hunting, and Identity
among the Huaulu of the Moluccas 654
Interkulturalität und Kosmopolitismus in Indonesien?
Ethnische Grenzen und ethnieübergreifende
Identität in Makassar 433
The Manggaraians. A Guide to Traditional Lifestyles
245
Nias - eine eigene Welt. Sagen, Mythen,
Überlieferungen 628
Power and Intimacy in the Christian Philippines 621
Staying Local in the Global Village. Bali in the
Twentieth Century 302
Wandel einer Megalithkultur im 20. Jahrhundert
(Nias/Indonesien) 105
Europa
Blood and Nation. The European Aesthetics of Race
635
Enfants du ciel et de la terre. Essais d’anthropologie
religieuse 625
Erkundungen. Themen der ethnologischen Forschung
253
Die Gottesmänner. Türkische Islamisten in Deutsch-
land. Eine Studie zur Herstellung religiöser
Evidenz 305
The Hard People. Rivalry, Sympathy, and Social
Structure in an Alpine Valley 257
Infelicities. Representations of the Exotic 282
Life on the Outside. The Tamil Diaspora and Long
Distance Nationalism 250
Neighbors at War. Anthropological Perspectives on
Yugoslav Ethnicity, Culture, and History 627
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. Ancient Greece and
Rome 223
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. The Eighteenth and
Nineteenth Centuries 226
Witchcraft and Magic in Europe. The Twentieth
Century 227
Ozeanien
On the Road of the Winds. An Archaeological History
of the Pacific Islands Before European Contact
632
Australien
Obliged to Be Difficult. Nugget Coomb’s Legacy in
Indigenous Affairs 301
Prehistory of Australia 288
Rezente christliche Einflüsse in der
Traumzeitvorstellung der australischen Aborigines
157
Melanesien
Arrow Talk. Transaction, Transition, and Contradiction
in New Guinea Highlands History 652
Anthropos 96.2001
704
Geographischer Index
Culture of Stone. Sacred and Profane Uses of Stone
among the Dani 256
From Primitive to Postcolonial in Melanesia and
Anthropology 270
Mission and Music. Jabem Traditional Music and the
Development of Lutheran Hymnody 325
Social Change in Melanesia. Development and
History 650
The Social Construction of Gender. Female
Cannibalism in Papua New Guinea 141
Mikronesien
Deszendenz, politische Macht und das Verhältnis der
Geschlechter auf Yap, Westkarolinen 119
Anthropos 96.2001
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NTHROPOS
Internationale Zeitschrift
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International Review of
Anthropology and Linguistics
Revue Internationale
d’Ethnologie et de Linguistique
ANTHROPOS INSTITUT
96.2001